by Steve Holmes
His face showed a flicker of a grimace as he remembered his wife-to-be was pregnant. He wondered if their respective families had guessed. The wedding had been rather rushed and on more than one occasion he had walked into a room and his mother and father had curtailed their conversation rather abruptly. They weren’t daft. But then again it mattered not, a dozen wild horses wouldn’t stop him marrying Dorothy and a hundred wild horses wouldn’t prevent the birth of their child. It wasn’t the done thing in those days, not the expected sequence of events, especially in the close-knit streets and communities of Lancaster. But then again when had John Holmes ever conformed? Going against the grain was in his nature.
He fingered a tiny speck of dust from his pristine white collar. The smile had returned to his face again. He took a step back, admired the view then about turned in military style and made his way downstairs.
His parents and sisters stood waiting in the kitchen. He paused in the doorway and felt everyone’s eyes on him. His mother took a few steps forward, took his tie and pulled it back and forth as if it hadn’t quite been one hundred per cent perfect. Her eyes were moist.
‘You look gorgeous our John, she’s a lucky girl is Dorothy, I hope she realises it.’
‘I’m a lucky man, Mam.’
His mother nodded.
‘C’mon,’ his father said as he picked up his coat. ‘We don’t want to keep the vicar waiting.’
They walked the three miles to St Paul’s Church in Scotforth on the other side of town.
Various members of each family had gathered on the steps of the old Victorian building. John’s sisters fussed around him and he wished that his brothers could have been there too, if for no other reason than to dilute the female presence a little.
The lack of male company reminded him of the war that seemed to rage on and on. The wedding was very low key. Dorothy hadn’t wanted to be married in white with a full church blessing. Nor did she want all the pomp and ceremony with organs and candles and choirboys bedecked in white, singing words that she neither knew nor understood. John was with her on exactly how their wedding day should be. John and Dorothy had also agreed that they didn’t want a huge feast afterwards with relatives and friends travelling from far and wide to attend. She’d said to her parents that it didn’t feel right spending so much money when there was a war on.
Reluctantly, Dorothy’s mother had given in. She’d met with the officials from the church, explained her daughter’s wishes and settled on a buffet in the church hall for a few friends and family. Reluctantly, after a fierce bout of persuasion they’d agreed on a three-day honeymoon to Blackpool, bought and paid for by both sets of parents. Their present to them, they’d explained.
The wedding day had been exactly how they’d wanted, close friends and immediate family. ‘The special people’ as Dorothy had described them to John. Nevertheless, even the quiet wedding was a huge effort for Dorothy in her condition. She was a slight woman and her pregnancy hadn’t yet begun to show but by eleven o’clock as the celebrations continued she was exhausted. The newly married couple slipped away unnoticed around quarter past eleven.
It was a silly place to have booked a honeymoon but John didn’t say anything. Those three precious days should have been just that… precious. A young couple joined in love, a time to forget about war and death and destruction of Coventry and service life and RAF training. But it wasn’t to be. Every step he took along the promenade at Blackpool, every time his eyes fell on the huge 518 feet tower that seemed to dominate the skyline, every corner he turned, it reminded him of his induction training some months before.
The three days were still idyllic because for the first time ever it was just him and his beautiful bride.
The train to Cardiff seemed to stop at every town and village in England and Wales.
It took forever. John tried to focus on other things, good news, the news that Dorothy had disclosed at the end of their honeymoon. She had notified her employers that she was ‘in the family way’ and they had immediately placed her on a month’s notice. Her days and nights in Coventry were numbered. Thank God for that.
At Birmingham New Street station John had been amazed at the number of troops milling around, young men on their way to battlefields in France, others bound for Southampton and Bristol on ships that would take them to South America and Asia. John Holmes just wanted to get there and get on with it. The last two hours were the worst. Why did the damned train have to stop at so many places and for so long? Abergavenny, Pontypool, Cwmbran and Newport. Surely it couldn’t go on much longer? Newport was the last stop but the train waited at the station for over an hour. This was perfectly normal in war, the guard had explained, but couldn’t give the exact reason why.
The train pulled into Cardiff a little after midnight and a bus met the latest forty two RAF trainee flight crew and drove them thirty miles to St Athans, on the outskirts of Barry in the Vale of Glamorgan. At the time it housed 12,594 RAF personnel and 1,376 WAAFs.
In daylight, John was astonished at the sheer scale of things. St. Athans was one of the largest stations in the Royal Air Force. As he walked around that first morning he discovered it was split into two, known as East and West Camp. The two camps were divided by the airfield runway in the centre and during a discussion that morning with another trainee who simply called himself Taffy he claimed that the perimeter of the camp was reckoned to be 27 miles.
‘I kid you not my friend,’ he said. ‘Within the camp there are three bloody railway stations.’
John had been told to report to an office in East Camp, to 4TTS (Technical Training School.) This was where his main training would be carried out.
The office front was a hive of activity, young men jostling for position, giving out names and handing in ID. The men were anxious, keen; this office contained the key to something special. Then it dawned on him. This was where they would be handed the uniform of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. This was where they would be ‘kitted out’. Proud was a word that sprang to mind as John returned to his billet with his arms full, two of everything.
