Years Later.

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.       

Ted Kooser
Photo By Alistair.

Wishful Drinking.....

My father and I sat in the corner of the long lounge bar of the Cherry Tree Inn, each nursing three-quarters of dark beer topped with the remains of the foaming head that showed it had been expertly poured by the barman now leaning his elbow sociably on the bar as he chatted with a couple of regulars. Dad and I sometimes dropped in here from the next village where I’d been brought up and he and Mum still lived. Not often enough to be considered regulars but often enough that the barman would greet us with a “Hello again” and ask how we’d been since our last visit while he poured. Normally we would have gone to Dad's favourite place, a lovely little pub out in the rolling countryside, but tonight he’d wanted to stay closer to home.

We were probably talking about something fairly inconsequential: like why the beer was called 80/- {eighty shilling} as that’s how much a barrel of it would have cost when the beer originally came on the market. There were various beers named like that and Dad always liked an occasional ‘pint of eighty’ while I would sometimes go for a 60/- instead. These were never big drinking nights. Neither he nor I could be described as any kind of boozer. A pint would last an hour of easy conversation: two would be a rarity before we made our way the couple of miles back over the hill to home. These nights had become more important to us after a heart attack some time before and we both enjoyed affirming our closeness in this way. Just the boys out together for an hour or two, usually just the two of us, but occasionally my older brother would be able to come and join us too.

 I lived a couple of hours drive away on the other side of the country but I tried to come through every other week or so for an overnight stay if I could. Mum would be glad I’d take him out from under her feet for an while as they could be a sparky combination and an hour in my company ensured he would come back chilled out – an effect that could last for days apparently.  Sometimes we’d play pool on the table in one of the back rooms, but tonight we were just sitting talking. Our drinks slowly drained and eventually Dad got up to go to the loo which usually indicated he’d be looking to make tracks for home fairly soon. While he was gone I people watched the interactions around the bar and the comings and goings of Friday night in this popular wee bar. The door tinkled its bell as two men came in. They were in their fifties, one taller and heavier than the other, a lean man of below average height with a shock of unruly greying hair tumbling down to the shoulders of his pale jacket. They found themselves the last two high stools at the bar and ordered drinks while they remained deep in conversation.  

Dad returned, no doubt making his usual old man comment about having ‘needed that’ and we started talking our way through the final inch in the bottom of our glasses. A few minutes later he glanced up at the bar and his head perked up, a sure sign he’d seen something interesting. I was just about to ask what when he reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet and pulled out a fiver. He added a pound coin to it and thrust it at me.

 “Och, let’s have another half, eh? There’s no need to rush back home is there?”

I made some sarcastic comment about not realising it was Christmas in acknowledgement of his munificence and asked if he was sure - to which he nodded, still looking towards the bar.

“And while you’re up there gie the barman money for a pint for yon skinny article wi’ the pale jacket and the lassie’s hair. Don't gie it tae him yourself though. Get the barman to when he’s finished whit he’s drinking the noo.  Jist get yersel’ back here sharpish.”

Bemused, I headed to the far end of the bar and got us another drink, telling the barman to ’stick one of whatever that fella along there’s drinking in the tap for later’ and heading back for an explanation. When I got there Dad was finishing the last of his first drink with an expression of self-satisfaction. As I plopped down beside him I asked what the heck was going on but he smiled at me and said,

“Just wait and see. It’ll not be long.”

 We chatted on and a few minutes later I noticed the barman move along the bar to the long-haired man with a newly poured beer in his hand. He sat it down beside his hand and I saw the man start in surprise. Even though he had his back to us I could see him ask a question which was answered with a few words and a nod of the head in my direction. The man swivelled on his stool and as he did so I saw for the first time that he wore spectacles with lenses just about as thick as the bottom of the glass he’d just had delivered. He leaned forward on his seat, peering at us and, even along the length of the bar I could see his eyes magnified owlishly as he squinted, trying to get a focus on his unknown benefactor. As he did so he raised his new drink in salute and I did the same in return.

I heard a chuckle and an “Anytime now” from my side as the man turned back to his drinking crony and spent a moment clearly excusing himself as he carefully detached himself from the high stool and turned to make his way carefully across the room in our direction. A moment later the man was within hailing distance and as he again squinted myopically at us he said, “Hello friend. Thanks for the pint but I don’t think I know you…..”


At that my father leaned forward from where I’d been accidentally obstructing the other’s view and said, “Hullo Charlie. That pint was from me!” The man leaned forward and focussed a second before saying, “Oh……Sam. It’s yourself. I…um…. never saw you there.” He made a face like his drink had just gone sour. “I’ve……. Well…….. I’ve been meaning to phone you.” Dad smiled a smile of beguiling innocence; one of those beamers that enchanted old ladies and young girls alike. “Have you Charlie? Well, no need now.” He turned to me and gave me a discreet dig in the ribs. “Alistair – get this man a seat will you?”

I pulled a chair over but took it myself indicating to the man that he should take the bench seat next to my father which he did with some reluctance as my father winked at me for my gift of a captive seated right beside him. I knew he was up to something but not what. It soon became clear that the rest of the nights conversation would not involve me, but the area of blind welfare social work that Dad and this man clearly both worked in. Twenty minutes and half a pint later the man left with the remains of his beer and an entry in his diary which matched the one my father had just made in his.

I raised an eyebrow in Dad’s direction. “And? What was all that about?”


He lifted his glass and savoured the last few dregs of his beer like they were nectar. “I’ve been trying to get hold of that bugger for almost six weeks now and he’s been giving me the run-around, never answering calls or voicemails and ignoring emails. I’ve got him now though.” He smiled,"it’s a terrible affliction – a double affliction even: being blind as a bat and nosey as a fish-wife. I knew he would have to come over to find out who sent him that beer. I knew too that once he’d come over he wouldn’t have the balls to refuse the offer of a friendly chat with someone who’d just bought him a drink!” He potted an imaginary black ball in the corner pocket with his hands and said “…in the bag!”

Later as we neared home:


 “So – that was the real reason you were so keen to go there rather than to ‘The Stair Inn’ tonight then was it Paw?”


I felt him smile in the dark and smiled back as I heard his two-tone response.

“We-ell………”

 See you later.

Listening to:

I Remember You.

For Dad, who died three years ago today and who taught me much.

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe,
I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!
You may tell that German College that their honour comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil
By Sarah Williams


Photo by Alistair.

Meeting Jane.

The other night there was a documentary on TV about  RAF Bomber Command in WWII. A fellow blogger sent a text to say that it had made him think of my fathers story and that he'd tweeted some links to stuff here on the blog about it. Last night we watched it ourselves. Sympathetically presented by Ewan MacGregor and his brother Colin {Who had been a bomber pilot in the modern RAF} one of the most poignant parts for me was the initial reaction when Ewan climbed into the rear gunner position of a Lancaster in full WWII kit. He was clearly uncomfortable and stunned by the lack of movement available , the claustrophobia and the poor chance of getting out if in trouble.

 It made me think about when I met 'Just Jane' - a Lancaster - for the first time......

