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The morning after the fright with the 15 JU88s, Dad took the Ford van with ‘about a dozen chaps’ on board into Cyrene for a swim in sea, which was warm even though the sky was partly overcast.The road from camp at Lakatamia wound steeply over spectacular hills and required good driving skills. They got caught in a few rain showers on the way back, but everyone enjoyed the views and the trip out.

Dad was sharing a tent with Arthur Horsfall, a Canadian pilot about the same age, who was keeping his own diary notes. Arthur had also enjoyed the swimming outing, and names this Castle St Hilarion, commenting: “Some drive! Some Castle!”

In the evening, Dad set off again with the crowd for some night-life of Nicosia, finishing up at The Empire. Here, he found a little kitten shivering in a stairwell, so brought it back in his jacket into camp, where it spent the night at the foot of the camp bed. Arthur had stayed behind and gone to bed early, but Arthur’s own diary entry for that day mentions the arrival of the kitten! When Dad woke up on the next morning, Friday 29th October, the kitten was nestled next to his left ear, and Dad stayed in the tent writing up his ‘reserve’ log book, to help settle it in. He named it ‘Timbaki’, after a popular night-club singer from The Empire.

On days like these it must have seemed that the war must be a dream. But who knew what the next day would bring?

46 Squadron, Beaufighters, Idku, North Africa, October 27th 1943. My father had a rather busy day. I love the laconic entry of the first paragraph. If that had happened at the start of my day I think only three pages would suffice!

One of 252 Sqdn’s Beaufighters crashed on take off early this morning, about 200 yards from our tent, ammo going off for approx. 1 hour. Both got out OK.

Briefed at 2.30 pm for Naval escort to 1 cruiser and 3 destroyers off Castelrosso, which turned out to be quite exciting.

Four of us – F/Lt Dudley Arundel, F/O Arthur Horsfall, W/O Boswell and self – airborne at 16.15, me leading the second section with Boswell as my No 2. Found convoy OK, but at 18.00 hrs we were vectored by the cruiser for a ‘bunch’ of hostiles approaching from the west, and at 12000’ we climbed to 13000’ then we saw 15 (!!) JU88s in very close formation, heading towards us. We peeled off and attacked from the beam. Heavy return fire was observed. I only managed to get in one attack, before they all turned and headed for home at full throttle. F/Lt Arundel damaged 2, Arthur damaged one. I must have hit something, but didn’t claim anything. Returned to convoy to find a hostile dropped flares, but he buzzed off.

He also wrote about the incident later. This is how it appears in his memoirs, ‘Flying Blind’, which is published by Fonthill Media (2014) and also available on Amazon:

That same afternoon we were briefed at 1400 hrs for last light cover naval escort of a cruiser and three destroyers around Castelrosso Island, heading for the Turkish coast. Four of us in the flight, Dudley Arundel (leading), Art Horsfall, Boswell and myself, plus RO’s, were airborne at 16.14. I was leading the second section with Boswell as my number two. We found the convoy easily despite the bad weather, but as dusk fell, at 1800 hours, the cruiser in RT touch with us vectored us to a bunch of hostiles approaching from the West at 12,000 feet. Arundel immediately ordered the planes to fly at 13,000 feet. The bunch of hostiles came into view and, to our astonishment, we saw fifteen Ju 88’s in a very tight V-shaped formation heading directly to attack the convoy, a frightening sight. The four of us peeled off and attacked them from the beam and from behind. There was heavy return fire but all four Beaus fired their four cannons and six machine guns, causing such havoc among the enemy that they scattered and fled for home at full throttle the way they had come. Flt Lt Arundel and Arthur, the front pair in the attack, claimed aircraft damaged: Arundel two, Horsfall one. In the second wave I thought I may have damaged one, but owing to the confused state of the encounter I didn’t claim anything later. The light was very poor with lots of cloud about and I couldn’t be definite about it. We could not get close enough to follow up and split the formation: our Beau’s were too slow. However, we all felt satisfied that we had driven off a potentially dangerous group of bandits. The return fire from the Ju 88s had been heavy, and it inflicted some damage to two of our Beaufighters. WO Boswell had to return to base on one engine. In fact, it turned out that he had been particularly lucky: one bullet passed through the Perspex only one inch from his head. I was lucky not to be hit, but as far as I was concerned, it was the first time I had been fired at by the enemy, and it was quite an experience. We returned to the convoy to find a hostile dropping flares, but he saw us coming and buzzed off

In 1943, the Dean of Liverpool, Frank Fletcher, wrote a hymn for the forthcoming commemorative service in celebration of the Battle of Britain, to the tune ‘Darwall’s 148th’ (often used for ‘Ye Holy Angels Bright’):

O Thou that hearest prayer
Our brothers shield and guide,
Who through the spacious air
On high adventure ride,
To watch or fight
Near and afar
On wings of war
For truth and right.

Give skill of hand and eye
And quick discerning mind
Through lonely wastes of sky
Uncharted ways to find,
Nor faint or fail
Nor evil fear,
But know thee near
Whate’er assail.

