by Steve Holmes
SHERLOCK’S SQUADRON
THE INCREDIBLE TRUE STORY OF THE UNSUNG RAF HEROES OF WORLD WAR TWO
STEVE HOLMES
WITH KEN SCOTT
Although you are no longer with us I am sure these words will somehow filter their way back to you. Wherever you are, this book is for you.
John, William and Sandra
‘My strength has now been reduced to the equivalent of 36 squadrons…we should be able to carry on the war single-handed for some time if not indefinitely.’
Sir Hugh Dowding, RAF Fighter Command May 1940
‘Air superiority is the ultimate expression of military power.’
Winston Churchill
‘Air superiority is a condition for all operations, at sea, on land, and in the air.’
Air Marshal Arthur Tedder
‘Anyone who fights, even with the most modern weapons, against an enemy who dominates the air, is like a primitive warrior who stands against modern forces with the same limitations and the same chance of success.’
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel
‘We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’
Winston Churchill June 4, 1940
‘No enemy plane will fly over the Reich Territory.’
Hermann Goering
‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’
Winston Churchill on the Battle of Britain, August 20, 1940
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Postscript
Biographies
Roll of Honour
Plates
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many people I’d like to thank who helped me bring this book to life. I was lucky enough to stumble on a chance meeting with the author Ken Scott and we shared a few beers as I told him about my many years of research and the website I’d pulled together. It was Scotty who first suggested there may be a book in my father’s story. He had previously ‘ghosted’ two World War Two novels, one of which I’d read and had been suitably impressed. I liked his style, the way he brought the characters to life and somehow almost got inside their heads. By the end of the second beer I’d already made my mind up, I wanted to give it a shot.
Ken Scott worked with me for little over four months, I’d like to think we gave it more than a shot and I enjoyed every minute we spent together, especially the Tuesday afternoon ‘research’ lunches with his wife Hayley and his children Callum and Emily. He has taught me much about writing and the book industry and I am more than pleased at what we have produced. From the bottom of my heart Scotty, thanks for being patient and pulling it altogether… one of my lifetime’s achievements.
I would like to say a special thank you to my daughter Kayleigh Louise Holmes for her work and encouragement throughout my time working on this book.
There are many more people to thank and mention, far too many to call. I would however like to say a special thanks to everyone who gave me encouragement and my proof readers and critics too.
My research brought me into contact with the sons and daughters of the men who flew with my dad. It was a humbling experience and at times very emotional. They were more than happy to help with the finer details and character descriptions of their fathers. Judy Vanrenen, Steph Handley, Cathy (Jones) Cameron, Ros (Tammas) Flaxman and Russell and Bev Tickner. I owe you all so much and I’m just more than a little apprehensive that this book reads well to you all, particularly you Judy. Your father may not have appeared to have been the most popular member of the crew but I’m 100% certain he was the most respected and his crew wouldn’t have swapped him for his weight in gold. His skill in bringing that plane down on that final doomed mission undoubtedly saved everyone’s lives and well they knew it, well I know it. I will be forever in debt to ‘Van the Man’ for bringing my father back to Blighty in one piece and allowing me to build such a special relationship with him. I cherished every moment I spent with him… he was my best mate.
And finally to all my researchers, I hope you don’t mind me labelling you with that title. To John Reid, Bruce Gommersall, Bruno Lecaplain, Mike Stimson, Dave Coates, Warren Tickner, Johans Verhagen and Arie-Jan Hees, Sally and Richard Halon… enjoy, my friends!
FOREWORD
It has taken me fifteen years to complete this book in memory of my late father Flight Engineer John Holmes and his comrades who flew with him and those on the ground who supported them. My father was fascinated by aircraft from a young age and I suppose as a chip off the old block I followed suit. It was when I discovered his exact role in World War Two that I concentrated on and fell in love with the aircraft he flew twenty four sorties in. The Stirling. My father never talked too much about the war and 196 Squadron or the brave men he came into contact with. I wish he had because I’ve spent literally thousands of hours on research, read over a hundred books and called upon the personal memories from the daughters and sons and nieces and nephews of those great men who are sadly no longer with us. However, a portion of this book has what we call poetic licence. Let me explain.
I wanted this book to be an accurate account of what happens when young men go to war. I wanted to capture not just the statistics and records of the sorties but the emotion, the camaraderie, the sense of fear and of pride and at times disillusionment. And I wanted so much more than that, I wanted this book to be a complete read, a story with a beginning, a middle and an end. We all know the beginning and we all know the end but how many of us are truly aware of what the middle was like? I wanted the sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters of these men to pick up my book and read it like a novel but I wanted it to be real and I wanted it to be a fitting tribute to the men who fought against an evil regime hell bent on world domination so that we could continue to live as free men and women. I’ll give an example.
