by Steve Holmes
The LNER Thomson class B1 loco pulled into Lancaster Green Ayre Station a little after 2 pm. John Holmes felt a little conspicuous as they stepped from the train in their full uniform which was a condition of travel. A head or two turned on the platform as they walked towards the entrance, Patch ran alongside, head held high as he breathed in the noticeably cooler Lancashire air. They took a cab to Belle Vue Terrace and were greeted on the doorstep by Dorothy’s father.
‘Good God John, we weren’t expecting you.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Shaw, we were just told yesterday. I didn’t have time to get a letter off.’
John Shaw removed his pipe from his mouth and shouted into the hallway. ‘Sara Ellen, look who’s here, go and fetch our Dorothy.’
John introduced Len Jones.
‘A crew mate of mine John, Len Jones, is it okay for him…’
‘…to stay here? Of course it is. We’ve a spare room and you’re more than welcome.’
Len shook him by the hand warmly as Dorothy’s mother almost ran down the passageway to greet John and the stranger.
‘Len lives in Canada, Sara Ellen; it’s a long way to go for a few days.’
Sara Ellen had taken Len by the hand and was leading him towards the kitchen.
‘You need a nice cup of tea Leonard and a warm by the stove. It’s bitter out there today.’ Sara Ellen almost pushed the Canadian airman into the kitchen then she turned to her son in law. She pointed up the long flight of stairs.
‘And you, Flight Engineer, had better go on up those stairs and say hello to your wife and son.’
John called on his parents later that evening. He’d left Len in the same position in the kitchen as he revelled on the attention Sara Ellen and John Shaw lavished upon him. He’d eaten more sandwiches and drunk more cups of tea than had been healthy for him.
John’s mother had burst into tears when she’d seen him on the doorstep and disappeared upstairs for a good ten minutes whilst he chatted with his dad. It unnerved John slightly; he’d expected surprise, even a few tears, but nothing had prepared him for that sort of reaction. He wondered if anything was wrong. They sat in the kitchen until nearly midnight talking about old times, the war and of course family members in Lancaster and beyond stretching as far as Canada.
Just before he left for Belle Vue Terrace, John’s father suggested a day out at the pub the following day.
‘It’s what Sunday afternoons were made for,’ he said, ‘a few pints. Perhaps John Shaw might want to come along?’
It was settled. They’d go to The Royal Oak in Skerton for opening time then head back home for Sunday lunch in Ashton Drive.
‘That’s not like you, Dad. You were never a pub man before I went away.’
William shook his head. ‘You’re right son I wasn’t. But then again I had more than enough sons and daughters to keep me busy.’
John’s mother spoke. ‘It’s a big house John, it seems a little empty with everyone away. Your Dad doesn’t like too much peace and quiet, the lack of activity drives him daft.’
William just sat and shook his head, didn’t contradict his wife because he knew it was true.
‘So our John, what do you say? You and the Yank?’
‘He’s from Canada, Dad, not a Yank, his name’s Len. But yes… that sounds great.’
William Holmes knocked on the door of number one Belle Vue Terrace at exactly quarter to eleven the following day. John Shaw answered the door and took him into the kitchen and without being able to refuse, Sara Ellen had pushed a cup of strong tea into his hands
John came in a few minutes later, immaculately dressed in a two piece suit, shirt and tie with patent leather black shoes. William Holmes became immediately agitated. John noticed it and Mr and Mrs Shaw noticed it too. For a few minutes the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife, William’s face was a picture of disappointment. Just what was wrong with Dad, thought John, what have I done? But then he seemed to mellow slightly, the moment had passed. Whatever it was, John needed to know. He took his chance as they walked out into the hallway and headed outside. John shouted up the stairs.
‘C’mon Len, time to go.’
He heard Len mumble a reply from a far off room somewhere in the huge house. John Shaw apologised as he said he couldn’t find his pipe and walked back through to the kitchen. It left John and his father alone on the front step. His father gazed up the street with no real purpose. John placed two hands on his shoulders and turned him around so that they were facing each other, barely a few inches apart.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, Dad?’
