by Steve Holmes
‘I’ve had Patch out, Sherlock, and he’s had his sausages and toast so don’t you be worrying about him.’
Sausages and toast, that sounded good. John hadn’t eaten properly in days. Suddenly he was ravenous.
Tickner spoke.
‘Looks like we’re up again today mate.’ He looked at his watch. ‘There’s a briefing in just under an hour. If you’re quick you’ve time to get a bite to eat.’
John rubbed at his eyes as they slowly became accustomed to daylight.
‘Thanks mate, I will… thanks.’
Vanrenen’s crew had been stood down, a rare day off for Sherlock and his crew. Vanrenen had still ordered them to the briefing.
‘Just in case,’ he’d said.
The rest of the squadron were flying back to Arnhem, the sixth drop. Vanrenen’s Stirling had been assigned to another crew.
Vanrenen caught up with Pilot Officer Sparks outside. ‘Just you make sure you look after her, Flying Officer, and bring her back in one piece, that’s all I’m saying.’
John pointed to Vanrenen as he walked out of the briefing with Len Jones.
‘What’s all that about, Jonesy?’
Len drew on a cigarette and blew a long plume of smoke into the air. ‘Oh that… it’s Vanrenen, he’s not too happy that Sparky has been assigned to his favourite toy.’
‘What? He’s taking LJ 949?’
‘Yep…. Van the man’s little baby.’
John Holmes let out a sigh.
‘Yeah he likes that plane, no doubt about that.’
13 aircraft took off for Arnhem on 23rd September 1944. There was only one casualty… aircraft LJ 949, which crash landed at Leende, 12 km southeast of Eindhoven. The Stirling broke in two on impact with the ground. The pilot and wireless operator were slightly injured and treated in a military hospital early that morning. Within 24 hours they were back on base at RAF Keevil.
Vanrenen caught up with Sparks at lunchtime the following day.
Pilot Officer Sparks was a little sore. He’d suffered concussion, required 22 stitches in a head wound and had a fractured wrist. He could have been forgiven for thinking Vanrenen wanted to congratulate him for his bravery, welcoming him back safe and well to RAF Keevil. Not so.
‘What the fucking hell have you done with my aircraft, Sparks? I hear it’s in a ditch near Eindhoven.’
‘But Sir, I…’
‘I warned you, Pilot Officer, take care of her I said, but oh no you had to play the hot shot pilot.’
‘But Sir, I was shot at, I couldn’t…’
‘You flew in too close, Pilot Officer, you took her too near those bastards’ guns.’
‘But Sir, I was at fifteen…’
‘Stop making bloody excuses, Sparks, she was the best bloody plane in the squadron and you didn’t take care of her.’
John and the rest of the crew looked on in amazement as Vanrenen tore into the stunned pilot. The verbal assault lasted two or three minutes before Vanrenen looked up and realised the entire mess hall were listening in. He looked around a little sheepish then turned to Sparks.
‘How’s the head?’
‘Err… fine, Sir.’
‘And the arm?’
‘Good, Sir.’
‘Excellent, glad to hear it.’
Vanrenen placed a hand on the pilot officer’s shoulder. He leant down and whispered in his ear.
‘Just don’t be going anywhere near any of my fucking planes again, is that clear?’
Pilot Officer Sparks nodded, more in amazement than by way of an apology. As Vanrenen left, John and Reg walked over and pulled up a seat. The half-eaten piece of bacon dangling from Sparks’s fork hung suspended in mid-air, his mouth wide open. He placed the fork onto his plate. Suddenly his appetite had diminished.
John spoke. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Sir, we have to put up with him all the time.’
Reg was laughing.
‘That’s Vanrenen, Sir, bit of a pussycat when you get to know him.
The last Arnhem drop took place the following day. Only three aircraft were detailed to make the trip into Holland. One of the planes encountered engine trouble on the runway and failed to take off. The Stirling piloted by Flying Officer Stainer returned to base because of poor visibility at the drop zone. The aircraft piloted by Flight Sergeant Draper crashed into high ground, killing three of the crew. The injured were brought back to England in a Dakota several days later.