This was what I posted back in Feb 2010
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


As I become more and more engrossed in researching the 153 Squadron posts covering Dads squadrons last few months of WWII  I come upon the stark reality of  loss of life. I'm trying to understand how these men managed to come to terms with the fear that must have been part and parcel of daily life then. To be honest, living as I do in an age where danger isn't part of my existence, I've been struggling to understand how anyone could cope with having to face prolonged fear, and I mean fear, not the anxiety that's the closest I can find to relate to it from my place down the years, cloaked in modern comforts and affectations, protected by nurture, education and lack of experience.

I'll never forget the first time I walked up close to the end of a Lancaster, past the twin dorsal fins and with Dads rear gun turret coming properly into view. I remember that frisson of boyish excitement, the pull of an adults curiosity and a very acute personal sense of sadness and regret that I was doing this without him beside me to ask the questions that would obviously come up. The ground crew - now I know to call them 'erks' - working on 'Just Jane' at East Kirkby Air Museum had waved me over the barriers on request that quiet afternoon and had simply returned to their work, leaving me to it with a plea to 'scarper sharpish' if anyone else came in as they weren't strictly supposed to let the public get so close. "It's the only way to see the tail gunners position though so come on in." Just a middle aged man with a camera and a story of a relative who flew in these planes long ago.


'Just Jane' East Kirby's iconic Lancaster.

For them, just another day. For me something quite different.



I approached the Lancaster from the front. I knew what one looked like, its iconic image had been welded into my little-boy-long-ago fantasies of 'playing war' from a hundred half remembered films and books. {Though I didn't know then my Dad had been part of the story.} The reality of getting close to one was different. Clearly from an older age, it reared up, enormous, solidly propped on its front wheels, wings stretched wide across my view, holding out four huge engines, three propeller blades like swords 'en-garde' to protect each one. Above me, the perspex panel of the bomb-aimers position stared back blank and dispassionate, inviting neither respect or approbation, a mute witness to sights untold. Higher still the two guns of the front turret pointed gently upwards and beyond, the bubble of the pilots canopy sat high off the ground. The gaping belly of the aircraft was shown to me with the same message a scorpion gives when it lifts its tail overhead. 'Stay away. I mean business.' Today though, with its bomb bay open and a trolley of tools underneath, any threat was moot and faded, gone to the vets.


 I passed slowly, curiously, under the wing and down the flank, sentimentally running two fingers down its skin, noticing the flush rivets holding the dark metal together, on below the turret of the mid upper gunner poking up above me and past the stark metal ladder and the dark opening that let crewmen enter their frightening world. I noticed for the first time the reality that while Dad would have turned left, climbing over the internal spar of the tail to reach his place, the others would all have turned right.

My walk to, and then along the side of this plane had turned it from icon to reality. I could feel the strength and undeniable presence of its bulk, could smell the tyres and the oil from the engines. Rubber, heat and old smoke. It gleamed pristine in a way that something 70 years old shouldn't do. It said, "I am still here. I am still ready."  Every angle and plane gleamed. Light reflected and shadow highlighted detail not normally seen; door handle; engine port access points; suspension struts; hydraulic pipes; exhausts long coloured with an engines heat. I stopped and looked back along the side and up over the starboard wing and saw its shape created to catch the lift, minimise the drag, to carry the weight of a full bomb load, the cowling over an engine hunched still with power yearning to be released. An old athlete still on the blocks.



I came around the dorsal fin and there was the pod holding the rear gun, the perspex bubble where my father would have sat. No wonder they called it "tail end Charlie". He must have felt like he was sitting in a glass bubble outside at 20,000ft. The thought made my blood run cold, a feeling which remained as I got closer and saw the reality of that tiny space filled with the mechanism to control the two guns that gaped evil mouths at head height. I noticed strangely, although the rest of the aircraft had mainly been above me, fate had delivered the point I wanted to see most at practically waist level. The turret sat overhanging the rear wheel and I could see now some of the things Dad had told me about before he died; the steel doors which closed him off from the rest of the crew and behind which he had to hang up his parachute due to lack of space; the perspex panel in front of him which he had removed to improve vision even though it nearly froze him to death; the chutes which funnelled the used shells out of the aircraft. He'd spoken about the lack of space for his legs with all the hydraulics for the guns and turret and the tiny seat he would sit on for eight to ten long hours sometimes. How difficult would it have been to get out of there quickly had the need arose, stiffened by hour after hour of relentless, bitter cold of high altitude in the unheated turret?



I turned my back to the plane and stood close in beside the turret trying to replicate his position and I began to feel his fear of flying low level over land or sea, skipping waves, treetops and telegraph poles at 200mph, seeing danger only when it had passed, aware of how much might still be ahead, how speed would be frighteningly exaggerated close to ground or water. I could feel his isolation and understand how wonderful it must have been to be high above the ground, above the clouds and feeling like it was just you all alone in perfect solitude. How sometimes he felt closer to God. How, with many planes close by in the dark, he feared being hit by other aircraft. How his stomach lurched when they hit the slipstream of another plane or the Lanc leaped upwards when the bombs released. I thought how literal was the 'blind' panic of being coned in searchlights and I saw that while the rest of the crew looked forward he looked only back. He was the last one home. I began to understand where he could look for danger and why he feared what was happening behind those doors where he couldn't turn to see or what lurked beneath his feet on dark nights. I wondered how he must have felt knowing that when a fighter attack came it would almost certainly come from behind. I wondered if he knew as I now did that the casualty rates for tail gunners was almost 70%.  70%?  Surely he couldn't have known that?  My stomach clenched melodramatically. How could any human being cope with that level of stress?  That was when I began to think about how much they all had to be fearful of, how long a flight could be and how those men could sustain control not just across one mission but repeated over days and weeks and months of terrible experience.

There were many strains on them, many ways for fear to manifest itself or to have to be coped with beyond the actual mission itself; the fear of repeated selection for missions, of long hours between finding yourself listed on battle orders for the day, mission briefings and take off, anxious waits for clearance to go - sometimes crewed up sitting on taxy ways waiting ages for a green light to show from the caravan at the end of the runway, wishing it was over - and the more insidious fears; fear of being seen to be afraid, having to bottle it up to crew, family and loved ones to protect them, fear of men who showed signs of breaking or broke under the strain to be classed as LMF [lacking moral fibre] - mercifully few under the circumstances. What had it felt like seeing losses of men and machine posted, seeing belongings cleared and beds lying empty, in new faces arriving.

Numbers seemed to be important markers - getting past the psychological 5th mission to become an experienced crew seemed inordinately important and the insidious perception of higher risk of disaster when nearing the end of a tour of 30 ops as the law of averages swung against survival. A few good experiences could reduce tension by inspiring confidence while just as conversely a run of narrow escapes could practically debilitate or give someone 'operational twitch'. To cling to an irrational belief that it 'wouldn't be you', but some unknown other crew who's 'number was up' was what kept men going. Language hid the reality of an arbitrary death. "Going for a burton", "bought it", "had it" and "getting" - or "gone for the chop" are familiar phrases to me from a Dad who habitually used language learnt in those days but applied it in much different situations in later life.



