Now they’ve given us a day off – a quiet afternoon is indicated and then probably out this evening.
The leave is still OK and I should be coming home Tuesday week. At the moment Vera and I are trying to arrange a couple of days at Bournemouth – at the weekend; but I expect she’ll tell you if and when she prices it.
Time for food now,
Love to all,
Ron
Officers Mess
RAF East Kirkby
LINCS
18/7/44 9.30pm
Dear Mum & Dad,
I have just returned to my billet for an early night, having waited in the mess to hear the 9 o’clock news first. You will have heard it, or, if not, by some other means by the time you get this, and of the great offensive this morning. We were one of the thousand aircraft that ‘attacked at dawn’ this morning in 41 minutes. It was a marvellous sight to look all round and see Lancs and Halis everywhere; to see where your bombs were going for a change, and to look all round the cattle area (we did a circuit of Caen)…
We had an American Liberator crew up on liaison last Tuesday and they came to briefing and interrogation… On the Tuesday morning we flew with them in their Lib… I was in the waist gun position – a very good view. On taxying [sic] after landing their front wheel burst, so we flew them to their drome in our Lanc to pick up a new tyre, and had lunch there…
Yesterday morning we took the Group Captain up for practice bombing – he dropped the bombs – and then we went on to the American drome to pick up our crew that had been down there for liaison, and have lunch. Their boys were returning from a mission, and we went to the interrogation…
So long then,
Love to all,
Ron
In the month after he wrote this letter Williams was transferred to the famous 617 Squadron who had carried out the Dambusters raid in May 1943. He was promoted to flight lieutenant and took part in the first raid on the German battleship Tirpitz in September 1944 before being shot down at low level and killed during a raid on the Kembs Barrage near Basle on 7 October 1944.* He is buried in Durnbach War Cemetery in Germany.
The RAF’s Bomber Command suffered some of the highest casualties of the war in proportion to the number of men involved, and the thought that they might not come back was never far from the minds of the men flying the heavy bombers over Germany. However, they had a job to do. Sergeant Reg Fayers, who flew as a navigator on Halifax bombers with No. 76 Squadron RAF, records these feelings in an unsent letter to his wife from the summer of 1943.
From Sergt. R.J. Fayers,
Sergeants Mess,
RAF HOLME ON SPALDING MOOR
To Mistress Phyl Fayers,
Ploughlane Dairy,
SUDBURY, SFK
SUMMER 1943 (Not posted).
Darling,
I’ve occasionally felt lately that should I not come home on leave next week, you would think it rather inconsiderate of me not to say a farewell and an excuse, so herewith both. (It’s a grey evening and I’ve nothing to do but write and read, and I’ve already read.)
Lately in letters I’ve mentioned that I’ve flown by night and that I’ve been tired by day, but I haven’t said that I can now claim battle honours – Krefeld, Muhlheim, Gelsenkirchen, Wuppertal and Cologne, I suppose I’ve been fighting in the Battle of the Ruhr.
But it hasn’t felt like that. It doesn’t seem like fighting to climb aboard an aircraft with your friends and climb to a space where the sunset seems infinite; to sit in a small space, and on the engine-noise background hear the everyday commonplaces spoken to you while you juggle with figures and lines to find God’s intentions in the winds; to sit for a few hours at 20,000 feet working hard so that when Tom eventually says ‘Bombs gone, photograph taken. OK Steve, fly away,’ it doesn’t seem anything more than part of the job, and a fresh course to be steered, this time for home. It’s aloof and impersonal, this air war. One has no time to think of hell happening below to a set of people who are the same as you except that their thinking has gone a bit haywire. It’s a fair assumption that when Tom dropped our bombs the other night, women and boys and girls were killed and cathedrals damaged. It must have been so. Were it more personal, I should be more regretting [it], I suppose. But I sit up there with my charts and pencils and I don’t see a thing. I never look out. In five raids all I’ve seen is a cone of searchlights up by Amsterdam, with the southern coast of the Zuider Zee – where poor Ben Dove was found – and a few stars. And as far as humanity is concerned, I can’t definitely regret that I’ve helped to kill German people.
The only thought that comes from the outside is when occasionally Gillie, the mid-upper gunner, says ‘Turn to starboard, go…’. It might mean that out there in the darkness which you cannot even see, somewhere there is a night fighter with a German boy in it; and he may kill you. When Gillie or Reuben says ‘Turn to starboard, go…’, that quick weakening thought comes in – ‘Maybe this is It.’ But you never can believe it. It doesn’t seem possible that what is so orderly and efficient a machine one second can become, within the next minute, a falling killing thing, with us throwing ourselves from it into a startling world of surprised chaos. But it can happen, and, I suppose, does happen to a lot of us. So far we’ve had two small holes in ‘H’ for Harry and nothing more. We have been very lucky. We have flown straight and high, dropped our bombs and come home to bacon and eggs, or maybe only beans on toast. But, so far, we have come home.
Should you ever read this, I suppose it will mean that I haven’t. I can’t imagine that. If I really could imagine it, I suppose I wouldn’t fly. Or would I?