For 196 Squadron the ill-fated and badly planned Arnhem assault had at last come to an end. It had cost them dearly.
Incredibly the man responsible for the planning and execution of the exercise, General Montgomery, claimed it had been 90 per cent successful.
He said ‘In years to come it will be a great thing for a man to be able to say: “I fought at Arnhem”.’
And yet uncharacteristically he owned up to the error of his ways whilst at the same time blaming outside elements. He blamed the Americans and the Canadians and ultimately the Poles who he largely ignored.
‘It was a bad mistake on my part – I underestimated the difficulties of opening up the approaches to Antwerp… I reckoned the Canadian Army could do it while we were going for the Ruhr. I was wrong. In my prejudiced view, if the operation had been properly backed from its inception, and given the aircraft, ground forces, and administrative resources necessary for the job, it would have succeeded in spite of my mistakes, or the adverse weather, or the presence of the 2nd SS Panzer Corps in the Arnhem area.’
It was an incredible statement. Given the aircraft, he had said. Montgomery had been given the aircraft… thousands of them. The RAF alone had lost over 750 pilots and air crew. It had been the biggest airborne assault in military history, a fact that was not lost on the surviving crew members of 196 Squadron based at RAF Keevil.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The operations flown by 196 Squadron continued through until Christmas 1944, though not on the same scale or frequency as the assault on Arnhem. They flew a few secretive missions with the SAS, dropping the crack troops into Norway and behind enemy lines in Germany, and continued dropping supplies to the freedom fighters of Scandinavia, Belgium and France as well as supplying the Allied troops pushing the Nazis ever further backwards into Germany.
When John Holmes came into contact with the SAS men and heard about their role in operations, he realised the sheer scale of the risk they undertook on every mission. It was one thing flying a Stirling under anti-aircraft fire; quite another step up the risk ladder parachuting out of the plane in pitch blackness into terrain swarming with Nazis.
On one mission into Bergen, Norway, he sat alongside Sergeant Don Baker from the 1st Special Air Service, a quiet unassuming man who told him a little about the mission they were undertaking.
‘In a nutshell, Flight Engineer, we wreak havoc down there. Intelligence on the ground tells us there are at least a dozen German destroyers based in port. Our job is simply to send them to the bottom of the sea and then make our way back home.’
The briefings continued almost daily, the RAF only too keen to keep the air crews posted as to the progress of the war. There was a cheer from the assembled men when Wing Commander Baker announced the British Home Guard had been stood down, giving an indication just how toothless the German military machine had become. As Christmas Day drew ever nearer the Wing Commander announced that the Battle of the Bulge had commenced. He said it was unlikely that 196 Squadron would be called upon to assist the Allied troops in the Ardennes Region.
John and the rest of the men had one thought in their heads and one thought only. Would they be getting some Christmas leave? It had seemed like months since John had returned home to Lancaster and if 196 Squadron weren’t needed for this latest offensive then surely they would be given a little time off.
He could almost see his mother’s Christmas dinner, the goose and the smell of the fat and roast potatoes. Then he remembered he was married.
Wing Commander Baker’s voi
ce droned on but the words were lost on him as he tried to solve the riddle of where to spend Christmas Day. Surely Dorothy would understand; after all she was home all year round. No, that was final, he’d put his foot down if necessary. What could be better, his Mum, Dad, wife and son all at home together under one roof?
Then Wing Commander Baker dropped the bombshell.
‘I’m afraid there’ll be no Christmas leave, chaps.’
‘What?’ John sat up in shock, surely he’d got it wrong.
‘Group Command instructions, I’m afraid. Apparently the chaps want you boys on standby.’
Half a dozen men raised their hands for permission to speak. Wing Commander Baker was expecting the reaction. He pointed to George.
‘Yes, Tickner.’
