by Steve Holmes
‘We need two more crew and I want then found within the next 24 hours.’
Vanrenen and his crew had already flown in Wellingtons and were now converting to the four-engine Stirling.
‘Find the right crew and we can be airborne by the end of the week.’
Len Jones was a rear gunner from Toronto, the youngest of four children whose parents had emigrated from England in search of a better life. He therefore felt strangely at home in England. Len had been an excellent student in Canada achieving very high marks, so much so that he’d been asked to stay behind in Canada to instruct the new trainees. He had declined; the lure of excitement overseas was too much. He wanted that much more, he wanted to fight the Germans.
Vanrenen was still speaking.
‘I don’t want any old shit. I want the best, so take your time.’
The other members of the crew looked on. Although certainly respected, Vanrenen was not well liked. He was very aloof, thought he was better than the other members of the crew, and never joined them on their frequent evenings out. The fact that he was never asked didn’t help. It was very much a boss and worker situation and Vanrenen never stopped reminding them. His word was final, never questioned.
Reg Tammas somehow knew that Vanrenen would take no part in searching for the final two members of the team. That was simply below him; why have a dog and bark yourself?
Reg had been celebrating his 19th birthday when the Second World War broke out. He volunteered his services the very next day and was assigned to digging trenches along the east coast in his home county of Norfolk to repel the suspected Nazi invasion. When eventually called up, he trained as a navigator with the RAF which suited him perfectly as he was a good mathematician. He was due to be married in a couple of weeks, a source of irritation for Vanrenen as it would delay the crews training somewhat as Tammas had been granted a few days leave.
Still Vanrenen droned on about quality and valour and used words that some of the crew had never even heard of. That was Vanrenen, never one to miss an opportunity to remind the crew where they stood.
‘Make sure you tell them how lucky they are to be flying with the best bloody pilot in Europe.’
The other two members of the crew were Doug Handley, the bomb aimer and Jack Chalk. They were the best of friends. Jack was 27 years old and half French. He was the quiet man of the crew and the wireless operator. Doug leaned over and whispered to Jack.
‘I bet that fucker won’t be trudging round the airfield looking for a flight engineer and a gunner.’
Jack smiled and shook his head ever so slightly. Vanrenen cleared his throat.
‘Okay men, you have a day off – but a day off with a little twist. You need to find me two good men.’
Len Jones asked the question on everyone’s lips.
‘Will you be out looking too, Sir?’
Vanrenen glared at Jones as if he’d just asked to sleep with his wife.
‘Me, Jones? How absurd. No, I’ll leave that menial task to you plebeians. I’ve far more important things to be getting on with.’
The crew would never find out exactly what was so important that Vanrenen couldn’t assist with the crew selection. And yet they accepted his decision, they almost respected it and although they genuinely disliked the character of Henry Vanrenen, if asked in private they would tell you they wouldn’t replace him with any other pilot in Britain.
Lofty Matthews and Taffy Stimson waxed lyrical about their new team mates.
‘Great bunch of lads my lot, can’t wait to get up in that Stirling next week,’ said Lofty.
John Holmes was jealous now and more than a little concerned. Lofty and Taffy would be flying next week and at this rate he’d still be grounded. He’d done nothing but walk around the huge base at Waterbeach since he’d been told that a crew would ‘find him’ and as he turned every corner it was as if a Stirling bomber had mysteriously been placed within touching distance.
So near and yet so far.
What a stupid system, he thought to himself. There were thousands of different flight engineers and pilots and navigators and gunners on the base; why didn’t the bloody RAF just put them together?
As he took a mouthful of tea he became aware of a man invading his space. The stranger leaned across him and extended a hand in the direction of Lofty Matthews. John felt like pushing it away, telling the stranger to mind his manners. He spoke. Another North American accent; too many bloody Canadians around here, John thought.
‘Hi there buddy I couldn’t help noticing your accent, those tones are very familiar to me.’
Lofty shook his hand warmly. ‘What part of home are you from?’
