by Steve Holmes
‘Bloody hell, we’ve made it, Sherlock,’ Handley called out as the familiar shape of their Flight Engineer appeared like a ghostly apparition through the smoke filled plane.
‘Let’s just get out of here before we start jumping to conclusions,’ John said. ‘I think the old girl is going to go up any minute.’
They were battered and bruised, John Chalk and Vanrenen more so than the others, but they had indeed made it and they cowered behind the dry stone wall waiting for the Stirling to explode.
‘It’s not going to explode,’ Vanrenen announced. ‘I switched everything off as we hit the ground, there’s no electrics, no sparks to kick things off.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ John whispered to himself.
The crew of LJ 979 took stock of the predicament they were in.
‘Where are we, navigator?’ Vanrenen asked as he looked at Reg.
‘In a field, Sir, a fucking muddy one at that.’
‘That’s not what I asked Tammas, I mean where are we? Are we in Germany or Holland? It could make quite a difference to our survival prospects. Are we on the German side of the Rhine or the Dutch?’
Reg Tammas hadn’t even thought about where it was they’d crash landed. He remembered being a mile or two from Wessel as the aircraft was hit but was down in the hold of the plane attending to John Chalk soon after. He didn’t answer. Reg just shrugged his shoulders.
Vanrenen drew his service revolver.
‘Okay men, we have to assume we’re on the enemy side of the fence. Let’s get ready, we’re going to fight these bastards to the last man.’
John looked at Len and then to Reg. Even John Chalk, who was on the verge of unconsciousness, almost telepathically gave his support to John as did Doug. John gauged their reaction and spoke. He spoke on behalf of the entire crew.
‘Look Henry… man to man so to speak. We like you, we’ve always liked you, even though we’ve neglected to tell you from time to time. In fact I’ll go one step further and tell you that we love you and wouldn’t swap you for all the gold reserves in the world. We consider ourselves the luckiest bastards in the RAF to have a fellow like you to fly us around and look after us.’ He looked at the rest of the crew who nodded their approval.
‘You’re the best Henry… the best, you really are. No doubt about it.’
Vanrenen looked over the top of the wall and then back to his crew.
‘But if you think we’re all going to die in a shoot-out with the Bosch in the last couple of weeks of the war then you’ve got another thing coming.’
‘Well said, Sherlock,’ said Reg.
Vanrenen looked around at his crew. The best bloody crew he’d ever flown with. Sherlock was right. They had to trust what military intelligence was telling them; the war was drawing to a close.
‘We’re going to surrender, Henry. If the Germans come running across that field in ten minutes we’re going to put our hands up and say you might have won this little scrap but you haven’t won the war and if necessary we’re going to sit out the rest of this insanity for a couple of months.’
John Chalk could barely keep his eyes open but he was nodding. Reg and Handley and Jones were nodding too. Even Vanrenen was nodding as he slipped his service revolver into his pocket and placed his hand on John Holmes’s shoulder. Vanrenen wanted to tell him he was right, wanted to tell him what a first class Flight Engineer he was… the best. He wanted to say what a leader of men he was and even though he was still the baby of the squadron he commanded a presence and respect among his crew like no other member of the team. My God, Vanrenen thought, even that stupid dog looks up at John Holmes as if he were the most important person in the world. He wanted to tell him all of this and more… he wanted to say the same to every member of his team. And yet something stopped him.
They’d sneaked up on the crew of Stirling LJ 979. No more than ten of them but as Vanrenen and his men listened to the reasoning of John ‘Sherlock’ Holmes they crept up, rifles in hand towards the wall one kilometre outside the village of Overloon just inside the Dutch border.
They were exhausted, wounded and in no mood to fight. Vanrenen and his crew heard the click of the rifles as the weapons were cocked and pointed over the wall at them. They raised their hands in surrender, resigned to their fate.
The Dutchman spotted the insignia of the RAF and broke out into a broad smile.
‘My friends,’ he repeated in broken English again and again. ‘My dear brothers, our heroes… our saviour, we saw you come down, we are here to rescue you.’