‘Sir,’ he looked around his friends and colleagues nervously hopeful of a little support. ‘That doesn’t make sense, we can still be on standby back home and most of us can be back down here in a few hours, a day at the most.’
Len Jones spoke up. ‘That’s right, Sir, we Canadians and the Yanks and Aussies don’t expect to be allowed home for Christmas but surely the home based boys can get a few days away? We can keep things ticking over here.’
More hands started to rise, more murmurs of discontent.
Wing Commander Baker held up his hands, he’d prepared for the moment, written down the words earlier in the day and memorised them well.
‘Gentlemen, our job is not to question. I understand and sympathise with you but we are in this together and we are sacrificing just one Christmas Day so that we can be free for the rest of our days. I promise you this will be our last festive season fighting the Hun. We have him on the hook but he mustn’t wriggle off and sneak under a rock to fight another day. We are talking a matter of weeks, a few months at the most and victory will be assured.’
Wing Commander Baker spoke with passion, he spoke with sincerity. Wing Commander Baker was a respected member of the team, a great pilot and his men warmed to the delivery of his speech. He spoke for no more than three minutes as the tears welled up in his eyes. He spoke of pride and of sacrifice and of absent friends and he spoke about the best bloody squadron in the Royal Air Force. When he finished there were no further questions.
Christmas dinner was held in the Officers’ Mess, a three-course meal with as much beer as the squadron could drink. John couldn’t quite understand the logic. They were supposed to be on standby and yet there was no way they could have taken an aircraft up at the end of the afternoon. John walked off his lunch wandering around the airfield with Patch and returned to the billet and composed a Christmas Day letter to Dorothy. He hoped that she’d had a nice time and remembered Wing Commander Baker’s words as he promised he’d be home next Christmas to spend the day with her and John William.
They didn’t fly on Boxing Day, or the day after. A lot of the men were angry and claimed they could have been home after all.
It was 28th December before they flew again and as they taxied along the runway Len Jones quipped that he could have quite comfortably been to Canada and back for Christmas. To rub salt in the wounds it wasn’t a sortie to anywhere of any significance, just a simple cross country air test the RAF had insisted upon.
Sherlock’s crew towed a Horsa Glider on another training exercise four days later. Vanrenen was livid as he fumed from the cockpit.
‘Fucking training exercises, don’t they know how many times we’ve flown in these bloody things? We don’t need any bloody training or any bloody practise – I could fly one of these things with my bloody eyes shut.’
Reg Tammas turned to John. ‘I don’t often agree with the moaning bugger, Sherlock, but he has got a point.’
John agreed, Doug and Chalky agreed, as did Len and the rest of the entire crew. They hadn’t been given a single days leave over Christmas and the New Year and yet hadn’t flown a single mission. Feelings were running high. If the war was nearing an end then why couldn’t they help finish it? They had the planes, the men and the equipment surely they could help in some way.
On January 17th they were granted leave. Twenty days. It was no use crying over spilt milk. John would put the disappointment of Christmas behind him and do something really special. Why not have a Christmas Day in January, January 25th, only a month late? Why not indeed?
The manager of the Greaves Hotel thought the request a little unusual but nevertheless was happy to comply with John’s wishes. Christmas dinner for 20 on January 25th. The Shaw family and the Holmes family, Len Jones, a few selected friends and Patch. John was in his element as he settled the bill at the bar and looked on at the slightly inebriated throng of people. They were all there, the people he loved and of course his son who he held on his hip as he handed the manager a five shilling tip.
‘It was fantastic Walter, absolutely beautiful, couldn’t have been any better. Get the girls a drink out of that.’
Walter Higgins, the manager of the Greaves Hotel basked in the approval.
‘You’ve really pushed the boat out today young John, done your family proud.’
John stood with Jack Shaw, Dorothy’s brother. John hadn’t had a lot to do with Jack in the past and could only ever recall meeting him once before but the longer they stood together the longer he took to him. Coincidently Jack was on leave too and enjoying the Christmas festivities courtesy of his brother in law.