Some turned to religion, some turned away. Many turned to alcohol and boisterous games or childish pranks when drunk to deaden the senses, and to some extent a great deal of leeway was given to the men in recognition of the high levels of strain. Many turned to human comforts and the release that casual sex would bring. Some turned to superstition with carrying of emblems or tokens, or in actions and routines that had to be religiously carried out. Many touched the aircraft - some peed on the back wheel before leaving - or repeated movements, phrases or prayers; quietly took bags in which to privately collect their vomit. Some wrote songs and poetry, told jokes or smoked desperately, talked about anything other than what was uppermost in their minds, looking ahead only to the successful conclusion of another 'do'; avoiding any long term planning and trying to put thoughts of others out of mind for the time being to be able to deal with the reality of the coming nights work. I felt the bond between the crew that had been described to me. How shared experience and the need to survive depended on each other and allowed - needed even - confinement of closest emotional contact within the 7 crew members and exclusion of others, especially those at risk of contaminating you with LMF. I began then to understand the lack of compassion that could be shown to those poor wretches who simply ran out of courage.

This is in direct contrast to our culture today where we want to get everything out in the open as a means of understanding. A culture where you never have to cope on your own. The culture of the victim where responsibility is shared as a means to help minimise or deny involvement and especially to avoid culpability. It was very different back then where the reality of war and societies acknowledgement of it, was so close and so much more personal than now. Their previous generation had gone through WWI and stark reminders sat in family photographs of those lost or damaged 'doing their duty' - not something that would have been considered unusual then as it is today. There was an infinitely greater expectation for people to do their duty than now, where we question everything and everything is held up for critical and inconclusive review.

I find it hard to reconcile the father I knew with the youth who looks back at me from the few wartime photos I have, even though some confirmation came from Dad himself. I can't see the quiet, gentle, peaceful man that was my father, but what he was prepared to do can't be denied. It was a different world. Perhaps that's what made him who he was, but perhaps even more there is mileage in the sentiment of  a small embroidered plaque in Scampton Church dedicated to the Squadron. It's where services were held and where some of their lost boys are buried.



That day there was one final twist as I eventually moved away from the aircraft to some of the information boards about the men and the Squadrons they had served in. I wandered around looking here and there at fading photo's of young men locked in time, quietly engrossed in thoughts about who they were and what they'd experienced when I turned round one section and came face to face with a photograph containing my Dad from long ago.

After that I really had to go for a coffee and a sit down.

see you later.

Listening to:

Courage beyond fear.

Hullo ma wee blog,

Sometimes things come unbidden to mind. Sometimes you've no idea what triggers memories and sometimes you know absolutely what the trigger is and yet it's not something you have any control over. For instance, I've written a lot about my Dad in the course of this blog, but even then you of course have hardly scratched the surface, because life's like that; it's complicated. I've written extensively about his time in the RAF during the Second World War where he served as tail gunner in Lancaster bombers. He was merely a tiny part of something enormous and yet it's interesting to realise that there are things out there, often much bigger things that somehow make you remember tiny details.

 Research for the 153 Squadron postings piqued my interest in the Second World War in general and RAF bomber command in particular. Nowadays, I watch a number of programs relating to World War II in the air. Some of them are good, some not so good, but often, details of remembrance come back to me. I watched a documentary about bomber command the other day and the programme contained interviews with surviving aircrew who flew in bombers, particularly Lancasters. Naturally, I found some of what was being said quite moving. Some of it triggered memories of conversations with my Dad. Tiny details and some significant things came back to me as I watched and listened to what these men were saying. Here are a couple of examples from the programme that particularly resonated.

Background/crew bale out/ tail gun position.

This section brought back a memory where Dad told me about the rear gun turret, how he'd had the Perspex panel in front of him removed to improve vision as when it was in place it was prone to icing up, reducing critical visibility. He also reminisced about donning the flying gear – rear gunners, due to the exposure to the cold, wore much more protective clothing than other aircrew. Dad remembered that he had been trained to put on this equipment slowly so he did not sweat. At 20,000 feet the temperature could plummet to minus 40 degrees C in the gun turret and this would cause residual sweat to freeze on the skin despite the layers of clothing protecting him.

area bombing/Cologne/aircrew/fears

The following section reminded me of when Dad spoke about training flights; evasive action was a key requirement for any operational crew and the ability to switch into evasive action smoothly and swiftly was an essential, potentially life-saving necessity. The corkscrew manoeuvre was practised again and again, often causing aircrew to be violently sick. It was this memory that Dad revealed when he explained what happened to him the very first time he had experienced ‘the corkscrew’. He described the terror of plunging downwards in a near vertical backwards position, how he had screamed until he ran out of breath only to vomit when the aircraft turned vertically upwards. This manoeuvre disorientated him for a few seconds until, having recovering his equilibrium, the aircraft was again pitched into a vertical dive and he vomited again. He remembered the disgusted ground crew back at base handing him a can of paraffin with which to clean up the resultant mess, which he did with a churning stomach. The manoeuvre, and the result, was practised over and over again. It was something Dad hated with a passion, particularly during night training flights when the disorientation was multiplied by the darkness.  Eventually he overcame the sickness but always feared the potential need to perform a maneuver like this in a congested night-time sky filled with other bombers

He also described training in low-level high-speed flying in similarly horrified terms, once with a pilot who was afterwards removed from duties due to being assessed as unbalanced and unsuitable for flying duties! (Dad recalled flying over water at such low levels that he screamed into his intercom that "if you go any f****** lower I’ll have my F*******  feet in the f****** water!")

The bomb run/flak/enemy fighters/corkscrewing/window

Needless to say, these things made me quite teary eyed, but I have to admit, they made me smile too. The overwhelming thought though was how on earth any of them managed to cope under these circumstances with what they were facing. Despite this, it's only a small part of the man I knew.

High density defenses/type of flak/Dresden

God – I miss the old bugger!

To read the full story of 153 Sqdn and their 1945 campaign diary in date order start here and follow through the dates by clicking 'newer posts'.

See you later.

Listening to;

The Sunday Post

Speeches were never his thing......

Hullo ma wee blog,

This weeks post, again from Norman MacCaig, is for Dad who died two years ago today.

Praise of  a man.

He went through company like a lamplighter -
see the dull minds one after another,
begin to glow. to shed
a beneficient light.

He went through life like a knifegrinder -
see the dull minds
scattering sparks of themselves,
becoming razory, becoming useful.

He went through a company,
as himself. But now he's one
of the multitudinous company of the dead
where are no individuals.

The beneficient lights dim
but don't vanish. The razory edges
dull but still cut. He's gone: but you can see
his tracks still, in the snow of the world.

See you later.

A Lesson Never Properly Learned.........

Hullo ma wee blog,

I don't know what triggered the query but I remember it clearly. One of those moments where a child's question comes completely without warning out of left field to an adult who is unfailingly expected to know the answer. My father sat opposite in his armchair quietly reading, I was reading but not reading, mulling around something from a school-day or from an overheard adult conversation. I gained his attention in that childlike way, a two toned notification that something deep and meaningful is about to come.

"Da-ad?"

"Aye son."

"What's the difference between knowledge and wisdom?"

Not a flicker of surprise. No question in return about what had made a boy of six or seven ask such a thing. He put the book, open pages down, on the thigh of his crossed legs and looked at the hearth of the fire for a second.

"Well, knowledge comes from learning. It's understanding things, knowing what things mean, how they work or maybe what should be done."

My eyebrows crooked together in concentration as I took it in.

"So what's wisdom then?" A serious voice.