My father never mentioned a rear gunner called Curly Mason and I know he didn’t fly with him. But through my extensive research I know Curly Mason was almost certain to have come in contact with my father during their training. Therefore, in Chapter Four of this book I have introduced Curly Mason as a friend of my father. I have brought in other characters too, such as Lofty Matthews. Again my father never mentioned Lofty but I’m pretty sure he bumped into him somewhere along the way and I feel a special bond with him that I can’t explain, but at times I feel I knew Lofty Matthews on a personal level and I wanted to bring him and his tragic tale into this book.
These men are heroes; I had to bring them alive again as a fitting tribute to their courage and fortitude. I make no apologies for doing so. I remember reading somewhere, that to live on in the hearts and minds of the reader is truly not to die. This was my sole purpose in writing this book. We owe them everything, we must nev
er forget them.
In the pages of this book they all live on.
Steve Holmes
CHAPTER ONE
The modern world is still living with the memories and indeed the consequences of World War Two, the most titanic conflict in history. On September 1st 1939, Germany invaded Poland without warning, sparking the start of the war. The clues and undercurrents, however, had been bubbling since the early 1930s.
John Holmes listened with interest to news reports from the BBC World Service prior to 1939. He was the youngest of five children, son of William and Georgina, and he sat in the comfortable, clean and tidy lounge in the Skerton area of Lancaster as the family huddled around the radio.
It was difficult to describe John’s feelings; his excitement, for want of a better word. Something told him that a major war was inevitable and not only that, despite the fact that he was still a schoolboy, he instinctively knew that he would play a major part in it. He knew where his destiny lay. His destiny lay in the sky. He was simply fascinated by the images of the RAF fighters and bombers – especially the bombers, clumsy looking, hulking, gigantic pieces of machinery. He wondered what law of nature made them defy gravity and propelled the huge beasts up into the sky.
Life prior to 1939 was pleasant enough for the Holmes family. John’s father William was a joiner who worked at the prestigious Waring and Gillow furniture manufacturer. It was a respected occupation and paid well. Whilst not rich, the Holmes family would probably be described as bordering on the middle class element of pre-war England.
Little did William know at the time, but ultimately as the war in Europe escalated the factory would be handed over to war production making ammunition chests and interior fittings for aircraft. Therefore William Holmes never went to war as he had a reserved occupation. Naturally he advised his son to follow in his footsteps or at least get a trade, preferably one that would keep him out of the war they all suspected could break out soon. John heeded his father’s advice as always and tried to do as he suggested. It was expected and John respected his father’s wishes, a sign of the times perhaps.
John would think about life and work and war as he swam in the River Lune, which was less than five minutes’ walk from his house. This was John’s escape, the greatest pleasure in his life. He was at one with nature as he struck out against the fast flowing river. It was a challenge battling against the water – and of course against the cold. In the height of summer the River Lune was cold enough, but in winter it was positively Arctic. It mattered not. November, December, January and February John would still discard his clothes above the ramparts where the tidal river from its inlet at Morecambe Bay became a fresh water river.
It was a four-mile walk from the weir adjacent to his house to the beautiful spot at the Crook O’ Lune but it was four miles that John never tired of and when he got there it was always worth it. It gave him time to think, time to imagine; a place where he could lose himself in a daydream. The four miles never felt that long and every so often he would look up and gaze into the clouds. That’s what his Mum would say to her neighbours every now and again. ‘Our John… always has his head in the clouds.’ And in a strange sort of way she was right, though John wasn’t about to tell her the exact reason why his head was in the clouds quite so often.
John became a very good swimmer and developed a strong physique for someone so young. The Crook O’ Lune had to be his favourite spot in the whole world. He’d leave his clothes behind a bush where no one would find them and, dressed only in his underpants, dive into the dark waters a few feet below the bank. He’d swim several strokes underwater. Slow strokes, until he was sure that his body had adjusted to the cold and he hadn’t died from a heart attack (as his mum sometimes warned him he would). Then he’d resurface and open his eyes and take in the beautiful scenery that seemed to explode in front of him.
Someone had told him that the Crook O’ Lune was painted by the famous artist JMW Turner, the so called painter of light. And of course John went along to his local library and looked up the English Romantic landscape painter, because if the Crook O’ Lune was good enough for Turner then it was good enough for him. John first spotted the painting in an obscure book that a kindly librarian had ordered in for him especially. Turner’s painting of Crook O’ Lune, looking towards Hornby Castle, took John’s breath away. He sat on the same banks as Turner had many years ago and he wondered – no, he knew – that Turner had the same feeling of being at one with nature in this beautiful place.