And as that hero band,
The young, the few, the brave,
To shield our menaced land
Their eager manhood gave,
Nor turned aside
From danger’s call,
But for us all they dared and died.

So unto us to-day
Thy strength and aid impart,
Our country’s call to obey
With brave unfaltering heart,
Till war shall cease
And victors come
Rejoicing home
On wings of peace.

It’s the morning after the 60 airfields before, and before I continue with other posts, filling in the many, many gaps I’ve missed over the last six months, I want to dedicate one post to Dad himself, because although this was all about the RAF, the wartime bravery and sacrifices, and all about the RAF Benevolent Fund and saying ‘Thank you’ for their care for Dad in his last few years, this is actually all about him, the best of dads. Dad, we did it together: thanks for the memories! And for everyone else, please excuse the indulgence. I’m feeling a bit sentimental today.

CATNAP

Chattie had to tackle Lincolnshire and Yorkshire on her own without the Sprinter. We did a splendid 619 miles. The weather was wonderful. It was ALL wonderful. Ah. Except for a few little hiccups on the way. We travelled the first 170 miles to Steve and Heather Hardwick’s house near Lincoln. Then Chattie refused point blank to start when I tried to put her in the garage. She was as relaxed about it as the cat, but something needed to be done.

A piece of string connected to the starter motor lever and a quick trip to MG Raw’s excellent garage, where they fixed the problem for no charge – may they prosper! – enabled me to make the three fantastic visits to RAF Scampton, Coningsby and Digby.

KWIK WHAT?!

Then to Yorkshire, where on returning from seeing Ack Greenwood’s grave with friend Roger Gill, we spotted a flat tyre.

No problem, there was a Kwik Fit garage nearby. We pumped in enough air to get her there; but this was a fast puncture and she wasn’t going to get me to Church Fenton or my evening accommodation. The wheel had to be changed, and I had no jack. “We can’t touch it” was Kwik Fit’s response. I explained that the wheel spinners could be knocked off and I had the correct copper hammer in the car, but didn’t have a jack. “We can’t do it,” was the response, “We don’t know the correct torque setting, and can’t let you go without that because the wheel might come off.”

“My understanding,” I said, “Is that the spinners tighten themselves as the car moves forward, though I haven’t done it myself.”

“Yes, but you don’t know the torque setting so we can’t touch it,” was the response

“Would you just jack it up for us so my friend here can do it?”

Again, the torque argument came again and Kwik Fit felt they would be responsible if the wheel fell off. I asked if there was perhaps an older KwikFitter who might have had some experience with wheel spinners in the past, but the present KwikFitter took it as a personal insult to his expertise and ability; which is not what I had meant at all.  In the end, he did put some air in the tyre for me so that Chattie could limp further down the road into the shade of a tree while I called out my excellent breakdown service. While we were waiting, a gentleman came out of the house behind us, offered help, gave us a cup of tea, gave a donation to the RAF BEnevolent Fund. He had served in the RAF many years ago. How nice that was.

Then the breakdown van came. Callam, pictured here, was the absolute opposite of Kwik-Fitness, and said, ‘Wow! What a lovely car! I’ve never done one of these, but it’s great to have the chance.’ I offered the copper hammer, but he was already reaching for a rubber hammer in the van, and had the wheel off in no time. Turned out he had two family members in the RAF, and he also donated to the RAF Benevolent Fund before he went. (He didn’t bother about any mythical torque problem, being younger and wiser than the Kwik Fit man.) May his career prosper!

SINGING IN THE RAIN

So, saying goodbye to Roger, I set out under a brilliant blue sky for Church Fenton, and thence to Jennifer and Ian’s house for the night. Jennifer is Deryk Hollinrake’s Goddaughter (Dad’s Radar Operator during the war), so I guess that makes us Godsisters. Half way there, the sky blackened and soon I was in the middle of a raging – and I mean raging – thunderstorm; lightning flashes like strobe lighting, and monstrous rain slapping and bouncing off everything; the air thick with it.  Like almost every other car on the road, I got off it as quickly as I could, taking refuge with the crowd in the doorway of the Sweet Basil restaurant at a service station (though I think I was wetter than most!). Would they serve anyone coffee while we waited out the storm? No. Though there were tables aplenty, though the conditions outside were freakishly impossible and continued so for about an hour, they would only serve those eating a meal. Thumbs down, Sweet Basil.

I only had about 20 minutes’ driving to go. I set out in a break in the rain, only for it to pound down again. My all-weather clothing didn’t cope with this and soon I was drenched. A little basin of water sat in my lap where I had draped a plastic cloth. Remembering my lovely ‘Aunt’ Monica, who was daunted by nothing the weather could possibly do, I sang my way there, working my way through rain songs and laughing at the sheer scale of the drenching. I was a drowned rat when I arrived. Jennifer set a bath running straight away and lit the bathroom with scented candles: what a fantastic greeting! It was just lovely to stay with her and Ian, and talk about our two Dad’s and their wartime friendship. The sun smiled on us: metaphorically speaking, for our evening together over a LOVELY meal; and literally in the morning.