‘Toronto. The name’s Len, Len Jones.’
‘Lofty Matthews, I’m from The Beautiful Province.’
‘Quebec?’
‘You bet Buddy, you want to join us?’
‘No thanks I’ve just finished my lunch, gotta get going. I’ve a lot to do. We’ve a lot to do, I mean.’
The stranger was joined by another man.
‘This is my best buddy Reg, he’s our navigator. I was wondering if you wanted to join us, Lofty? I see you’re a flight engineer and we’re in of need one. Better still you’re from my neck of the woods, it would be great to have another Canadian on board.’
Lofty was quick with his reply. ‘You’re about two days too late Len, I’m already taken.’
‘Aw that’s a shame buddy.’
Lofty held up a hand. ‘But fear not, it’s your lucky day because I just happen to know one of the best Brit Flight Engineers in the world. Not quite the same standard as us Canadians of course, but definitely the next best thing and he’s looking for a crew.
‘You do?’
Lofty nodded his head and pointed across the table to John Holmes. His brevet had been on Len Jones’s blind side.
‘Len meet John, John meet Len.’
The two men shook hands, and the Canadian spoke first.
‘You’re looking for a crew buddy?’
John nodded his head rather shyly, tried to act a little casual.
‘I suppose I am. Where are your lads from?’
Len Jones pulled up a seat, Reg followed suit.
‘A real mixture. Brits, a Canadian…’ He poked a finger at his own chest, ‘an Aussie and even half a Frenchman… a right mongrel of a crew.’
‘All good lads?’ John asked.
The Canadian removed his hat and sighed.
‘Alas, no, my friend.’ He shook his head. ‘I have to tell you that our skipper is the biggest bastard under the sun.’
John looked at Reg, who was nodding too.
‘He’s right John, a right son of a bitch.’
John stood as if to leave. Reg and Len looked at each other as if their open admission had cost them yet another flight engineer. John smiled and extended a hand.
‘Then that’s good enough for me. At least there are two honest lads on board, three if you include me.’
Reg and Len stood up and embraced John Holmes. Everyone round the table grinned.
‘Nice to have you on the team, John.’
Reg formerly introduced himself.
‘Reg Tammas. Welcome aboard, Flight Engineer Holmes.’
‘One more question, Flight Engineer,’ said Len Jones.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t suppose you know where we’ll find a spare gunner?’
Bob Crosby raised his hand rather sheepishly. ‘I’m a gunner and I’m looking for a crew.’
Len looked at John and then at Reg.
‘What the fucking hell did he say? I can’t make out a word he said.’
John laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it Len, he’s one of those Geordies.
‘A what?’
‘A Geordie. From Newcastle upon Tyne. His name’s Bob Crosby.’
‘Where?’
‘Newcastle, up north. They’re like Scotsman only with their brains kicked out.’
Len stood, lo
oked Bob Crosby up and down.
‘You’re a good gunner?’
‘The best, Yankee boy, simply the best.’
Len held out a hand.
‘Then I’m pleased to have you aboard. Fucking hell, what a crew? Aussies, Canadians and Brits and now bloody Geordies.’ He put a hand on his furrowed brow and shook his head.
‘We’re on borrowed time, Reg, I can tell you. I only came to this table to pick up another bloody Canadian.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vanrenen commanded a presence, an aura whenever he stood, sat or entered a room. John and Bob Crosby had met the rest of the team as they’d shared cups of tea and biscuits in the mess hall. It had been a warm, friendly, handshaking, back-slapping meeting and John had warmed instantly to his new colleagues. Just as well, as he’d place his life in their hands in a matter of days when they all took off in the ‘Queen of the Skies’.
The Vanrenen welcome, if it could be construed as that, was totally different from what he’d experienced at breakfast. As the door of the mess hall opened it was as if a switch had been flicked in the room. The noise dropped and time seemed to stand still. Reg Tammas had noticed him first and elbowed Len Jones.
‘Aye aye, here’s the gaffer.’