William Holmes tried to break the gaze, mumbled a few denials, said he didn’t know what his son was talking about.
‘Dad, I saw your face as I walked into the kitchen, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, now come on let’s get to the Oak, the beer’s getting warm.’
William Holmes turned to walk away but John held him tight. ‘What is it, Dad? Why did you look so disappointed?’
William Holmes’s face changed. He looked sorry, almost apologetic and the lines around his eyes and his mouth seemed to soften as he shook his head.
‘Disappointed…? No John, I wasn’t disappointed. You couldn’t be further from the truth.’
John felt his father’s defences crumble; the word he’d used had broken down the barriers. John stayed silent, his father had to explain. He was ready to explain.
‘It’s just…’
John dropped his hands to his side, raised his eyebrows.
‘I just thought you’d be in uniform, that’s all.’
John’s jaw dropped. ‘Dad, I’ve been in that bloody uniform for months, day in, day out. Why would I want to wear it when I’m on leave?’
Now it was William’s turn to lay his hands on his son’s shoulders. He smiled and the tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke.
‘For me John… just for me. Because I’m a sad old man and a proud father. Lads from these parts don’t join the Royal Air Force, fly Stirling Bombers. Lads round here join the army or work in the mills, nowt else. I was disappointed that you weren’t in uniform that’s all. I wanted to show you off to my mates like the silly old bugger that I am.’
John burst out laughing. ‘You wanted to show me off?’
William nodded, a tear trickling down his cheek.
‘That’s all, son. I wanted them to see my boy the RAF man, my son in his uniform with his brevet that tells everyone he’s an integral member of the air crew.’
William edged a little closer.
‘I’m so proud of you John… so immensely proud you couldn’t ever begin to measure it. You’ll never realise how proud I am and I’m just a little upset that it’s taken me this long to tell you.’
William took another step and embraced his son as the tears flowed. It was a defining moment. John’s father had never expressed his emotions like this…never. And he was wrong. At that moment John knew exactly how proud his father was.
A few minutes later John Shaw appeared smoking his pipe and Len came out just behind him. William had just about managed to compose himself. The four men stood in the street as John Shaw leaned over to pull at the handle of the door.
‘Are we ready then gentlemen?’ he asked.
John spoke. ‘Not quite Mr Shaw, I need to have a quick word with Jonesy here. He’s not suitably attired for a Sunday afternoon in an English country pub.’
Len looked down at the suit he was wearing, then at his three drinking partners who appeared to have dressed in similar fashion. He looked a little embarrassed, as if he’d made an obvious error, but the harder he looked he just couldn’t put his finger on it. John took him by the sleeve and turned him round to face the house.
‘Come with me mate, it’ll only take five minutes.’
John Shaw and William Holmes passed the time of day on the front step. It was a crisp and cold frosty morning and they could see their breath.
‘What’s wrong w
ith those two silly buggers, Bill? They looked fine to me.’
John Shaw shrugged his shoulders and gazed up to the front bedrooms.
‘Don’t know my friend but I hope they hurry up. I’m getting cold.’
Soon after, John and Len reappeared in the full uniform of the Royal Air Force. The four men got in the waiting cab that would take them to the Royal Oak in Skerton.
William Holmes was the proudest and happiest man in Lancashire, England and beyond. Words could not describe the pride that oozed through his body, so much so he positively tingled. As they’d walked into the bar of the Royal Oak, it was almost as if the place had fallen silent, not unlike when a stranger walks into the saloon in those western movies he had watched at the Roxy. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, he wanted them to sit up and take notice, wanted them to say ‘Who are those Brylcreem Boys with?’
And he told them… everyone who asked.
‘That’s my son John, and his friend from Canada,’ he proudly boasted.
He’d tell his friends they weren’t just ground crew, oh no, they flew in Stirling Bombers – but he couldn’t tell them any more. Top secret, you understand.