I really don’t know.
But, darling, I could never live easy with the thought inside me that a struggle is going on in the world without me helping good old Right against the things so wrong that have got into our system. This world is a swell sort of place even now; there’s so much beauty in it, such thrilling beauty. If a thing is really beautiful, through and through beautiful, it seems to me it is good. And it could be so much more so. I suppose really that is why I sit on our bombs and fly with them until we come to one more of Jerry’s cities. Instinctively it seems I’ve come to help, first in destroying the bad old things, and then in rebuilding.
If you read this, I suppose there’ll be no Simon in this world. But for those other worlds that will come, there will be Simon. And there will be other worlds, darling; there will be Simon. For them, I suppose, it is that I fly. That must be the answer, I guess. I struggle instinctively to be with you, walking so quietly by Brundon fields and Barnardiston hedges, eating enough lettuce hearts so clean and green for the two of us, being together in the excitement of our love, and in the quiet moonlit night when one wonders about God. That is the beginning of my new world, of all my new worlds.
The most real and living thing in the life that I’ve had has been you, Phyl Kirby. I have loved you so that I haven’t words left to say. And I believe it’s so much in the soul of me that it will always stay with me. I don’t know what heaven I’ll go to (the immodesty of the man) but I fancy something simple, with a river, and lots of green. And I know you’ll be there. If there be a god – and there must be – and if there be a heaven – and there must be – then, too, there must be us. I’m afraid I really believe that, darling. I hope it doesn’t sound too mystic or anything, but I do believe in always having you, and in new worlds.
I suppose that is why I have no personal fear of dying. It would be darned interesting, were it not that it might mean breaking an early date with you. And I’d rather take leave next week than the alternative, of course. Life is sweet, too; I’ll have as much as I can.
So, if you ever read this, darling, I’m sorry if I had to break a date. It means keeping the next one the more certainly. And please don’t be too sad. Together we’ve had more out of living than most people can reasonably expect. And if we had to stop sharing those wonderful things, perhaps it was better that it ended when our love was so strong and
firm and young, and while we both had our own teeth. If I have to go to heaven, I’d rather go attractively, and still be able to play soccer.
Love me till then, darling,
Toujours a vous,
Reg
Reg Fayers was shot down during a raid over Frankfurt in November 1943, but luckily survived and spent the rest of the war in Stalag Luft 1.
Thoughts of mortality were not restricted to the air crew of Bomber Command; a common theme running through letters home is concern for the well-being of wives and children should the worst happen. Lance Corporal Fred Baker served with the Royal Corps of Signals in the Mediterranean. He wrote the letter below to his four-year-old daughter Patricia, full of words of advice for her should he not survive.
Sunday 4th Oct. 1942
My Darling Little Pat,
I have been thinking things over while waiting for my boat, & as I might not return I think it is only right that you should have a letter from me which you can keep, to remember me by. I am writing this assuming you are now grown up, as you will not receive this till then. I can picture you as a lovely girl, very happy with plenty of boy friends. I am finding it very hard to write this as I may never see you in this stage. You have always been the pride & joy of my life. I have loved you more than my life at all times. As mother has told you perhaps I was always afraid of losing you. Now the tables have turned the other way & I might be the one to get lost. But do not let this upset you if this is the case, as the love for a father only lasts up to the time a girl finds the man she wants & gets married. Well darling, when this time arises I hope you find the right one & he will not only be a good husband to you, but will also make up for the fatherly love you have missed. At all times lovie be a pal to mother & look after her, do what you can to make her happy, as she has been, & always will be I am sure, the best little mother you will find on this earth. Don’t be selfish or catty, remember there are others in the world as well as you. Try not to talk about people as this get you disliked. When the pulling to pieces start, walk out or turn a deaf ear, it will pay in the long run. Above all I want you to be a sport, to take up swimming, dancing & all games in life you can get so much fun out of. Mother, I am sure, will do her best for you & see you get all the instruction she can afford.
Always try to be a sister to Peter & John, they may pull your leg about different things but the best way after all is to ignore them & do what you can for them. You will win in the end & be the best of pals. Well darling there is no more I can say, but to look after yourself where men are concerned, be wise & quick witted & only believe half they say, of course, till you get the right one.
Remember me as your dad & pal who worshipped the ground you walked on. Please don’t do anything that will upset mother, & I shouldn’t like you to, I will close now my little ray of sunshine. Always loving you,
Your loving Father
xxxxxxxxx
Sadly, his premonition was to come to pass, and Baker was killed in the Dodecanese campaign of September–November 1943.
Reinforcements were flooding in to North Africa to make good the losses of the disastrous Gazala campaign and its aftermath. Although the British troops had held the line, large numbers of extra men and a great deal of materiel would be needed before Eighth Army could assault Rommel’s men.
One of the divisions despatched to North Africa was the 51st (Highland) Division, which had been rebuilt after its loss in the Fall of France in 1940, and amongst its numbers was one of the better poets of the Second World War, John Jarmain. He served as an officer in the 61st Anti-Tank Regiment, and wrote the following poem that serves as an evocative description of his departure for the war in the desert. He sent the poem home as an addition to a letter.