The rest of the ramshackle band of farmers, shop keepers and builders embraced the crew of LJ 979. Soon after a truck full of British troops pulled up with two doctors on board and they treated the wounds of Vanrenen and John Chalk on the spot. They said the rest of the crew would be driven the short distance to Overloon but Vanrenen and Chalk were off to a field hospital on stretchers.
John helped two medics with Vanrenen’s stretcher as they lifted it onto the truck. John jumped up and cleared a space so that the medics could position the stretcher. As they eased Vanrenen into the spot John walked to the back of the truck, preparing to jump down.
Vanrenen caught his sleeve as he passed. John stopped and looked back at his pilot. He was pale and dirty his face encrusted with Dutch soil and his eyes welled up with tears as he spoke quietly.
‘Sherlock.’
‘Skipper.’
He gripped John’s arm through his sleeve.
‘… I… just wanted to say…’
‘Sir.’
‘When we get back, Sherlock…’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Would you…would you do me the honour of sharing a pint with me one evening in one of those little rancid English public houses?’
John smiled. ‘I will, Skip, I will.’
Vanrenen lay his head on the pillow and sighed. He closed his eyes.
‘I’d like that Sherlock… I’d like it a lot.’
John and the rest of the crew were taken to the town of Overloon where they were treated like the heroes and liberators that they were.
Despite the rations and food shortages the villagers had endured over the years they laid on a feast like nothing Sherlock and his boys had ever seen before. They plied every crew member with copious amounts of strong Dutch beer.
Towards the end of the evening the villagers introduced a dozen young Dutch girls no more than eighteen years old.
‘They are here to dance with you and to make you merry,’ the Dutchman announced with a wicked smile. ‘They are very appreciative of everything the British have done for us.’
John Holmes explained that he had everything he needed back home and declined to get involved.
‘I’ll stick to the beer, Arnold,’ he told his host.
Within a week the crew were heading back to England. They were driven to Brussels by car and put on planes back home. They sat in the back of a Dakota.
‘Wonder how Van and Chalky are doing?’ Len Jones lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air.
Doug Handley sat alongside him.
‘It’s kind of weird not being with them in a plane, don’t tell them but I kind of miss them, especially Van the Man.’
John sat opposite twiddling his thumbs with no real purpose.
‘He’s the greatest, Vanrenen, isn’t he? That plane was absolutely buggered, they didn’t prepare you at training school for situations like that.’
Len Jones raised an eyebrow. ‘They didn’t?’
‘It was buggered, Jonesy, I’m telling you. Every dial on that panel was at zero… nothing was functioning… nothing at all. The fuel pumps were out, the hydraulics were buggered and there wasn’t a flap on the whole of the damn plane that was working. I’m not kidding Jonesy, I don’t know how he brought it down, I really don’t. Stirlings aren’t meant to act like Horsa Gliders but that’s how he flew it, like a bloody Horsa.’
‘We should tell him.’
John reca
lled his conversation with Vanrenen in the cockpit as the plane dropped to earth. ‘I already have Jonesy, don’t you worry about that.’
Vanrenen and Jack Chalk spent the rest of the month in the military field hospital and were then flown back to England. They did not meet up with the rest of the crew. In fact, Sherlock’s crew never got together again.
John sat on his bed and gazed around the empty room. There were too many empty beds, too many missing friends. He recalled their smiling faces, every one of them, and his thoughts drifted back to the nights they’d enjoyed in Trowbridge, in the mess halls and even just impromptu wanders around the airfield.
John was one of the lucky ones; he was going back home to his family. Tickner, Humphries, Azouz, Baker, Gribble to name a few, were not. And then there was Lofty Matthews.
John gazed over at his empty bed. The tears welled up in his eyes as he pulled the drawstring on his kit bag and he walked towards the door.
Patch cocked his head as his ears pricked up. The dog waited for a signal… a command… anything.
‘Come on Patch, it’s time to go… you didn’t think I’d leave you here alone did you?’