BACK TO SCHOOL

Every airfield has its surprise, and so had the journey down to my mother’s house in Ilkeston. I set the SATNAV to avoid motorways. What a pleasant trip that was! Down country roads, old long Roman roads almost empty of traffic, through towns and villages, while occasionally I could see the motorway running parallel to my left or right, chock-a-block with cars. Negotiating Doncaster was a doddle. Along the way I had the sense of the country and its life: what was farmed in the fields, the type of villages, the different stone, the variation between rustic or industrial, the old mining towns and villages. On the motorway I would have had the monotony of that plain tarmac ribbon cut off from the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever travel that horrible stretch of M1 again after this.

But the greatest surprise was when I suddenly and completely unexpectedly found myself in Bestwood Village, and there was ‘School Lane’ and the primary school where my father was headmaster for many years before he retired. I hadn’t seen it since the 1970s. A man walking a dog was kind enough to take the picture, and for my mother and me both, this last adventure of the road brought a tear to our eyes.

Back home. Chattie, you are full of gifts and surprises. We did it, girl, and what a great journey!

This week’s tour of four airfields, starting tomorrow, 7th August, includes two modern, active airports and an airshow. Two of the four where my father’s serving stations in 1941-42:

Friday 7th: Liverpool John Lennon Aiport and the Crowne Plaza Liverpool – John Lennon Airport Hotel

Saturday 8th: RAF Woodvale, where my father was stationed as a night-fighter pilot from June to December 1942

Sunday 9th: RAF Silloth in Cumbria, where my father landed in January 1942 in a Boulton Paul Defiant.

Monday 10th: Blackpool Air Show – Chattie will be on display on the famous Promenade, overlooking the beach where, according to a report from the man who was in the gun turret at the time, my father in his Boulton Paul Defiant ‘hedge-hopped the piers’ below the height of the Woolworth’s clock!

Tuesday 11th Blackpool Airport (ex-RAF Squires Gate), where Dad was stationed from November 1941 to June 1952 – in the company of aviation historians Russell Brown and Joe Bamford (both extremely knowledgeable about 256 Squadron and RAF Squires Gate), and Graham Berry, who is 2nd cousin to WWII ace Joseph Berry DFC**, my father’s close friend in both 256 and 153 Squadrons.

It promises to be packed with memorable experiences.  See SCHEDULE for timings.

It’s a peaceful spot, Blackhall Colliery cemetery, hidden on a gentle slope of hill side behind back-to-back houses and allotments. It’s beautifully kept, and Parks Superintendant and Cemetery Supervisor Antony Peace was already waiting for me on a bench near Tommy’s grave when I arrived.

Antony had dug out documentation relating to Tommy’s grave, that show he wa buried here in October 1941, some weeks after his death at the end of September. The documents mention Mullion Cove in Cornwall, so that may be where his body was washed ashore, and there may be archive records down there relating to that, and possibly to an inquest.

His mother, Catherine Hunter, is buried in the same plot; she died aged 48 in March 1942, only six months after Tommy was killed; so here is another tragedy. Tommy’s father, John, died aged 77 in 1968 but his cremation took place in Nottinghamshire. Five years after that, a lady from Southwell in Nottinghamshire bought extra land and extended the plot and, it seems, erected the monument as it is today; so we think John’s ashes are interred here, alongside his wife and son.  It is very sad to think that John lost his wife and son in such close succession. It is touching that in death his ashes were brought back here to be with them.

Touching also to think that Tommy’s body does not after all lie lost at the bottom of the sea but lies here in his Northumberland home: his final resting place.

There is also a stone urn for flowers on the grave with the words ‘from Mary, Connie and Irene’. What I have learned today gives me new leads to follow to try and trace some of Tommy’s relatives. Thank you, Antony, for your kindness and help here today.

Antony Peace, Parks Superintendant, at Tommy Hunter’s grave, Blackhall Cemetery

I have just uploaded my latest schedule calendar and itinerary for Norfolk and Derby, 4th – 7th July 2015.  Some changes still being made, so please watch for updates.

More photographs and information on airfields visited on my Where They Served Facebook page HERE.  Please take a look there, while I play catch-up between airfield tours!

I was privileged to be invited to stay at the Mess at Manston, and I have had a truly delightful stay thanks to the hospitality of Wing Commander Chris Thorpe. This photograph tells its own story: here I have learned to think about the critical importance of understanding fire and the use of fire-fighting equipment and breathing apparatus for the armed forces. Intensive training in this area is carried out here. The recruits who are further along in their training are on the left of the picture, with the dirtier clothing.

It is struck me forcibly while spending time here that I am in danger of looking back almost exclusively to the past combat period of the Second World War, as I remember my father; but I should not for a minute lose sight of the fact that soldiers, air crew and sailors have almost continually been laying their lives on the line – and laying them down in too many cases – in the service of our peace in all the 70 decades since then. They are doing that today, as I sit here writing this. The Second World War just happened to be the bit of it in which my father served.  So, to all of you serving in our armed forces today, I salute you for what you are doing.