William wouldn’t allow the two RAF men to buy a single pint and more than one of his friends sent a drink over for ‘the boys’ who were helping to turn the tide against the Nazis. William stood at the end of the bar and looked on, he looked at his son as he chatted to his friend as they enjoyed more than their fair share of free beer. John was a man, a mature man. He’d waved off a young boy the day he commenced his training in Redcar and the RAF had turned him into a man. He recalled the moment when his wife had burst into tears and ran from the room. He’d questioned her about her tears later that evening. She’d said it was because that was the day she realised her little boy had gone and a man had taken his place.
William walked over and ordered another round of drinks. He told John he had another surprise for him – that his sister Mary, her husband Gilbert and the newly born twins were taking a little Sunday lunch at Ashton Drive.
John turned to Len.
‘You’d better drink up, Jonesy – we’ve a big afternoon ahead of us. Knowing my Mam there’ll be enough food to feed the 5,000.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
John, Len and Patch returned to RAF Keevil on 3rd May. For the early part of May they flew more equipment over to France and then engaged in dozens of exercises towing Horsa Gliders. It was clear that the RAF were gearing up for something big and the rumours were rife. John lay on his bed in billet 78 talking to George Tickner as he stroked the dog, who had snuggled under the blankets, his head resting on the pillow. George Tickner’s crew had been training with the Horsa Gliders too.
‘I tell you Sherlock they aren’t giving us all this training for nothing. Why would they have us bloody training when there’s so much work to do? No one’s flown anything over to France for at least a week; those poor resistance chaps will think we’re ignoring them.’
It was all very frustrating and John couldn’t help thinking there was some logic in George Tickner’s theory. With the amount of equipment they’d dropped into France they had to be making some sort of a difference and apart from a little light anti-aircraft flak they’d encountered on one sortie, the skies over France were relatively quiet. He’d also been aware of the ground crew painting up the three big white stripes on the fuselage of every aircraft on the base. He asked the air crew what they were doing and why but no one claimed they knew. They were simply obeying orders they said. One aircraft mechanic however claimed it was fairly obvious.
‘They’re the invasion stripes,’ he’d said. ‘There will be so many bloody planes flying to France the Allied lads will need to be able to distinguish which is which.’
The aircraft mechanic was deadly serious and John had to admit it did all seem to make sense.
Dare he believe the rumours that France was about to be liberated by the Allies. Was the time right for an invasion of Northern Europe and were the Germans really on the back foot?
Adolf Hitler sat at a huge Austrian pine table surrounded by his generals as he studied a large map of France, Belgium and Holland. It was June 3rd 1944. During the early years of the war Hitler had been content to rely on the advice of his trusted generals and played no part in the decisive victory over Poland and the occupation of Holland, Belgium and Norway. However, thereafter, Hitler took an increasingly active part in the direction of the Third Reich’s military operations. One of his big regrets in the battle of France was to rely on the advice of Field Commander Rundstedt, who advised Hitler to halt the Panzers outside Dunkirk in 1940.
The war had reached a critical point and German intelligence had warned of a massive imminent Allied invasion of France, the only question was, where? Brauchitsch, Halder, Blomberg, Keitel and Hasso von Manteuffel, the general of Panzer Troops, all offered advice to Adolf Hitler who would ultimately take the decision on where to deploy the majority of his troops. The majority of the generals and Hitler had expected an invasion of Normandy and had committed most of their forces in the area. However German intelligence gathered and painted an altogether different picture.
Hasso von Manteuffel spoke. ‘Herr Fuhrer, look at these images taken only yesterday from one of our reconnaissance planes.’
Hasso von Manteuffel spread a series of photographs on the desk in front of him and arranged them so that he could study them carefully.
‘This one is taken at Folkestone and this one at Deal in Kent.’
The pictures needed no further explanation. The beaches on the south coast of England appeared to be saturated with tanks, trucks and other military hardware.