The dog leapt from the bed and ran around in circles at the feet of his master, his tail wagging furiously.
John opened the door and looked out into the night sky. The sun was setting over the countryside; a crimson sheen enveloped the landscape. He picked the dog up and cradled him in his arms. John pointed up to the sky.
‘Take one last look, little mate. Sherlock’s going to make you a promise.’
The dog’s ear pricked up again.
‘It’s over mate, you’ll never have to look up there again, wondering and waiting if I’m coming back. We’re going home Patch, just me and you. Now let’s get going or we’ll miss that last train to Lancaster.’
As they walked away the unmistakeable drone of a lone Stirling could be heard in the distance.
In April 1945 Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen concentration camps were liberated by the British Army. The Soviets advanced towards the city of Berlin and reached the suburbs. The writing was on the wall for Hitler and his compatriots.
On April 20th, Hitler celebrated his 56th birthday holed up in his bunker in Berlin. Intelligence reports notified him the Russians were advancing ever closer and he knew they would want their revenge for the atrocities his troops had carried out on the eastern front. He was in an unhealthy state. Nervous and depressed.
Hermann Goering was very aware of Hitler’s state of mind and was more than a little concerned about his ability to carry out his leadership duties. In the interest of the nation he sent a radiogram to the bunker asking to be declared Hitler’s successor. He proclaimed that if he did not receive a response by 10pm, he would assume Hitler was incapacitated and would take over leadership of the Reich.
Hitler was furious.
He stripped Goering of his rank and his offices of power and expelled him from the Nazi Party. At the same time, Himmler, ignoring the orders of Hitler had made a secret surrender offer to the Allies. He had written in one proviso: that the Red Army was not involved.
The offer was rejected.
When Hitler heard of Himmler’s betrayal, he ordered him to be shot.
On 29th April, Hitler married his companion Eva Braun. A day later they were dead. They had committed suicide.
Goebbels and his wife killed their six children and then took poison in the same bunker.
In Holland, Germany officially surrendered. Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands accepted the surrender and Denmark was liberated by the Allied troops. Formal negotiations for Germany’s surrender started at Rheims in France. Soon after Germany surrendered unconditionally to the Allies at the Western Allied Headquarters at 2:41 a.m. The ceasefire took effect at one minute past midnight on the 8th May. It was known as VE Day.
POSTSCRIPT
Christmas 1945 was just like old times. John sat with his father and Dot’s father in the Greaves Hotel enjoying a pre-Christmas dinner pint. John’s brothers Ernie and James, Dot’s brothers Norman, Jack & Cliff were there too.
It was a miracle that the two families’ sons had made it through the most destructive and devastating war in history.
Cliff had fared the worst, a shadow of his former self. He’d returned less than a month ago weighing just six stone. He was still pale and gaunt… a walking, talking skeleton and even now he just about had the strength to lift up his pint pot. He refused to discuss any details of his long incarceration. But he’d made it… he’d survived.
John stood up.
‘I’d like to propose a toast, gentlemen.’
Ernie and James nodded and rose slowly from the table. Norman and John Shaw each took one of Cliff’s arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. William Holmes stood too and raised his glass as he looked on proudly at his three sons.
‘To the luckiest two families in Lancaster.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Bravo.’
‘Well said, young John.’
He took a long drink of beer and placed his glass on the table.
‘And of course… not forgetting absent friends.’
‘Absent friends,’ the men announced in unison.
BIBLIOGRAPHIES
John Holmes was born in Lancaster, England in 1923. He was the youngest of five children. He left school at 15 and trained as a fitter in a local factory.
John remained in the RAF for a further 18 months after the war, working as a trainer for future crew and finally as a drill instructor. He returned to Civvy Street and back to the same factory job he had had before the war. He continued his passion for swimming by again playing water polo for Lancaster for many years. John and Dorothy continued to live in Belle Vue Terrace with John William, and later Sandra and Stephen until the late 1950s when they bought a greengrocer’s and off licence which they ran until the late seventies. John also worked as a milkman. John and Dorothy had two further children in the early 1960s, named Amanda and Mark. Later John became a taxi proprietor until his premature death in 1985 due to a brain tumour at the age of 62. John left behind his wife Dorothy, and their children John William, Sandra, Stephen, Amanda and Mark.