In 1937 John left school and took up an apprenticeship as a fitter at a local Lancashire mill. He maintained and repaired the huge machines at the mill and at first took great interest in the mechanics of every single one, priding himself on his ability to diagnose specific breakdown problems. He still found time to swim in the Crook O’ Lune despite the long hours his new employer insisted he work and, to be truthful, once he’d learned and mastered what he needed to know his heart was never in it. This was not what he wanted to be, it was not where he wanted to be.
Nevertheless John took on board his new-found responsibility and confessed he felt good about contributing to the Holmes family budget. Their standard of living seemed to improve slightly, his mother able to treat the family every now and again. It was 1938 and after the evening meal John would huddle around the Emporic four valve radio that took pride of place in the lounge, listening to world developments that appeared to be gathering at an unstoppable pace. He listened along with his father and his brothers; James and Ernie, while his mother and sisters, Alice and Mary, busied themselves with the chores around the house.
It was mid-September 1938 when John came home to his favourite meal of the week; ham, egg and chips. It wasn’t the fanciest meal on the Holmes menu but his mother’s chips were to die for and ham and eggs were surely invented to compliment Georgina Holmes’s culinary masterpiece. It had been a tough day at work for everyone; was John imagining it or were the employers demanding a little bit more recently? The family tried to avoid the one topic on everyone’s mind but John kept glancing at the kitchen clock, willing the hands round to nine o’clock when the BBC would broadcast a detailed account of international world affairs. He noticed his father with one eye on the clock too. He tried to shake the word ‘war’ from his mind and his mother scolded her boys each time they mentioned it, but even she realised that world events were being influenced by a certain man called Adolf Hitler. John’s brother James spoke.
‘Chamberlain’s over there now Dad, talking with Adolf Hitler. He’ll sort him out, Dad, won’t he?’
John was all too aware that at 23 years of age James would be the first of the brothers to be called up if war broke out. James enjoyed family life in Skerton and his job as a store-man in the town’s biggest department store. He had a little bit of money in his pocket and a pretty girlfriend, enjoyed a few beers at the weekend and dancing at the local Roxy. He didn’t want to go and fight this fellow Hitler.
‘I certainly hope so, son,’ his father said. ‘I certainly hope so.’
On 15th September 1938, as William Holmes and his sons sat listening to the world news, there was a collective sigh of relief as Neville Chamberlain announced that Adolf Hitler ‘appears to be a man who could be relied upon when he had given his word’. It was what everybody wanted to hear. Hitler was an honest chap after all. Georgina Holmes breezed into the lounge polishing a large dinner plate with a tea-towel.
‘You hear that, Mum?’ said Ernie. ‘Hitler’s given his word to Mr Chamberlain.’
Georgina Holmes gave a half-smile. The look didn’t convince young John. He was only 15 and far too young to be called up into the armed forces, but he was already plotting the future. Hitler couldn’t be trusted; John didn’t know why but he knew. He had seen the pictures of him in the newspapers and hated everything about him right down to his silly little half-moustache. And he had seen him on the Pathé news reels at the picture house in the middle of the Saturday afternoon matinée, banging his f
ist on the rostrum he spoke from while he ranted and raved in a language John couldn’t understand while thousands of soldiers yelled ‘Heil Hitler,’ with their right arms pointing to the sky.
Every time John heard the man speak a shiver ran the length of his spine. It wasn’t a shiver of fear; it was adrenalin because John Holmes knew that his life in the mill wouldn’t last long and destiny would take over and pitch him into conflict with this evil man. He knew that Hitler wasn’t to be trusted. He wanted to invade Czechoslovakia, the radio announcer had said, that’s why Chamberlain had made the trip to Germany along with other heads of state. The theory was that if Hitler was made fully aware that other countries opposed his invasion plan then he would have to back down. John knew Hitler wouldn’t back down, he would invade Czechoslovakia – and after Czechoslovakia, where next?
The radio announcer said goodbye and asked his listeners to join him at the same time the following evening. John was tired and said his goodnights to the family. He spent twenty minutes reading before drifting off to sleep. The book fell to the floor with a thud. John had read the book from cover to cover several times but his interest never waned. It was a book on aviation, The A-Z of the Aeroplane. He had picked it up several weeks before at the local church jumble sale. John dreamt that night. He dreamt of soldiers and of conflict and he dreamt about Adolf Hitler. He was looking down on the German Chancellor from a great height as he shouted and gesticulated to the masses. John looked down on him through the clouds. He could not shake off the unmistakable drone of aircraft engines echoing in the background of his dream.
Later that month Chamberlain was back in Germany. In London, on home soil, Winston Churchill warned of the futility of appeasing Adolf Hitler.