‘And these pictures too, Herr Fuhrer, Dover and Ramsgate and literally thousands of boats and ships either already anchored up or on their way en masse.’
Hitler massaged at his temple with his forefinger and thumb as he drew a circle around the perimeter of Calais, placed a couple of crosses on the beaches either side. He looked up.
‘So what are you telling me, General?’
Hasso von Manteuffel spoke with a renewed confidence now. His Fuhrer was listening to him… asking his advice.
‘Herr Fuhrer, if the British and the Americans wanted to land in Normandy they would have assembled around Dorset and Hampshire, the docks and harbours in Portsmouth and Southampton are almost deserted.’
Brauchitsch stood up and pointed to another huge map pinned to the wall. Hasso von Manteuffel smiled; he knew he had the full support of everyone seated around the table but it was still nice for someone else to back up his suggestions.
‘The British bombers have bombed the Pas-de-Calais beach area and the railway sidings surrounding the town and even the road signs around Calais have been changed to English. We have recovered almost fifty Horsa Gliders and boxes and containers all dropped within a fifty mile radius of Calais, Dunkirk and Boulogne.’
Brauchitsch frowned, almost apologised.
‘I’m afraid they were all empty Herr Fuhrer. Whatever troops and supplies the British have dropped have long since gone. We believe upwards of a thousand British paratroopers are hiding in the woods and forest areas surrounding Calais.’
Adolf Hitler trained his eyes on the map laid out in front of him. He held a pencil between both thumbs so tightly it snapped in two. Hasso von Manteuffel delivered his pièce de résistance that would convince Hitler to once again rely on intelligence and of course the expertise and intuition of his generals.
‘We have evidence of troop movements heading towards south eastern England. Americans, Canadians, New Zealanders and Australians. Pas-de-Calais is the point on the French coast closest to England. It makes sense that they will start the invasion from there. We have agents who have even managed to steal the plans.’
Hasso von Manteuffel looked briefly at Brauchitsch and the rest of the generals before delivering his final statement to his Fuhrer.
‘We are led to believe that the invasion will begin on the eveni
ng of 5th June.’
On the south coast of England at RAF Keevil at almost exactly the same time as Hitler spoke with his generals, 196 Squadron were being briefed by Wing Commander Baker. 23 crews sat in the converted gymnasium viewing almost identical photographs to those that were being studied by Hitler and his generals.
The Wing Commander held up each photograph with two hands above his head and paced up and down an aisle between the aircrews giving the men time to digest each photograph.
‘Thousands of tanks, gentlemen; tanks and trucks, jeeps and motorcycles ready and waiting to make the short journey over the English Channel to Calais, Dunkirk and Boulogne.’
John couldn’t help feeling that Wing Commander Baker was almost about to break out into a smile at any moment. Here he was addressing his crews about the biggest and possibly the most dangerous military invasion in history and he was almost laughing. He wasn’t imagining it, the tell-tale lines at the side of his mouth and his eyes were beginning to form into a smile. He was sure of it.
Wing Commander Baker continued. ‘Your colleagues from 167 Squadron in West Malling have been mighty busy over the last twenty four hours taking Horsas over the channel and letting them loose a few miles from the coast. We’re fairly sure the vast majority have made it onto French soil. The Germans must be in no doubt that an invasion is almost imminent.’
And then he let it out. Wing Commander Baker broke out into a huge smile and started to laugh uncontrollably and twenty three crews of 196 Squadron, pilots, navigators, gunners, flight engineers and bomb aimers wondered if he had lost his mind.
Blomberg and Keitel had moved around to the other side of the desk and stood either side of Hitler pointing out the positions of every Motorized infantry and Panzer Division in France, Belgium and Holland. Each division was marked with a red counter.
‘We have fifteen divisions already in the area Fuhrer but I recommend we deploy more,’ suggested Keitel. ‘We have ten Divisions in and around Normandy and the 21st, 22nd, 23rd and 24th Panzer Division just north of Paris.’