Embarkation, 1942
In undetected trains we left our land
At evening secretly, from wayside stations.
None knew our place of parting; no pale hand
Waved as we went; not one friend said farewell.
But grouped on weed-grown platforms
Only a few officials holding watches
Noted the stealthy hour of our departing,
And, as we went, turned back to their hotel.
With blinds drawn down we left the things we know,
The simple fields, the homely ricks and yards;
Passed willows greyly bunching to the moon
And English towns. But in our blindfold train
Already those were far and long ago,
Stored quiet pictures which the mind must keep:
We saw them not. Instead we played at cards.
Or strangely dropped asleep.
Then in a callow dawn we stood in lines
Like foreigners on bare and unknown quays.
Till someone bravely into the hollow of waiting
Cast a timid wisp of song;
It moved along the lines of patient soldiers
Like a secret passed from mouth to mouth
And slowly gave us ease;
In our whispered singing courage was set free,
We were banded once more and strong.
So we sang as our ship set sail,
Sang our own songs and leaning on the rail
Waved to the workmen on the slipping quay
And they again to us for fellowship.
He also wrote to his sister Kate about his arrival in Egypt and his feelings for the pregnant wife he left behind.
From Capt. J. Jarmain
(No 137983)
61st A/Tk Regt. R.A.
c/o Army Post Office
No 2005
June 30th 1942
Kate my love,
A new address for you to write on my letter at last as you see at the head of this sheet. In fact I have not arrived there yet but am on the way, and in any case I do not know where it is. At least the journey is a very pleasant and unwarlike interval between one job and the next, and as it lasts so long, with all its days alike and no change of scene to show that we are moving, it is quite difficult to believe that I am bound for anything or anywhere. I suppose I do believe it in fact, but that seems not to affect my enjoyment of the trip, its warmth, amazing luxury, and above all its hours and hours of leisure…
If I thought that this isolation that I am enjoying now was to go on forever then I should immediately cease to enjoy it. But as it is I am loving it, loving the hours of the day, at last really able to see them as the [riveting] sheets of a notepad, clean and immaculate, and ready to receive whatever I may wish to put upon them. Strange how people are affected differently: many of those travelling with me are already impatient of the empty days, stretching before them… For me just the opposite is the case, the very emptiness of the days is their precious delight: what shall I fill them with? What shall I do? What shall I write poems about? War? Or flying fishes? Or English fields? – What shall I read? – Montaigne? Or Lewis Carroll? Or Shakespeare?…
I have said that I am happy on this ship, and maybe you have wondered, do I not mind leaving Beryl then? Leaving her, the goodbye, was like something happening under an anaesthetic. Travelling away from her in the train was the awakening, very miserable… Afterwards, when I get to shore and I know that she is out of reach, it will not be good. Being separated is one thing, bearable at any rate because it must be borne, but being so far that I know that I am in no way [near her], that is not pleasant.
And she is to have a child about August 8th. That for her is good, I think: it gives her a very definite hold on things and will give her duties to perform.
I wish I had not started writing about her. It has made me think about her and about the good years we should have had together, which now we will be missing. How many millions [of] lives this war has taken from their just causes and appropriated wholly to itself!
Funny, for I have, before beginning this to you, written eleven pages to her, without that bitterness against fate re-arising.
And that bitterness must be in nearly every one of us, German
or Briton, Italian or American: only the Jap is incomprehensible…
God bless, and write to me, my love,
John
These new arrivals were joined by a new army commander, Lieutenant General Bernard Montgomery, and were destined to be blooded in the climactic battle of the Desert War, El Alamein. Montgomery spent the next two months training his new command for the task of breaking through Rommel’s defensive positions, and on 23 October he launched the battle of El Alamein with Operation Lightfoot. The four infantry divisions of XXX Corps advanced against the well-prepared Axis defences, while to the south the armour of X Corps struggled to break through the German minefields.
Following a week of bitter fighting, Montgomery reorganised his forces for another push, Operation Supercharge, with the 2nd New Zealand Division tasked with carrying out the first attacks. Attached to them were the men of the 8th Battalion, Durham Light Infantry, part of the 151st Brigade. Private John E. Drew, who served with the battalion, wrote to a bereaved family about the death of his friend in the battle.
Pte J.E. Drew
5442875 M.T. Sect
H.Q. Coy
8 DLI
M.E.F.
21/5/43
Dear Friend,
Just a line in answer to your request for a little information in regard to you late brother Joe.
As you already know I was with him on that night, well, let’s not bring back a sad moment but just imagine he’s still with us and try to describe a little of what happened before.
Joe and I were both in the Cornwalls until we came out here, and then we were drafted into the Durhams with whom we went up the blue* and as soon as we got up there we were allotted trenches which as you can probably guess were next to one another and in which we would sit and talk during the day and from where I learnt quite a lot from him about your family…
Letters from the Front: From the First World War to the Present Day Page 15