Vanrenen’s eyes scanned the room like a huge bird of prey seeking out a small vole or a rabbit. When he spotted his crew there was no flicker of emotion, no spark of satisfaction in his eyes. John almost expected him to shrug his shoulders and grimace. He didn’t walk over, he appeared to glide. Within an instant he stood at the head of the table and John was rather surprised that he wasn’t offered a seat.
Vanrenen spoke. He directed the question to Len Jones, glaring at John Holmes and Bob Crosby.
‘I take it you’ve found me two crew members?’
John felt the urge to stand and introduce himself.
‘John Holmes, Skipper, pleased to meet you.’ He held out a hand and Vanrenen shook it rather weakly.
‘You’re Flight Engineer Holmes? You realise it’s an honour to fly with me.’
John managed an astonished nod before Bob Crosby stood.
‘Crosby, Sir, mid upper gunner, from Newcastle upon Tyne. God’s own country.’
Vanrenen stared at Reg Tammas.
‘What did he say? You’ve got me some fucker that can’t even speak properly.’
Reg Tammas grinned, while a few of the others laughed out loud. Vanrenen remained emotionless. He looked the stunned mid upper gunner up and down as if he were a piece of meat. He had no intention of having any sort of direct conversation with Bob Crosby. Vanrenen spoke as if he wasn’t there.
‘Oh well it could be worse I suppose, he’s the mid upper gunner so I won’t need to talk to him too often.’
‘Cup of tea, Skip?’ asked Reg.
Again Vanrenen just stared for a few seconds as if Reg Tammas had asked him to partake in a cup of poison.
‘I think not Tammas, I’ve more important things to do than to sit nattering with you degenerates.’
And then he was gone. He’d breezed into the room like a hurricane, carved out his trail of destruction, left his mark and disappeared.
‘Fuck me.’ It was Bob Crosby who spoke first. ‘You weren’t kidding were you?’
The rest of the crew were laughing.
‘Slightly less civil than I’m used to,’ John said. ‘Does he ever socialise with you, sit down and have a bite to eat or a drink?’
‘Never.’ said Len Jones. ‘We don’t think he eats; he drinks the blood of failed gunners and flight engineers and returns to his coffin each evening.’
‘What about the pub?’ asked John. ‘Surely he must take an odd drink? Tell me he comes to the pub with you occasionally, I mean it’s all about bonding, trusting your mates.’
‘Never,’ Len repeated, shaking his head. ‘We asked him a few times when we first started flying with him and he always declined.’
‘Not even politely,’ interjected Jack Chalk. ‘Said he wouldn’t be seen dead with oiks like us. We stopped asking in the end.’ Jack paused, looked around at the rest of the table before continuing. ‘And yet when we’re in the air or in the training room he’s okay. He shows us a certain respect, seems to put up with us. Occasionally I get the impression he actually likes us.’
John was shaking his head.
‘I can’t accept that. Right through our training we’re told how important it is to bond, to be like one big family. Surely Vanrenen has gone through that training too? It’s not right.’
The conversation continued, but John was lost in his own thoughts.
‘I’m going to ask him again.’
Bob Crosby agreed. ‘Yeah, come on, at least give him another chance.’
The rest of the crew members wouldn’t have it. They’d given Vanrenen every chance under the sun. To a man they seemed to hate the ground he walked on. Deep down though, they respected everything he stood for when it came to flying aircraft.
John Holmes took his chance at a training lecture three days later. There was a dance in Cowbridge and the rest of the crew had agreed to meet up in the King’s Head at eight that night.
Vanrenen and a RAF trainer had been instructing the crew on some of the problems associated with the Stirling. The last talk of the day referred to what was known as ‘coring’, a condition when engine oil became congealed as it passed through its radiator resulting in the frozen oil not circulating properly throughout the engine. Subsequently over-heating would occur. The solution to the problem, Vanrenen explained, was to promptly lower the undercarriage and flaps to reduce the air-speed passing through the radiator.