They’d been given the rest of the day off to prepare their uniform, wash, iron and make any necessary alterations. They’d need to bull up their boots, the stores clerk had advised, and make sure they wore or carried everything when they reported for duty the following morning. John laid his supplies on his bed and took a step back. He threw his standard issue life vest on the bed and reached for the emergency whistle in his pocket. A familiar voice broke the silence.
‘How the bloody hell we’re going to get this lot ready for tomorrow I’ll never know.’
It was the man known as Taffy that he’d met early that morning. He’d crept into the barrack room quietly and stood near the bed next to John. He sauntered over.
‘Taffy Stimson’s the name. Looks like we’re going to be getting to know each other a little better.’
‘John Holmes. Err… John Holmes from Lancaster.’
Taffy Stimson and John walked out together at precisely 6.35 the following morning. It was late January 1943 and it was still dark.
‘These bloody shirts and vests and bloody socks and bloody jackets itch like buggery,’ Taffy announced, clawing with one hand between his legs and the other under an arm.
John laughed. ‘Don’t worry Taffy, it’ll be okay after a few washes.’
‘Don’t worry boyo, this bugger’s in the wash again just as soon as I get in tonight.’
Once again John thrived at RAF St Athans. The training was carried out in the East Camp while the West Camp was mainly used for general maintenance. There was only one goal and that was to pass everything and get the coveted Flight Engineer’s brevet and the rank of Sergeant.
John studied airframes, more hydraulics, electrics, carburettor air-intake and fuel jettisoning controls. The instructors went into detail on cockpit heating, the electrical distribution panel for all the decisive components throughout the aircraft and the oxygen distributio
n too. He thought the study would never end and between him and Taffy they’d moan about it constantly. The intricacies of aircraft design and maintenance were beginning to get the men down. The officer in charge spoke.
‘If you think this is bad, wait until you get assigned to your own aircraft type. Then you’ll know what real study is.’
A young man in the front of the class raised his hand.
‘Not sure what you mean, Sir.’
The officer took a deep breath.
‘Well, Flight Engineers.’ He purposely scanned the thirty or so men that sat hanging on his every word.
‘Don’t go getting too carried away. As you know you have a lot of exams and assessments to pass. If you succeed you’ll need to make a choice on what sort of aircraft you wish to fly in.’
The officer paced slowly, side to side at the front of the class.
‘As you know you have the choice of Stirlings, Halifaxes and Lancasters. Once the choice is made then you’ll take more classes and more assessments and more examinations on the exact aircraft you’ve chosen to fly in.’ He threw out a forced laugh. ‘By Jesus if you thought this was hard you haven’t seen anything yet.’
He turned towards the blackboard, his hands clasped behind his back, and stood for a few seconds before turning to face the class.
‘Take the Lancaster for example.’ He pointed at a young, dark-skinned man sitting at the front of the class.
‘You, Wilson.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘You like the Lancaster Bomber don’t you?’
‘Yes I do Sir.’
The officer nodded his head in approval and raised an eyebrow as he spoke.
‘Do you know the chemical makeup of the tyres that go on the Lancaster bomber?’
‘No Sir.’
‘Do you know which factory they are produced in or where that factory is?’
‘No Sir.’
‘And do you know the name of the checkout clerk who gave his stamp of approval to that tyre, what time his last lunch break was or when he last visited the toilet?’
‘No Sir.’
The officer grinned, bent forward, leaned towards the man and whispered just enough so that the rest of the class would hear.
‘You will, Wilson. Cross my heart and hope to die you will and you’ll even know what sort of paper he used to wipe his arse.’
John couldn’t put his finger on what it was that made him choose the Stirling Bomber. The Lancaster seemed to be the most popular choice among the other airmen but to him there was something about the Stirling that he’d simply fallen for. The Short Stirling was the first four-engine British heavy bomber of the Second World War. It was far from perfect, almost like an overweight hunting dog with three legs and one eye. It was as if it cried out to be loved and John Holmes fell for it hook, line and sinker.
It had a cruising speed of 230 mph, not quick, especially when it was loaded up with a maximum bomb load of 14,000 pounds. It was rumoured in certain circles that the wingspan had been chopped to 100 feet so the aircraft would fit into existing hangars, hence all the problems on take-off. There was another theory that the wingspan limit was imposed in an attempt to ensure the Stirling’s weight was kept down.
It didn’t matter to John. There was just something about the aircraft he adored. Majestic. Massive. Just standing next to one of its huge wheels was enough to make him realise just how big it was. Watching the huge effort as it groaned to take off when John had stood a mere fifty yards from the runway had a strange effect on his heartbeat. It was almost human. At times as he looked on, he almost expected it to speak to him. John had made his decision. He wouldn’t be swayed.
The day dawned when the official choices had to be made and not surprisingly John couldn’t sleep. It was around 5.30 in the morning when he slipped from the darkened billet fully dressed, showered and shaved. He walked the mile and a half to the section of the airfield that housed the huge aircraft hangars. The ghostly apparition of a lone Stirling loomed up before him as he walked briskly through the bitterly cold, early morning air. He looked beyond the aircraft up into the sky. The early dawn light was beginning to paint the horizon a multitude of pastel colours. Already, even at that ridiculously early hour, half a dozen ground crew fussed around her undercarriage. Keeping a Stirling in the air was a 24-hour job.
