A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 9 The White Cliffs of Dover

Another very thoughtful gesture was made by the pilot, if indeed it was he who had handed out the sweets, that was to send our spirits soaring. Unknown to us passengers at that stage, we were heading for an RAF station in Buckinghamshire, so he must have deliberately diverted a touch to the south and, making sure we were all looking forward through the cockpit by getting another crew member to draw our attention, he flew straight towards and then over the White Cliffs of Dover. It was a heart-wrenching sight, and I could almost hear Dame Vera Lynn singing her famous wartime song. I did not, however, notice any bluebirds flying over them.

We landed, late evening, at RAF Wing, and members of the WAAF met us and escorted us to a reception area that was set up in the open; even the weather was continuing to be kind to us. I did not kiss the ground as I always thought I would, but I do remember being very aware of my footsteps when first leaving the aircraft and thinking, ‘This is what I have been waiting for.’

At the reception area medical orderlies dusted us with a white powder. No area was left untreated and one by one we were turned into something like snowmen. I suppose we would have been a rough looking bunch and needed to be treated with caution. Everybody was so kind and patient, especially as our arrival had not been expected. Next came the novelty of being seated at a real table on real chairs for some refreshments, which we saw off in no time at all. We then queued to see a doctor, which of course was a necessity, but this process revealed the only lack of thought or organisation that I ever noticed during the whole process of being received back home, and even that made for a bit of comedy. A temporary medical centre had been set up with about six cubicles curtained off to give privacy and in each one there was a medical officer in attendance. I was making my way into one of them, after being called, when the canvas door of one further along burst open as the patient made a very hasty exit. Following close behind came the medical officer, a woman, shouting, ‘Don’t be so damned ridiculous.’ I have to explain that in 1945 lady doctors were quite rare and for a man, who might well have rarely seen a woman for possibly four or five years, and then only in the far distance, to be expected to submit himself to being intimately examined by one, was perhaps a little unthoughtful. I don’t know how the problem was resolved because after my examination, by a man, all was quiet and orderly again and we were reassembled to await transport to the nearest railway station.

I think at this stage Army and RAF personnel must have been separated because the train I boarded went straight to RAF Cosford; Army personnel must have gone to another establishment. I hope they were treated as well as we were. RAF Cosford was the RAF’s main medical centre in those days, so I suppose they were somewhat used to handling people in need of help, and although it was by now around two in the morning, we were certainly well received.

We were shown to our accommodation, which had been obviously well prepared, set down anything we might have been carrying and then a bathroom was ready, with the water already in the bath at the right temperature, for each one of us. Large white towels were there waiting for after we had indulged ourselves in a luxury some had not experienced for four or five years. It was a lovely feeling to be submerged in the warm water and leisurely cleanse oneself. Returning to the room where we were to sleep, the top covers of the beds had been turned back, pyjamas were there waiting, and within minutes I was enjoying a sleep that I was to remember for the rest of my life.

It would be eleven o’clock before I awoke next morning, and before I could convince myself that all this luxury was not a continuation of a dream, I was rewarded with what might be described as revenge◦– on the very RAF Flight Sergeant who had made our lives hell when I was attending my first Signals School. You may remember me telling you that we all lived in fear of him, yet the extraordinary thing, right there, was that this very Flight Sergeant was now offering me, humble me, still lying in a nice warm bed, a mug of delicious hot steaming tea. The coincidence was unbelievable, and I could not help telling him where we had met before. He declared in quite a friendly tone of voice that he thought he could remember me before mentioning the time and place◦– extraordinary.

The day went on to be quite a busy one. Everyone was fitted out with complete new uniforms. Further, more detailed medical inspections were made, some interrogation into how our aircraft was shot down, and as to how I was treated as a prisoner of war. I also had the opportunity to suggest any improvements to the means of escape from the Lancaster. I did this vigorously because the sight of three of my crew trapped there, not able to get out, was still very much in my mind, and always will be.

Later in the day we were given money; notes and loose change. The coins seemed to be so heavy in the pocket, it took days to get used to carrying them again. What could we buy with them? This presented another problem but, as it became evening, that one was solved. Cosford was a large RAF station, built between the wars, and had its own cinema, so most of us followed the crowd to partake of a pleasure that had not been available for so long.

Back in those lovely beds, with plenty of space around them and the clean white sheets, the second night soon passed, and now it was Sunday. There were still a few more formalities to be got through, badges and ranks to be attached to the new uniforms, and travel warrants issued. We even had our individual train times sorted out for us◦– we were treated like kings.

When we thought that they could not do any more to help us, one member of staff even remembered that we would not have any handkerchiefs. These were never an RAF issue, but some were found and given out; and that was not the end of the care and attention. During our short stay at Cosford the weather had changed completely. It got very cold and just before we were due to leave, it started to snow. Now, according to RAF rules and regulations, Summer started on May 1st and today was the 2nd but, in defiance, greatcoats were produced and issued. We were spoilt beyond belief.