He leaned back in the comfort of his chair and rested his head on palms linked behind his neck. He now looked up at the ceiling momentarily and exhaled softly through pursed lips before running one hand back through his hair.

"Well, if knowledge is knowing what should be done, then wisdom would actually be doing it."

"Ah. Right."

Roll forward forty-odd years and it's simple and not so simple at the same time. Sometimes I'm knowledgeable, sometimes I'm wise.

Sometimes, I'm just a prat!

{Sorry Love}

Jings!

See you later.

Listening to The Jam,  'That's Entertainment'

153 Squadron 1944/45 - The final entry

A few months ago, just before Christmas in fact, I decided to go on a journey in search of a bit of my Dad that I didn't know all that much about. Dad died last year aged 84. He'd had a good innings, been an ordinary working man all his days and, an intelligent, able and highly sociable man, he worked in low paid jobs -  postman, insurance agent, traffic warden, social work assistant for blind welfare - for all of his working life. He never hankered after money or status and enjoyed the simple things in life; family, children, nature, people. He was a great fisherman and a great reader, he enjoyed solving problems and making things with his hands in a nutty professor creative kind of way. He was a natural psychologist and understood what made people tick. He was self deprecating and a good conversationalist, a staunch and lifelong giver of friendship. He was inquisitive, questioning and interested to the last. He had one of the most embarrassing laughs I have ever heard from a grown man. He gave that laugh to me.

Dad and his crew. Dad front right.

When he was a young man there was a war on. Before it ended he joined the RAF and became a rear gunner in 153 Squadron of Bomber Command. They flew Lancasters from Scampton near Lincoln in England, the same base that the 'dambuster's raid had been launched from. He very rarely spoke about his armed service. When he did it was short stories of training flights, innocuous anecdotes about life around the base or, more often, stories about when he had been posted out of the Squadron after the end of the war to a small town in Northern Germany where he lived with a German family while working on various ground roles in the area, or about dropping food to starving civilians in Holland. As he would never speak of it much, as I got older I never asked. When I did he simply said that he had trained and then been in a crash and by the time he recovered it was nearly over and his life hadn't been that exciting or dramatic.

Don Freeborn and crew

After he died I suddenly realised I had a thousand, a million questions unasked  about hundreds of things and no chance to have them answered any more. I wanted to know more about his time during the war.  I wanted to know about what he did. I wanted to know about him and his experience. As usual with Dad, nothing was ever straight forward. I began to look. I began to read. I began to dig. As was so typical of him, he led me to a door, opened it and showed me something much bigger than I expected.  A much different story than I imagined began to be shown to me, one that wasn't about my Dad so much as included  him. 

Whizz Wheeler and crew

As I worked away at the information and began to post what I had found, attempting to keep in time with the campaign calendar of 1945, I found the story of a relatively small group of people, no doubt like hundreds of thousands of other small groups around the globe at that time, who were experiencing things that were way beyond my ken. As I posted the sometimes daily updates, they became known to me. They became real to me. Their joint experience put into context language and fears that I recognised from Dad even 60 years later, not from what he said, but from who he was. I began to feel a contact with, and empathy for them through my knowing of him. I began to appreciate much more clearly what they had  all  been through in those truly terrible times. I saw that this was only a small part of what was the same experience for thousands of other 'Bomber Boys' on a nightly basis over an extended period of time. The very reality of posting 'in real time' showed me how relentless their situation was, even over such a short period.  I'm sure that if you have read, or will read these posts as a result of what I am saying here, that you too like me,  may come to a clearer understanding of just what WWII in the air was like for so many.

Wing Co. Powley, Sqdn Ldr Gee.

But now, my little project is finished. I do know more about my Dad. I know more about all of them. How typical of him to show me that it's not about one person, no matter how important that one person may be to you. It seems now, right at the end, that it was in fact about all of them almost right from the beginning. Maybe I should have realised that it was going to be that way. That's another similarity between him and I, I suppose.

High Flight, 20,000ft

Before I leave the topic completely, I want to re-post this little poem from an earlier entry.

 Its for Dad and its for all of 153 Squadron. Those who lived and the 147 who died long ago.

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings,
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun split clouds - and done a hundred things you
Have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung,
High in the sunlit silence, hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air,
Up, up the long delirious blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark nor even eagle flew,
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod,
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

written in September 1941
by John Gillespie Magee Jr
Royal Canadian Air Force
died 11 December 1941.
Aged 19.

153 Sqdn Reunion May 2010

Thank you all. God Bless.

See you later.......

153 Squadron 8th May 1945 - VE day to the end of 153 Squadron.

Lancasters over London. VE day Celebrations.

On 8th May, the day that marked the end of war in Europe, the squadron left Scampton once again to make the final food drops marking its involvement in 'Operation Manna'

Although the end of hostilities was marked by  festivities both in camp and outside and intense national celebrations took place with street parties and dances, war was not yet over, with Japan still holding out.  At base the celebrations, while enthusiastically embraced by some, were in contrast felt somehow inappropriate by others who had experienced family bereavement and those who found it hard to celebrate when so many squadron losses had been made in recent weeks. Although I can't find absolute evidence I think its likely that at Scampton as in other places guards were placed  on aircraft to ensure that any over euphoric and inebriated crews did not decide to go on a victory 'spin'. Some bases quietly ensured that aircraft had their magnetos removed thus rendering such unofficial flying impossible.

 Celebrations quickly over, the squadron were instructed to maintain high levels of operational readiness which led to rumours of them being part of the proposed 'Tiger Force' to move to the far East to support the effort being made against Japan. This involved intensive flying practice throughout June and July over extended periods and distances, day and night. Ultimately the squadron was not involved in Tiger Force and indeed the concept was shelved when the USA indicated its intention to pursue the war with Japan alone. In any effect the supposed duration of conflict was terminated with the dropping of the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in early August.

Before that, the squadron took part in 'Operation Post-Mortem' which involved dummy raids on German cities to help evaluate captured German technology. In addition, one of the most urgent and overwhelming needs was to repatriate the many thousands of British and Commonwealth POW's scattered across continental Europe back to freedom as quickly as possible. To this end it was agreed that this should be done by airlift and 'Operation Exodus' was born and quickly put into full swing across May.

The Dakotas of Transport Command, which were ferrying supplies to the forward units, were used to bring POW`s back to Brussels. Lancasters of Bomber Command were then employed to bring the men back to British airfields. In all, 74,000 men returned this way.

Operation Exodus - 153 Sqdn

Many of the passengers had been taken POW before the advent of four-engined bombers, and they were suitably impressed with what they saw - and if the rudimentary conditions they had to endure, sitting bunched together on the bare metal floor of the aeroplane, fell short of that in any airliner, they generally rated it as the best flight they would ever make!

Welcome home - 'Operation Exodus'

153 Squadron flew on two of these missions - on 11th May (12 aircraft) which returned via Ford; and on the 26th May (15 aircraft) coming back via Dunsfold. Each aircraft carried 24 passengers plus a reduced crew of 6.

Amongst those partaking on 26th May was Bill Langford in LM550 (P4-C), which, prior to its transfer from No.166 Squadron, was known as "B-Beer" with a beer-barrel decorating its nose! Following its 100th operation, Bill arranged for a 100 small foaming tankards to be added alongside the barrel.