It was fair to say John Holmes was in awe each time he stood within touching distance of the bomber. He walked over to the huge nose section and stood directly underneath. Just how do they lift into the air, he wondered. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind him. John detected a slight North American accent.
‘Beautiful isn’t she?’
A tall, well-built man walked around to the side of the Stirling and pointed to something John couldn’t see.
‘Semper in Excreta,’ he announced with a grin.
John shrugged his shoulders. ‘It sounds like Latin but I’m not sure what it means.’
‘I studied Latin over in Canada. Latin and French.’
‘So you’re Canadian.’
‘I am indeed. I’m a Canadian with enough knowledge of Latin to know what that means.’
John walked around so that he could see the insignia with the motto crudely painted underneath.
‘Go on then, surprise me.’
The Canadian’s shoulders heaved as he broke out into a laugh.
‘Semper in Excreta – always in the shit!’
John couldn’t help but laugh too, the Canadian’s mirth was infectious and he warmed to the man immediately.
‘That’s me and you little buddy, we’re in the shit too.’
John frowned. ‘I’m err… not with you.’
‘You’re in the shit because like me you’ve chosen to fly in this bloody thing. Too heavy, too slow and badly designed as you’ll find out the first time you help put her into the sky.’
‘What’s it doing here anyway?’ John enquired. ‘This is just a training school, they don’t normally land here.’
‘Emergency landing, I was told. Poor bastard was shot up at Brest in France, thought he could limp back home to the Midlands but ran out of fuel and had to ditch it here.’
John walked a few paces and offered his hand. ‘John Holmes. Pleased to meet you, but how did you know I’ve chosen to fly Stirlings? I haven’t officially told anyone yet.’
The Canadian took his hand and placed his left hand on the back of John’s right cupping it and shaking it vigorously.
‘Matthews… Lofty Matthews, they call me. I’m very pleased to meet you too. And to answer your question I can tell by the way you are looking at her that you’ve already made your mind up. Jesus… I swear if she had a pair of tits and a cute ass, you’d be asking her to the Saturday night dance.’
John went for breakfast with Lofty Matthews. A little later Taffy Stimson joined the table. John had known one man just over a week and the other for just a few hours but as they stood up and placed their dirty dishes onto a large table in the centre of the mess hall they walked out chatting and laughing as if they’d grown up as brothers.
Later that day John was called into the adjutant’s office where he was handed a travel warrant.
‘Five days’ leave, Flight Engineer. Don’t tell me that the RAF doesn’t look after you. I think you’ve just about had enough studying to last you a lifetime, time to recharge the old batteries.’
John hadn’t expected the leave but wished they’d given him a little warning.
‘When can I leave sir?’
The officer looked at the warrant. ‘It’s valid from today son, there’s a truck going into Cardiff in just over an hour. If you get your arse into gear you can be on it.’
The temptation was too great. His head filled with the picture of his new wife and family and he almost ran from the office.
John almost burst through the door at Belle Vue Terrace. He found Dorothy sitting in the kitchen with her mother and she nearly fell from her seat.
Dorot
hy’s mother spoke first. ‘My my, John, the RAF are very good with their leave.’
He knew it wouldn’t always be like this. As soon as he was qualified and up in the air, leave periods would be in the lap of the gods and of course a little Austrian sitting in a fortified bunker somewhere in Berlin.
John sensed the atmosphere in the room immediately. Dorothy was not the same as she’d been on his other visits. She hadn’t rushed to greet him. Something was wrong. It only took a few minutes before the news was out.
‘Something’s wrong, what is it Dot?’
He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and moved it alongside Dorothy and sat down. He put his arm around her and pulled her towards him. ‘Tell me what it is?’
Dorothy buried her face into her husband’s chest and the tears flowed like torrents. Sara Ellen Shaw explained. Cliff, her eldest son, had been fighting out in the Far East in Burma. He had been taken prisoner by the Japanese. John knew it was as good as a death warrant, a terrible fate. He’d heard all about the Japanese and the way they treated their prisoners. In the eyes of the Japanese a prisoner was dishonourable; surrender was not an option to the average Japanese soldier. A few RAF pilots had managed to escape from Japanese POW camps and made it back home. They painted pictures of a hell on earth, prisoners treated like animals, underfed and undernourished, beaten, tortured and some executed for the smallest of reasons like failing to bow to a Japanese officer as he walked past. It made no difference – men, women or children, they were all treated the same.
Dorothy sobbed as John tried to console her.
‘At least he’s alive, Dot, at least he has a chance of making it back.’ John lied. ‘The Japanese have to treat the prisoners well. We all do. He’ll be well fed and back home just as soon as you know it.’
He wondered if she’d heard the stories filtering back, whether Sara Ellen Shaw had heard them too. Sara Ellen didn’t seem too bad, probably trying to bear up, not wanting to show her daughter her true feelings.