Dorothy Holmes passed away in 1997 followed by Sandra in 2002 and John William in 2010. John William still lived in the property that had been his parents’ greengrocers when he died. Stephen now lives on the Costa Blanca in Spain while Amanda and Mark continue to live in the UK.
Henry Poleman Vanrenen was born in Melbourne, Australia, in 1912. After leaving school he returned to Avoca Forest Merino stud to assist his father.
He was awarded the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross) in 1945. After the war he returned to Avoca Forest, then in 1948, acquired a property in Glenthompson which he called ‘Wiltshire’ after the county in England where he had flown operations from during the war. On the property he ran Merino sheep and Poll Hereford cattle for 40 years. He was captain of Glenthompson Fire Brigade for 16 years and treasurer of the Glenthompson branch of the Liberal Party for 11 years. Henry had three daughters, Judith, Sandra and Cynthia. Henry passed away in 1988 at the age of 76.
Reginald B. Tammas was born in Norfolk in 1920, the second of four children. His mother died when he was only 14 years old. After the war Reg became a teacher. He and his wife Jean eventually had four daughters, and over the years the family lived in many different places in England, Northern Ireland and South Australia. They lived in Australia for four years but returned to Britain when Jean’s father became terminally ill. Back in England, Reg started teaching in schools with children with special needs. After he retired, he and Jean continued to move about, living in Kent, Essex and Northampton, finally settling down in Worcestershire near to where they first met. Jean passed away in 2003, just a few weeks before their 60th wedding anniversary. Reg died suddenly of heart disease in 2006 at the age of 85.
Douglas Handley was born in Wombwell, Barnsley, Yorkshire in 1922. Doug married Maggie, who he met when serving in the
war. After the war, Doug and Maggie moved in with her parents in Leicester and started to think about what career he would pursue now he had left the RAF. Although teaching was his first option, he took the advice of Maggie’s uncle to sit the Civil Service exam. He passed with flying colours and started his career with the Civil Service in Nottingham. After six years of married life they had two daughters, Stephanie and Lindsey Jane. With each promotion, Doug was relocated. His first move was to Exmouth in Devon where he joined the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. Five years on and Doug was promoted again and moved to Cambridge. After another eight years, promotion came again and he moved to Folkestone. The family moved into a beautiful house on the cliffs overlooking the sea and Doug was once again happy in a coastal environment. During this time Doug purchased an apartment in Calpe, in southern Spain, where the family enjoyed many holidays.
At the age of 62 Doug retired and moved to Spain. Unfortunately in this time Doug suffered two heart attacks but, like the fighter he was, he recovered well.
Doug and Maggie decided to head back to the UK and settled in a big house in Derby. Doug enjoyed walking his two new dogs in the beautiful Derbyshire countryside. Doug enjoyed good health for many years but shocked the family when he died peacefully in his sleep on 3rd September 1999. He had spent the day in his garden, in the sunshine wearing shorts with no sign of ill health and an almost permanent smile etched on his face.
John Leonard Jones was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada in 1919. Len was the youngest of four children whose parents had moved to Canada in search of a better life. From a young age Len was no stranger to hard work and he always held some sort of job to help with the family expenses. After all, it was the Great Depression.
After the war Len returned to Civvy Street, and his old job awaited him. Although life appeared to be as he left it, much had changed back home. Eventually, he married his wife Margaret Dunn a few years later and following that had two daughters. He enjoyed family life outside of Toronto, namely Scarborough. Post-war, Len joined the Masonic Lodge, eventually attaining the high position of District Deputy Grand Master. He retired from his job of many years in 1984 and spent the next six years travelling with Margaret and enjoying life until, in 1990, he lost his wife and partner of 42 years. Len remained active and enjoying life for the most part until July 2008 when he passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of 89.