153 Sqdn - Lets Have Another {B for Beer}

Coincidentally, and unaware of each other`s presence, one of the waiting POW`s was his elder brother, Richard, who ,like his fellow "Pongoes", was walking around inspecting those enormous flying machines with four engines and two tails, when he chanced upon one with a beer barrel and pots of beer decorating its nose. He said to a companion "I wonder if that has anything to do with my kid brother?", not realising that it was so. At he same time Bill was wondering around the airfield, wondering if his POW big brother could possibly be there. Unfortunately there was no story-book ending. They didn't meet. On arrival back with the first 'loads' of POW's an unexpected surprise awaited the crews on depositing the grateful men.

"I saw our guests down the short ladder at the rear of the aircraft the look of joy on their faces, which more than compensated for our VE day celebrations being cut short. Approaching toward us were a number of medics carrying what appeared to me, flit guns. Each POW was squirted down the front and the back of the shirt and trousers, then they beckoned to us. We said "no" we are crew. They replied "Yes" you have been in their company. So we got the same treatment."

A 153 Sqdn Crew

F/O W. Clark (Pilot) , Sgt V.G. Francomb, F/O N. Sears, Sgt J. Kirkpatrick
Ft Sgt A. Bell, F/O C.C. Dorrity and Sgt T.S Ings  {Photo courtesy of Douglas Bell}

RE-ORGANISATION OF NO.153 SQUADRON

With the ending of the war in Europe, both the Australian and Canadian Government's ordered the repatriation of their aircrews, thereby severing abruptly the tremendous comradeship that had been mutually shared, both in dire moments of action and in many happy hours of relaxation on the ground. Given the mixed composition of many crews, this resulted in a major reshuffle, because many of the remaining RAF and RNZAF personnel had to be re-crewed to fill the vacancies. However, not all could be absorbed, because, to add further disruption, the Squadron`s effective strength was simultaneously reduced to 32 crews.

During 'A Cook's Tour'

Some or the June/July training flights were officially designated as 'Ruhr cross-country' flights, but were quickly dubbed 'Cook`s Tours' by aircrew as they presented an opportunity to fly reasonably low over the devastated areas of Germany to witness the damage caused by bombing. Up to four passengers were permitted; these often included ground crew personnel, both airmen and WAAF, as a means of expressing thanks for their contribution to the efficient daily running of the squadron. It also gave them an insight into flying over distance and the chance to see the effects of their war efforts. I have no information that is particularly Scampton based but there is ample evidence that many people were deeply affected by sight of the devastation wreaked upon Germany on these flights.
 

Disposal of unwanted 30lb incendiary bombs was carried out in late July, August and early September, by dropping them into the North Sea and Cardigan Bay. In all, 45 sorties were required to clear the stockpile.

THE RELEASE (DEMOB) SCHEME

To ensure an equitable method of demobilising 'hostilities only' servicemen, the Government introduced a system featuring a points scheme, based on age and length of active service, which was applied to all men, irrespective of rank, trade, or the uniform worn. However, in practice, each trade received individual treatment, so arranged that in general, aircrew were released much sooner than any other group (although allowance was made for skilled men to be claimed by their previous employers under special Class 'B' arrangements). The actual release documents, designed to facilitate a speedy passage through the demobilisation centre, comprised a multi-page booklet of considerable detail, together with a companion set required for local retention.

Each unit was required to nominate its own Release Officer, responsible for every aspect of the oppressive documentation involved. W/Co Rodney selected F/O Johns (mainly because of his Civil Service administrative background) and thereafter used him as an unofficial, hard-worked, assistant adjutant.
The first persons to be released were F/O J.M.Sharpe - Pilot (Class 'A') and F/Lt C.G.Alexander - Navigator (Class 'B'); both on 8th August.


OPERATION 'DODGE'

British Service men trying to return from the Mediterranean found that damaged roads and railways created enormous bottlenecks, causing lengthy delays on any cross-continental journey. Shipping was mostly committed to supplying the Far East campaign. Many of the Servicemen had been abroad for years without home leave; an increasing number were due for demobilisation. Thus was born "Operation Dodge" (a sly and cruel reference to the unjustified label of "D-Day Dodgers" coined by those involved in the Normandy D-Day landings and one which should never have been allowed to pervade the upper echelons of the Air Ministry to the extent of naming the operation like this)


Three Italian airfields were deemed suitable for use (Pomigliano/Naples and Bari. 153 Squadron was allotted to the former. A pattern of operation was quickly established. The outward journey flew south over France, reaching the Mediterranean at Marseilles (between the Alps and the Pyrenees) then east to Corsica and Elba before heading for Pomigliano - which lies north of Naples. The following day was a rest day, which allowed for sight-seeing around Naples (including Pompeii) and souvenir hunting.

The third day required an early call (03.30am) and a hazardous ride in the back of a 3-ton lorry, narrowly avoiding horse-drawn, un-lit, market-bound, farm wagons, traversing very bad roads, all in pitch darkness. On reaching the airfield, and re-united with their aircraft, crews met their 'payload' of twenty soldiers (plus their kitbags, which were stowed in the bomb bay). To avoid the searing heat of Italy in August, an early take-off was essential. The return journey re-traced the outward path as far as Lyons, wen course was set for Dunkerque, Colchester and finally Glatton, where passengers were disembarked and , after undergoing Customs clearance, crews returned to their home stations.
 
Conditions for the 20 passengers, seated only on blankets on the floor of the Lancaster aft of the main spar, were pretty grim. Throughout a journey of six-and-a-half hours they were huddled together, with no view of the world outside their metalled surroundings, subjected to the unremitting noise of four Merlin engines. Some marginal relief was afforded by visits to the cockpit area during the flight, but not all chose to do so.
 
Over the period 2nd August to 14th September, 153 Squadron dispatched 43 'Dodge' flights, bringing back 860 passengers. With the exception of one aircraft (L) which was forced to stop-over a few days at Marseilles with engine trouble, all flights were uneventful. Crews soon became adept at changing from battle dress blues to tropical khaki outfits over the Med!

 

'H2S MARK IV'

In the inscrutable way of all Headquarters, 'someone' decreed that of all the 79 Bomber squadrons existing on V/E Day, 153 Squadron was to be tasked to conduct service user trials of a brand-new, secret radar device known simply as "H2S Mark IV". This equipment was installed in five of 'B' flight`s aircraft. On 10th August, ten crews  were nominated to carry out the work (their initiation had actually begun on 1st August). Their selection was guided by their low release numbers rather than any other factor. 

Japan surrendered on the 14th August. Within three months of V/J Day, Bomber Command had disbanded ten of the fourteen squadrons in No.1 Group.

The first to go was No.153 Squadron.

On Friday, 21st September, all personnel stationed at Scampton took part in a 'Disbandment of Squadron' parade. Members of 153 Squadron were inspected by the Air Officer Commanding, No.1 Group, following which a precise record of the Squadron history was read out. The Squadron badge, (having been retrieved from the Wing Commander`s safe) was carried on parade by the Assistant Adjutant, prior to him formally handing it over to the custody of a Group Staff Officer for onward transmission to the Air Ministry. The parade included three 'Founder Members' - W/O W.C Harrison (W/Op - just one short of his second tour), F/Lt P.O. Baxter (Engr Leader) and F/Lt R.W.Stewart (Signals Leader).