‘Thereafter,’ Vanrenen announced, ‘the engine’s RPM rate increases and rectifies the problem.’ He snapped shut the huge technical manual in front of him. ‘We’ll try that out for real next week, gentlemen, but for today that’s it. Enjoy your night out.’
Vanrenen had been courteous all day, especially animated and humorous in the afternoon. He was in a good mood, no doubt about it, thought John. Seize the moment, his Dad had once said, so he did.
John raised his hand. ‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Flight Engineer?’
‘Sir…’ John hesitated a little but plucked up the courage to continue. ‘I was wondering… me and the boys are off to Cowbridge tonight, and err…’
Vanrenen remained silent. He gestured with no more than a raised eyebrow.
John smiled nervously. ‘I was wondering, Skip, if you’d like to join us for a few pints.’
Vanrenen stood, leaning gently with his hands splayed out on the desk. A puzzled look spread across his face as his eyes took in the rest of his assembled team. Then he spoke.
‘Mr Holmes, how very noble of you.’
John’s smile returned. He gazed around at the other men feeling more than a little smug.
‘Firstly, I have to tell you that I wouldn’t raise a glass of that pig swill you British call beer anywhere near my superior Australian lips.’ He twisted at the end of his carefully combed handlebar moustache before continuing.
‘There again, let me think, let me imagine the sort of night we’d all have together.’ He stroked at his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he gazed at the ceiling with his eyes closed. He held up a hand. ‘Don’t interrupt me, I’m painting the picture… it’s coming to me.’
John looked around again; some of the crew had covered their eyes and were sniggering but Bob Crosby caught his stare and gave him the thumbs up.
‘Yes… I’ve got it now I can see it all before me.’
He opened his eyes, leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk again.
‘Mr Holmes. Gentlemen.’ He looked around the room and frowned. ‘I’d rather stick fucking pins in my eyes.’
‘We told you, you silly bastard but you wouldn’t have it!’
John Holmes sat rather sheepishly in the back of Len Jones’s car. John wished he’d listened, wanted to turn back the clock, but of course he couldn’t. It should hav
e been a special night out, the first with his new crew but instead something told him he was in for a ribbing that would last until the early hours of the morning.
And what a way to get to Cowbridge too. Len Jones didn’t just have any old car, no. He’d turned up at John’s billet in a most impressive MG TB Midget convertible. It was Jonesy’s pride and joy. Reg Tammas sat in the front with John Chalk already in the rear seat.
‘C’mon, Johnny know-it-all,’ Reg had shouted as John stood leaning on the billet at the prearranged time. He hadn’t noticed his new friends from a distance, thought that the car was full of officers and had been surprised when it had slowed to a stop.
‘Jump in clever clogs, you can look after us,’ taunted Jonesy. ‘You know best.’
John had eaten humble pie and apologised to his new team, and they’d all roared with laughter. It seemed as if it would all be forgotten but somehow he knew it would run and run.
The autumn wind was cold as they sped onto Cowbridge, Len insisting that the roof be kept off. Len loved his car and announced that he’d already made one trip dropping the others off earlier on. In no time they had walked into the King’s Head and as soon as John caught up with the other members of the team it started all over again.
Bob Crosby fiddled with his breast pocket.
‘Have you got any pins, John, please?’
John patted at his side pockets.
‘No I haven’t, sorry. Why do you want pins anyway?’
Bob Crosby could contain his laugh no longer; the whole crew were in on the joke. ‘So I can stick them in my fucking eyes.’
‘Very funny… very funny.’ John looked at his mates, they were in hysterics. He’d walked into another one head on.
Two pints later and the last of the jokes were being squeezed out, the gentle taunting had all but finished. They needed to move onto something else.
‘Nicknames!’ announced Reg Tammas.
He pointed at Bob and John.
‘We ain’t going up in that old bird with two lads called John and Robert. No way.’
‘He’s right,’ said Len Jones. ‘You have to have a nickname. I’m Jonesy,’ he pointed to each individual around the table. ‘Reg here is Tam, Doug is Blondie and of course we have Chalky.’