Jack placed a small tin on the bar top and opened it. To John’s amazement he placed a smattering of the black powder on the back of his hand, brought it carefully up to his nose and sniffed hard.
His eyes glazed over and his skin seemed to redden.
‘Lovely stuff,’ he said as he looked back at John.
‘What is it Jack?’
‘Snuff. Do you want to try a bit?’
John shook his head.
‘No thanks pal.’ He raised his pint glass. ‘I’ve everything I need right here in this glass.’
John took a mouthful of beer as his father walked over to join him.
‘It’s my Christmas Day, Walter, and I wanted to spend it with my family and friends. This was the only place big enough to sit everyone.’
‘Quite,’ said Walter as he turned and walked through to the kitchen.
William Holmes spoke. ‘John, here son, let me split that bill with you – it must have cost you an arm and a leg.’
John wrapped his hand around his father’s wallet and forced it back into his pocket.
‘Put it away Dad, I really want to do this, I really do… it’s my treat.’
William’s eyes were welling up as he reached and stroked his hand.
‘You’re a good lad John, a good lad. Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?’
John grinned. ‘Yes, Dad, every time I’m home on leave.’
William was a little taken aback but smiled as he realised his son was probably telling the truth. He was immensely proud of him, and he told him every day right up until his leave was over.
The letter arrived the day before his leave was due to expire. It advised him to report to RAF Shepherds Grove.
196 Squadron had been relocated.
‘Shepherds Grove,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Where the hell is Shepherds Grove?’
Shepherds Grove was in Suffolk. The old familiar faces were there when he arrived. The two Georges, Humphreys and Tickner, Vanrenen, his crew, and even Wing Commander Baker. They re-commenced training the following day.
It was a familiar voice and a familiar cry reverberating around the aircraft radio. Vanrenen was cursing and swearing about how they could never win the war if all they ever did was bloody train. But train they did for the rest of the month and for the first ten days in February.
At the briefing room on the 12th of February Wing Commander Baker stood alongside a map of Germany with a large red circle drawn round the town of Isselberg. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he waited for the men to take their seats.
Reg spoke. ‘What’s making you so happy,
Wing Commander, is the war over?’
Wing Commander Baker acknowledged the navigator and spoke. He delivered a line that stunned the whole room.
‘Not quite, Sergeant… we’re going bombing.’
The ground crew prepared the Stirlings the following day, refitting and fine-tuning the fuselage and the bomb bay doors. They packed each Stirling with eighteen 500lb bombs and the Squadron of Stirlings flew out for the five hour round trips. They were to drop the bombs from 7,000 feet, there would be no anti-aircraft guns and the Messerschmitts of the Luftwaffe had been all but wiped out.
Vanrenen commented on the sheer weight in the Stirling as he pulled it off the runway, informing Doug Handley that at last he’d be doing the job he was trained for. Isselberg was in Northern Germany just a few miles east of the Dutch border.
Three German Panzer divisions had dug in and were pinning the Allies back. The instructions were simple, the Allies had retreated a few miles back and four Squadrons of Allied aircraft would drop a huge tonnage of bombs inflicting as many casualties as possible and taking out as much military hardware as they possibly could. It was the easiest mission Vanrenen’s crew had ever flown.
Doug dropped the bombs at the required height and the crew watched the ground until they exploded below. Isselberg seemed to erupt into a volcano of flames as the bombs from the other crews also hit home.
‘Mission accomplished, Skip,’ Handley called out from the front bomb aimer turret. ‘Target located and hit.’
A few minutes later he appeared grinning.
‘Fucking hell, lads, we drew the short straws when they converted our Stirlings, didn’t we? That was the easiest run yet.’
Vanrenen radioed the other Stirlings in the formation and they turned for home. The rest of the planes called in; no casualties, no direct hits, all bombs offloaded. A 100 per cent success story.