During its 201 days existence it had dispatched 1,057 sorties (and prepared for many more), dropped 4,654 tons of bombs and sown 204 sea-mines. Sadly it had lost 147 young men; only 6 aircraft of those originally acquired survived. Two had flown more than 100 operational missions.

The Squadron was declared 'stood down' pending its official date of disbandment from R.A.F. Scampton.

 
"Y" FLIGHT

The need to continue user trails on the H2S Mark IV was met by simply transferring all 10 crews involved- together with their 5 modified aircraft - to No.12 Squadron, stationed at RAF Binbrook. That this was only a temporary arrangement was conveyed in their revised title of  ''Y''Flight. Although the aircraft were re-lettered from P4 to PH - No 12 Sqdns code letters,  the Flight acted as a separate, independent unit, concentrating only on pressing ahead with the trial programme, much of which necessarily took place when the rest of the Squadron was stood down. The feeling of being independent, but united in effort, generated a real esprit de corps among the 70 men of 'Y' Flight - who were all from 153 Squadron.


On conclusion of the trials, 'Y' Flight was disbanded and any crew not absorbed into 12 Squadron proper was posted out. The five aircraft were all scrapped.

The last traces of No. 153 (Bomber) Squadron had quietly disappeared.

153 Sqn. 29th April 1945 - 'Operation Manna'

70 years ago today my fathers war came to an end with the final mission to deliver food to starving Holland. A few years ago I posted his squadrons campaign diary for 1945 in real time following them day by day as they fought to survive what was the last few months of WWII. This is the story of their last operational flights.
*******************************************************************************************************************
Continuing the story of my late dad's wartime experiences as tail gunner in Lancasters of 153 Sqn and following Squadron operations from Jan 1945 to the end of hostilities.

During the days in April when the squadron was 'stood down' due to lack of operational targets in enemy territory, the crews of 153 Sqn were detailed to carry out low level cross country flying and map reading exercises. No official explanation was given to the airmen. The reason eventually became apparent......


On the 29th April, 153 squadron began humanitarian food drops to civilian populations suffering from starvation in the parts of Holland still under the Nazi occupation. This tragic situation, known even today as 'the hunger winter' came about because although much of Holland was safely in allied hands, a large pocket in Western Holland (including Amsterdam,Rotterdam,The Hague and other major cities) was still occupied by the Germans. After the landing of the Allied Forces on D-Day, conditions grew worse in  Nazi-occupied Netherlands. The Allies were able to liberate the southern part of the country, but their liberation efforts came to a halt when Operation Market Garden, their attempt to gain control of the bridge across the Rhine at Arnhem, failed.

The Dutch national railways had complied with the exiled  government's appeal for a railway strike starting in September 1944 to further the Allied liberation efforts. In retaliation the German administration placed an embargo on all food transports to the western Netherlands. By the time the embargo was partially lifted in early November 1944 by allowing restricted food transports over water, an unusually early and harsh winter had already set in. The canals froze over and became impassable for barges. Food stocks in the cities in the western Netherlands rapidly ran out. The adult rations in cities such as Amsterdam had dropped to below 1000 kilocalories a day by the end of November 1944 and to 580 kilocalories in the West by the end of February 1945.  As the Netherlands became one of the main western battlefields, widespread dislocation and destruction of the war ruined much of its agricultural land and made production and transport of existing food stocks almost impossible. As usual it was the civilian population that suffered worst with many old, young and weak dying from starvation and cold.

By early 1945, the situation was desperate for the three million or more Dutch still under German control. Prince Bernhard appealed directly to the Allies for help to resolve the situation. In response, protracted negotiations began with the occupying German forces.

The plan to deliver this humanitarian aid was codenamed 'Operation Manna'
 
Allied contingency planners eventually devised a system whereby food could be air-dropped by bombers,using panniers (called 'blocks') four of which could be fitted to a standard Lancaster bomb bay. Each block held 71 sacks (giving a total weight of 1254 lbs per block) variously containing sugar, dried egg powder, margarine, salt, cheese, tinned meat, flour, dried milk, coffee, cereals, tea, high vitamin chocolate, potatoes, etc. - all supplied from the Ministry of Food's reserve stockpiles. Before the introduction of 'blocks', a variety of possible delivery systems had been devised by squadrons acting individually. As is customary, user trials were flown, one of which involved 153 Squadron. Fl/Lt Bill Langford recalled,

"On April21st, I flew 'V' Victor to Netheravon, carrying a mixture of goodies, in sacks, slung from ropes on a Heath Robinson {home-made} device in the bomb bay. We were to demonstrate to an assembly of RAF and Army brass, just how food would be dropped to the starving Dutch. Approaching the airfield at around 200 feet, wheels and flaps down for minimum flying speed, we lined up the white cross on the ground, and pressed the button….. when it all went wrong! Sacks of peas, tins of Spam, and all sorts of containers rained from the sky, scattering the assembled brass in all directions. Not what was intended."

A similar presentation also took place at Scampton after lunch April 21st when F/O 'Red' Penman, flying PA 264 (P4-3rd O), successfully carried out a demonstration drop on the airfield in front of the Marshall of the Royal Air Force, Lord Trenchard, who was visiting the station that day.

Negotiations with the German Occupying Authority for a limited truce to allow food drops to begin, assumed a critical state as the death toll rapidly mounted. At Scampton, as on other stations involved, crews practised low speed/low flying techniques and simulated drops. Eventually, on Sunday 29th April, the codeword "Operation Manna" was issued; this was an inspired choice, for not only does it stand for "bread from Heaven" but it means exactly the same in Dutch. 153 Squadron promptly dispatched 18 aircraft (each carrying 284 bags of food) to a dropping zone at The Hague - all following drops were on Dundigt Racecourse.

On 29 April the people of Holland heard  BBC radio announce:
"Bombers of the Royal Air Force have just taken off from their bases in England to drop food supplies to the Dutch population in enemy-occupied territory."

 Over the ten-day period ending 8th May, the Squadron mounted 111 sorties, shared between all 40 of the active crews, to successfully deliver 271 tons of life-saving provisions. In total, the RAF dropped 7,029.9  tons; the USAF who commenced drops two days later due to concerns about the truce, contributed 4,155.8 tons.

Many crews were initially apprehensive over the realisation that they would be flying, in broad daylight, at a very low level, in full view of the German A/A defences, whose gun barrels could be seen to be tracking their flight. However, the reception by the beleaguered Dutch people, who flocked on to the streets, the rooftops and all open spaces, to wave anything to hand, calmed all fears. Subsequent sorties were flown with panache, at very much lower levels, while crews (most of whom parcelled up their flying rations of chocolate and sweets and attached them to "parachutes" made from handkerchiefs, as personal gifts for the children) exchanged waves with those below. After dropping their loads, many pilots continued to fly at a very low altitudes, waggling their wings and 'buzzing' the crowds to give them a thrill, with their bomb-aimers flashing "V" for victory on the Aldis signalling lamp. It became a carefree, cheerful occasion for the aircrews, and many could not believe that Manna drops were to be allowed to count towards an operational tour.