By mid-day the whole group was very self-consciously standing on the platform awaiting the train to Wolverhampton and from there to our various home towns. It was a strange feeling: I was delighted to be on the last lap towards what I had been craving for all this time, but I felt very much on my own now and facing a world that seemed to have changed while I was away. I was glad of the greatcoat, not only because of the inclement weather, but it had extra comfort about it; it was something that had not changed. I could wrap myself up in it until I had got the hang of things again and got a bit more confidence back.

My parents had moved out of London since I joined the RAF, which was a good thing because of the bombing and the terrible flying bomb and rocket attacks that followed, but rural Huntingdonshire, where they now lived, was not so handy, or anywhere near so exciting as my old familiar haunts that I so much wanted to get back to. Fortunately, my married sister, who lived quite close to the old home, could always be relied upon to put me up (I have long ago realised what an imposition this was, to put me up for a night or two when on leave), so I decided to make her my first port of call; unbeknown to me that decision formed part of a remarkable coincidence.

By the time I had made my connection at Wolverhampton and arrived at Euston it was dark. That was a good thing because I did not feel quite so conspicuous. The streets were now lit again, the chances of more air raids by conventional aircraft I suppose had been ruled out, but hardly to the pre-war standard, so I could still hide a bit in the gloom, and that, strangely, is what I felt I wanted to do.

I had no trouble in remembering my way about and that there was a local LMS electric service, Euston to Watford, that would take me to where my sister lived. I was beginning to ‘get back in’, but the streets were so much quieter than I thought I could remember them, with hardly any people walking about. I did pass a woman I knew slightly, and it was a little reassuring when she showed some recognition.

Arriving at my sister’s house there was some delay after ringing the doorbell. In those moments my confidence waned again. Had my sister moved during my absence, or something worse? I did notice a lot more bomb damage had taken place, but all was well, in fact more than well, because my home coming, entirely by coincidence, had coincided with a family gathering and beyond my wildest dreams◦– Adelaide was there too.

She had got in touch with my family after her letters to me were returned to her by the Squadron and was later told by my sister that I was a prisoner of war. That information was first picked up by my brother who, when I was reported missing, started listening to a radio programme transmitted from Germany presented by a person who called himself Lord Haw Haw. He cunningly included, at intervals during his programme, the names of newly taken prisoners of war, knowing that this would attract an audience of anxious next of kin hoping to gain news of loved ones reported missing. Ninety-five percent of the broadcast would be taken up by exaggerated claims of German successes in battle, aimed at demoralising the British listeners. Lord Haw Haw was a British traitor, his real name was William Joyce. He was brought back to England to face trial at the end of the war in Europe and was hanged at the Tower of London.

My arrival, coinciding with the family gathering and, best of all, Adelaide being there too, was truly remarkable. It could not have been better if it had been carefully planned. My mother had received my letters sent after I had been liberated and passed the news around the family, but nobody could say in advance when I would arrive home. Adelaide was on her way back to Gloucestershire, after spending most of a ten day leave at her home, and had called to see my sister on the way, not even knowing that I had been liberated.

I rang the doorbell and waited. It was opened by my sister and on seeing me they shouted, ‘He’s home. He’s home.’ Then Adelaide walked forwards to see what the commotion was, and our eyes met. Though we had left each other madly in love, we just didn’t know what to say.

I would like to report that my first words, spoken to my fiancée after so long apart, were of the romantic variety, but I glanced at the new stripes on the sleeve of her WAAF uniform and said, ‘Flight Mech,’ followed by ‘Eh?’ She had been promoted to the position of flight mechanic.

Later, while the ladies of my family, despite the even more severe rationing that people were now having to endure, were busy preparing a welcome home meal, Adelaide and I were able to get reacquainted and within minutes it seemed that we had never been parted.

Adelaide’s leave was due to expire in two days, so in the circumstances and after much deliberation, she sent a telegram, that was the usual way to communicate quickly in those days, asking if her leave could be extended by forty-eight hours. Within a day the reply was back◦– seven days compassionate leave granted, plus forty-eight hours. That was far more generous than expected and we were more than grateful for that concession.

During those ten lovely, carefree days together there was no question of ‘Shall we go ahead and get married?’, it was just a matter of ‘When?’. September sounded promising but, of course, before then we both had to return to duty.

The RAF, to a great extent, had now lost its purpose. Germany surrendered unconditionally a few days after my return. The war in the Far East continued with unceasing vengeance, but it seemed that it was not necessary for the bomber and fighter squadrons based in Britain to be transferred there, so our aircraft were now being reduced to scrap metal. In many cases that was being done by the very ground and air crews who only a few weeks before had been proudly flying and maintaining them. Most of these beautiful aircraft were smashed to pieces in a most undignified way with crowbars and sledgehammers; it was not a pretty sight to watch.