Dad recalled being terrified at flying so low and so slowly - just above stalling speed. Crews could see the German anti-aircraft guns tracking them, including the fearsome 88mm guns accurate to 20,000ft, and said he felt like they could have reached up and slapped his backside. It was an eerie feeling for crews who were used to bombing from 15,000ft or more to be flying a slow pass over enemy guns at just a couple of hundred feet.  Several Lancasters, Dad's included took some rifle fire from below but luckily no one was injured. Dad's pilot retaliated by diving onto a tented German camp, gunning the engines and blowing the tents apart!  He also recalled one trip where the pilot took the Lancaster up a wide boulevard in a town at absolutely zero feet while the crew looked up at the cheering faces in the house windows on either side. For men used to dropping destruction it was an incredibly moving experience and one Dad was incredibly proud of.

Dutch girl Arie de Jong, a seventeen-year-old student at the time, wrote in her diary:

"There are no words to describe the emotions experienced on that Sunday afternoon. More than 300 four-engined Lancasters, flying exceptionally low, suddenly filled the western horizon. One could see the gunners waving in their turrets. A marvellous sight. One Lancaster roared over the town at 70 feet. I saw the aircraft tacking between church steeples and drop its bags in the South. Everywhere we looked, bombers could be seen. No one remained inside and everybody dared to wave cloths and flags. What a feast! Everyone is excited with joy. The war must be over soon now."

For the Dutch population, the food drops signalled something even more significant than an end to starvation. They saw the streams of bombers flying extremely low in broad daylight; they saw that the German forces did not open fire upon these vulnerable targets. They were quick to draw the obvious conclusion (oddly, not so apparent to aircrews) - that this historic event heralded the ending of the war! They hailed the fliers as their " liberators". The Dutch have never celebrated V/E day. For them, there is only the one, unforgettable celebration - the 7th May - a national holiday - which they very rightly call 'Liberation Day'.

On 8th May - V/E day - which marked the end of warfare in Europe, the Squadron made its final Manna drops. During the 10 days of Operation Manna, 3 Lancasters and crews were lost; two to collision and one to engine failure. None were from 153 Sqn.

As a postscript to this story, its interesting to recall the visit of my elder brothers Dutch friends family to our house around 1975 or so. Bart and Gordon had become great friends at university and Bart had spent quite a bit of time at our house on weekends and such. So, it was fitting that when his parents came across to visit, they also came to my parents house for a meal and to meet the family. At the end of the meal Bart's Dad and mine sat talking when the Hague came up - as Bart's family lived there. Dad mentioned that he had been to the Hague a couple of times at the end of the war to drop food and Bart's father became very emotional and gave Dad a big hug.

"I was there! I was hiding from the Germans but came out to see when the bombers came to drop the food. I was there! We were so hungry. We starved through the winter. I saw the green and red flares go down and then the food began to fall from the planes. I was there at the place in the Hague that day"

A small world indeed.

Next month G and I and Gordon and his wife are going to Holland for a short holiday. We will be staying at Barts house, not far from where 153 squadron made their drops during Operation Manna.

Watch this homemade Dutch film of RAF Lancasters dropping food during Operation Manna which I found much later after posting this item. Note how low the first Lancaster is.....

Through These Portals Go The Bravest Of Men.....

Plaque to 153 Sqdn. Scampton Church.

Hullo ma wee blog,

I'm not sure where this is going to go so you'll have to bear with me on this one. It may be a bit of a ramble. The title will have to come later.

When I started blogging about 153 Squadron I did so, not quite on the spur of the moment, but also not in a properly planned and organised way either. As I said in the first of those posts - and I can't believe there have been forty three since January - I was inspired by the way a fellow blogger, in the run up to remembrance day, had followed a relative across months of WWI experience using family letters. It was personal, but it also drew you into the timeline. I felt I too was almost waiting for the next letter, and found myself worrying, as if personally connected, looking forward to a bit of good news which tragically didn't come. I thought that if I could find enough information that perhaps something similar might evolve here. I didn't know much of Dad's RAF history so I knew it wouldn't be quite so immediate.

Now, as I sit in the bolt hole of my 'library', I can reflect that for 153 Squadron at least, the story is nearly complete. With 'Operation Manna' underway there were 10 days to the end of war in Europe. Unlike some other squadrons, 153 sqn didn't undertake any more offensive bombing raids. They had given their last and there would be no more losses although they didn't know that. Their final missions would be the safest - and happiest - of their war.  So, the Berchtesgarden op was the squadron's final bombing raid.

Probably there is one more post to do to tie up some loose ends and carry the story forward to a proper end, but no more.

I can look around the room at the photo of Dad and his crew posed under their Lancaster and feel a deeper appreciation of what aircrew went through. I understand much better now some of the stresses;  The fear of ops, suffering from extreme cold for hour after hour, flying in close proximity in the dark, bombing in a congested night-time sky, corkscrew maneuvers to escape night fighters or flying into flak and searchlights and flying over ice cold seas are all things I have come to consider from a new perspective. So too on what drove one man to hang out of a burning aircraft in a desperate attempt to reach and put out an engine on fire while being held by the legs by fellow crewmen, or others to evade capture when lost in enemy territory. Men from every background and all walks of life, who faced terrors and watched friends die in front of them in terrible ways yet continued on, day after day. Ordinary men - Extraordinary circumstances.

Dad 3rd row back 5th from right

I can - and have - spent time looking at the formal photo of the Squadron aircrew taken in June 1945 and although I can't put names to faces, names echo familiarly back at me from the information I have found. Powley, Gee, Tobin and Freeborn, Freddie Fish, 'Perspex' Purvis and Whizz Wheeler among others. Some will be there, I know others are not. I can see Dad though, young, slim {or is it gaunt ?} standing near the propeller of the port outer engine of the machine they're all posed under. I remember an early post describing a photo of Dad's crew as 'under the protective arms of the Lancaster' and here again, the feeling is the same.  153 squadron was never huge. There are 148 men in the photo. In one of those odd coincidences that sometimes happen,  this is almost exactly the same number as of those who were killed in just 7 short months of 153 Squadron's existence. The photo therefore, puts that number into a physical and tragic perspective.

Even more so as my own father looks out at me from the ranks.

 In those few months of the squadron's existence, from a total of  82 crews ( 574 men ) comprising 408 RAF, 125 Canadian Air Force, 26 Australian Air Force, and 15 New Zealand Air Force, who flew operationally, 147 were killed. This was just over 25% of those who served.  Many more, possibly the same again, were injured on top of that.  Had the squadron been formed earlier and fought without benefit of the technological advances that war inevitably brings, that figure would undoubtedly have been much higher. It was a time and place of extraordinary courage, extraordinary resilience. One of my posts remarked on the harsh treatment meted out to those poor souls who's courage broke, marking them in the eyes of the RAF and wartime public as LMF {lacking moral fibre}. One of the comments I received back replied that those who remained showed 'OMF' {outstanding moral fibre}. I think perhaps that's as good a description as I will find.

Scampton Church Yard - some of  153 Sqn's 'Lost Boys' who made it home.

The loss of 147 men during the final seven months of the war in Europe, underlines the perils they all faced when flying on bomber operations, even at that late stage of the war.  Most were very young - the average age of aircrew was 22 years old -  Dad wasn't yet 21.  Lets not forget too that there was an even greater number of ground-based Sqdn personnel behind them who also worked phenomenally hard to ensure the aircrew had the very best chance of safe return; Armourers, Mechanics, Fitters, Bomb-Handlers, WAAFs, admin and medical staff, ambulance drivers; the list goes on. These were people that went through agonies of their own , anxiously waiting on 'their' crews returning from missions. They grieved for the lost boys, and many were deeply affected by the sights and the reality of war writ large on damaged man and returned machine.