I was later told to return to RAF Cosford and once at the base, almost the first person I saw was David. He looked just as I remembered him on the squadron and, as usual, he was smiling and looking pleased with life, but he had suffered as I was soon to learn when he told me about the journey from Stalag Luft VI to Gross Tychow. A little later he was able to show me the bayonet wounds to his back and, although they were inflicted a year before, they were still very nasty to look at. He went on to tell of the much harder life prisoners were subjected to, compared with Stalag Luft VI, and then the appalling sufferings he endured while being marched aimlessly during the last weeks before liberation in atrocious weather conditions, with little or no food and water. I was spared all this, simply by being on the opposite side of K Lager at Stalag Luft VI, and then by dodging from one hut to another while being moved out of Stalag 357 at Fallingbostel◦– I never realised the dividends that would pay.

I was also, upon returning to Cosford, reunited with now ex-prisoners who I had been with at both Stalag 357 and Stalag Luft VI, but it took some time to realise who they were. Not only did they appear much wider and thicker, but also much taller. They were all smiling and radiating confidence. Their recovery was remarkable.

Back at Stalag Luft VI there was some organised entertainment in a building the Germans had allowed prisoners to adapt as a theatre. All tastes were catered for, but on the lighter side an ex-professional comedian was always popular, and his name was Ross Jones. During those few days when we returned to Cosford, enjoying a fine summer visiting Wolverhampton with David, we bumped into Ross Jones. We reminded him of how we knew him and were told that while he also was back at Cosford, with official permission, he had already got himself a week’s work at the local Empire Theatre. Thereupon, he reached into his pocket and produced two complementary tickets for the show, about to start!

A few days later, which were spent with more medical checks and form filling, we were sent back on leave indefinitely and told to await further orders, and I headed home.

I was able to spend two days with Adelaide where she was stationed, having kindly been granted permission by her CO to be there. While there I received a telegram telling me to report to RAF West Milling in Kent but with no further details. I knew West Malling to be a fighter station, or so it was in the war, and wondered why I was going there. On arrival David was already there and I learned from him that we were to have a course of rehabilitation. I imagined all sorts of strenuous exercising and even revision in square-bashing but was soon to learn it was going to be just the opposite.

As the course assembled, several familiar faces appeared. Most of them also thought they were here to be knocked back into shape until we met the CO and his staff, who all had a most friendly and helpful manner. It turned out that we were to have a most interesting and enjoyable two weeks, with most of the time spent visiting the workplaces of local industry, but also benefitting from some wise and helpful counselling. The visits were to a sweet factory with generous samples provided, a brewery only previously dreamed about by most, the Short aircraft factory at Rochester, where the famous Sunderland was still in production, and Croydon aerodrome.

Croydon was one of the few airports in the country and it served London before Heathrow was ever thought of. What made it so interesting was the national airline of that time◦– British Overseas Airways Corporation, was struggling to create and maintain air services across the world. There were no civilian airliners being manufactured, so RAF planes were being modified to pioneer the new routes that were being allocated, until more suitable aircraft became available. Profitability could not be considered at this stage. It was explained to us that the Dakota was by far the most suitable because it was designed as a civilian aircraft, however it only had a short range. So, with great interest, we watched Lancasters being modified to fly the long-distance routes. Economic efficiency could not be considered. If the opportunity was not taken up immediately, to establish a route, it could be lost for ever. Consequently, the Lancaster, in its modified form and renamed the Lancastrian, would fly the Australia route in several hops. It would need a crew of four to transport only five passengers. We never guessed what a great industry was going to be developed from these makeshift aircraft.

The Dakotas were already flying regular services to some continental capitals, including Brussels, and this was seen as a great opportunity by two of our party. They had been shot down over Belgium in a Halifax and had been sheltered by the Resistance with a family there. Cheekily they asked if there was a chance of a free flight. This was granted with the approval of our CO who was with us on the visit.

Back at West Malling, David and I made plans to visit the families of the crew who had not survived. Although we knew we should do this, and wanted to, we were quite apprehensive about it, so sought some advice from the CO. He encouraged us to go ahead, but wisely pointed out that we could not assume that our crew were all dead, so warned we must be careful.

The visits were not nearly so difficult as we thought they would be because the families were so brave. They had accepted that the worst had happened and did not ask for details of how their sons or husbands had died. Each family made us very welcome, which made us feel much more comfortable with our task.

David was also able to make contact with Bob Brown, our Canadian crew member, confirming that he had survived◦– he had recovered from leg wounds and was now back home and looking very well in a photograph he sent.

Eventually, after some more leave, and with aircrews no longer being in demand, I was posted to Cranwell, the original home of RAF Signals, to serve out the final period of my war service◦– it was to be more than a year before I was a civilian again and able to return to coachbuilding◦– helping to train members of the Royal Dutch Navy to become air operators.

During my time at Cranwell weekend leave could be taken for granted, so Adelaide and I were able to see each other regularly and, with the war in the Far East coming to an end, making our future far more predictable.