By wars end the publics' awareness of the reality of  'area bombing' caused opinion to pull back in horror at the casualties among Germany's civilian population, especially after the Dresden raid had been reported in detail. While the technology of the day never allowed pinpoint accuracy in bombing and despite the Luftwaffe having unwaveringly used exactly those tactics on numerous equally unfortunate European cities including London, Sheffield and Coventry in the previous years, criticism was levelled at 'Bomber' Harris and his steadfast belief in delivering total war by levelling German cities as the quickest way to end it. This tactic forced more than 1 million men of fighting age to be diverted away from the frontline and our troops,  to national defence, fire-fighting, reparation of transport and maintainance of political and social infrastructure. Few aircrew would criticise him for it.

 After Dresden, Churchill carefully withheld his support - previously freely given - perhaps with a politicians canny eye, ever mindful of public and international opinion. In his comprehensive end of war address, along with the rest of the Armed Forces, every part of the RAF was singled out and praised with the exception of Bomber Command. It was never even mentioned.

Despite the huge losses of man and machine, and both Winston Churchill's involvement in setting the bombing policy - his order to Harris had been to take the war to Germany "without restraint" - and his earlier completely public endorsement for the bomber boys which said,

"after the Battle Of Britain had been won and Britain stood isolated, only Bomber Command could carry war to the enemy."

at wars end he would not give public acknowledgement, nor approve a medal in recognition of their contribution. Operational aircrew would instead qualify for the 'Defence Medal'. The men saw it as a callous betrayal. Harris raged against the decision.

"The only task we have not been asked to perform, other than negatively, has been that of defence."

 He went on to warn that if Bomber Command were not offered its own medal,

"then I too will accept only the defence medal and no other - nothing else whatever,  neither decoration, award, rank, preferment or appointment, if any such is contemplated. I will be proud indeed to wear the defence medal and that alone - and as bitter as the rest of my personnel. I will not stand by and see my people let down in so grossly an unjust manner without resorting to any and every necessary and justifiable protest which is open to me."

No medal has ever been awarded. It is an argument which painfully rankles to this day. Remaining aircrew still campaign to have the decision reversed.

The bomber boys suffered a huge change in wartime public opinion. They never had the kudos of the fighter pilots, those chivalrous 'knights of the air', who fought single and heroic combats. They were the heavy hammer of resistance against Germany's war machine and when things were at their darkest and the country truly did stand alone against the Nazis, then they really were the blue eyed boys of the country. Vast tracts of the nation stood witness every day to the bomber boys setting off in their aircraft  Ears reverberated to the sound of engines straining under heavy weights of bombs. They read newspaper accounts every day too, of how Hitler and the Nazis weren't getting it all their own way as a result. And yet, by the end of the war, they had become almost a pariah, killers of innocent men women and children. It's a predjudice that many people carry even today, with our modern concept of technological warfare, pinpoint accuracy and thankfully low acceptability of casualty rates of civilians and our forces. While we can each have an opinion on the need and acceptability of night-time area bombing rather than daylight raids attacking specific military targets - and those arguments raged in Churchills Air Ministry too despite the move to night attacks due to huge losses of man and machine - you cannot deny the courage nor the losses sustained by the relatively small part of our armed forces that was Bomber Command.

More men were lost in just one raid  in 1943 than fighter pilots killed in the whole of the Battle of Britain.

In total, 55,000 members of Bomber Command lost their lives. 20,000 of them have no known grave. These were the highest percentage losses of any branch of the forces. Today they are remembered at the memorial at Runnymede and by the statue of Bomber Harris outside the RAF church of St Clement Dane’s in the Strand, London, a statue so controversial that it needed 24 hour police protection for several months after installation to prevent it from being attacked. It took until 2006 before a memorial window was installed in Lincoln Cathedral, that ancient landmark so well known from the sky which gave powerful emotional support to the men of 153 Sqdn, and others, as a visible sign of home and safety. It now provides a focal point for commemoration. There is no national memorial to the men of bomber command even yet, exactly 65 years later, although one is now planned - to be paid for by public fundraising, not by Her Majesties Government.

A Lanc Over Lincoln Cathedral

The international flavour of the squadron's manpower arose from the fact that aircrew were provided by the British, Canadian, Australian and New Zealand Royal Air Forces. Moreover, even more nationalities were represented; among the RCAF were men from the USA: the RNZAF included Maoris: the RAF had South Africans, Dutch, West Indians, and Southern Irishmen, in addition to men from every part of the four home countries. Some of the international personnel mistakenly believed that because of conscription (officially the " Direction of Labour"), British fliers had no choice in the matter. This wasn't so. Every aircrew member volunteered to undertake flying duties - in fact, many had first to relinquish the shelter afforded by a ' Reserved Occupation ' status, in order to do so.  Even given the international flavour, the Squadron was basically RAF by a ratio of 3:1.  I remember asking my father how his Dad, left disabled after WWI had reacted when he had asked him about volunteering for the RAF. He said simply, " I didn't ask. It wasn't his decision to make."  With hindsight of those days it wasn't perhaps the unusual answer I originally thought it was.

 Aircraft losses had been significant too. Over the seven months the Squadron flew 54 different machines, initially starting with 15. When hostilities ceased, only 6 original machines remained.  'A' Flight contained two "Centurions"- aircraft which had completed a hundred or more missions over enemy territory.   At the end of the war only 35 of these auspicious 'centurions' existed across Bomber Commands 79 Squadrons out of 7377 Lancasters built.  Chadwick's inspired design delivered incredible performance in bomb load, in flying endurance, in ability to withstand enormous damage yet stay airborne and in its ability to withstand stress far beyond planned capabilities as desperate men threw it around the sky to escape enemy fighters or searchlights. It inspired confidence and admiration in the men who flew in it. For all its qualities of strength and agility more than 4,100 were lost in action.

After the end of war in Europe the Lancaster would never again be used as an offensive weapon by the RAF. The Last true RAF Lancaster flew its final mission in 1955 before being sent to the scrapyard. The last official flight of a Lancaster by the RCAF was flown by F/L Lynn Garrison in KB-976, on 4 July 1964 at the Calgary International Air Show. It had already long since become an international icon.




After the war ended Dad never set foot in another aircraft ever again.

His rear Gun postion

I feel I've done what I set out to do and I've had some fun at the same time.  It  has been emotional at times too of course, but I've thoroughly enjoyed my wee project.  Chunks of  information have been simply quoted from sources with a minimum interference from me, some has been my interpretation and imperfect understanding of information read or heard. Through it I've come to a much better understanding of the men and machines of 153 Sqdn and the part they played in the bigger picture, present as they were at some key moments in our history. I'm glad too that I managed to stick to the original timescales in the main. As I hoped it has helped me in some small way to come further to terms with the loss of my father and what went to make him special.

As for Dad and 153 Sqdn in 1945?

They still had work to do.

But that's for another day and another post.............

see you later.

Listening to Supertramp 'Even in the Quietest moments'