Bomber Boys - a Ghost Story

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  As expected, my medical discharge came through from the RAF. Everything was handled with sympathy and efficiency – the RAF gets a lot wrong, but when it comes to this kind of thing, you see them at their best – and the disability pension after nearly thirty years’ service gave me enough to live on.

  However, I was bored. I needed something to do, and that’s how I ended up working as a journalist, freelance at first, but then on the staff of the Lincoln Post. The pay was awful but I enjoyed the job, even when it meant covering tedious village fêtes and school sports days. Nothing much ever happens in and around Lincoln anyway, or at least that’s what everybody seemed to think until the Leckonby story broke.

  RAF Leckonby is a disused airfield to the east of Lincoln, tucked away in a remote spot where the soft curves of the Wolds swell up from the billiard table monotony of the fens. In its heyday, it was one of the many busy bomber bases of RAF Lincolnshire, operating Wellingtons, and then, from late 1942, Lancasters. Like many of the stations built during the war, the facilities were spartan and Leckonby was earmarked for closure in the autumn of 1945.

  It’s not any easy place to get to and its location has saved it from the worst ravages of vandals and thieves. However, as with so many other disused airfields in Bomber County, the place is gradually fading back into the landscape. Two hangars remain and now serve as grain stores. Other buildings, including what was the Officers’ Mess, are used by a farmer to store machinery and chemicals. Rows of chicken sheds take up the first hundred yards of what was once Leckonby’s south-westerly runway, and the old control tower was used by local youths to smoke dope and drink away the boredom of rural adolescence on smuggled extra-strong lager bought from the eastern European farm workers. There were several raves and the police were called – many of the better-heeled residents declared it the end of civilisation. The young tend to avoid the place now. One of them, no doubt under the influence of terrestrially produced spirits, claimed to have been chased by the ghostly figure of a wartime airman, so instead they now congregate around the bus shelter by the council estate on the edge of the village.

  Any relief that the blue-rinse set may have felt at the ending of night-time noise and disturbance was shattered by what became known as the Leckonby Master Plan. The Master Plan was simple. The former airfield would become a “fully sustainable eco-town” with an obligatory proportion of affordable and social housing. The future inhabitants’ energy needs would be met by a new wind-farm built on the summit of the Wolds, a few miles further east.

  Local opinion of the Master Plan divided along very clear lines. First came the landowners who stood to gain from selling up. They were all in favour, as were a second group, those who saw the chance of moving to a bigger house that otherwise would have been beyond their means. Last of all came a more vociferous group – NIMBYs to some, preservers of the English countryside to others – loudly opposed to the Master Plan. They set up a collective shudder at the thought of ugly, noisy wind turbines and, although they were at pains not to say so out loud, were horrified at the influx of council tenants whose presence they feared would devalue their houses and generally ‘lower the tone’.

  The battle lines were drawn. I lived in Lincoln, and not being directly affected, tried to consider each side’s point of view, with what I hoped was professional detachment. If I’m honest, my good intentions didn’t last very long. I have a thing for disused airfields, there’s something intensely poignant about them, a sense of walking on hallowed ground – the same awe and sensation of being spotlighted under history’s gaze that I get from walking up the nave of Lincoln Cathedral. I try to imagine what it must have been like for those thousands of young men who so desperately wanted to live, but passed each waking moment facing the ghastly odds that within weeks, if not days, the Reaper would claim them, screaming as the flames filled their cockpits and turrets, or pinned them, immobilised by the g-forces as their stricken aircraft plummeted, out of control, down through the icy night skies over Germany. Two thousand five hundred Bomber Command aircrew died in January 1944 alone and I tried to imagine the courage that drove them – many still in their teens – to volunteer. Not only Britons, but young men from the Dominions who crossed the world from the cattle stations of Australia and from the prairies and forests of Canada to face a 60% chance of death during the thirty missions that made up an operational tour.

  The gut-wrenching wait to hear whether ops were on tonight and then the false jollity shared with the rest of their crew, joshing and bantering in the blue, cigarette fug of the briefing room, dreading the moment when the curtain would be drawn back to show the red ribbon stretching far across the map of Europe to show tonight’s target. Code name Whitebait. The Big City. Berlin. All hopes of an easier op – somewhere nearer in Northern Germany or maybe a factory town in occupied France – now dashed. Fucking Berlin. Then the silent prayer – please let it not be me tonight, Lord. Please let it be some other crew falling in a ball of flames, incendiaries and target markers lighting their funeral pyre with a red and green firework display. To face this ordeal once would have been more than most people could stand – probably me among them, if I’m honest – but to face it night after night with only a scant chance of coming through a tour alive, defied imagination. Such intense emotions – the unspoken fear of dying, the joy for the lucky few of defeating the odds, the beer-soaked oblivion they sought when not on ops – seem to penetrate the very fabric of these now forgotten airfields, and that’s why when I scrunch over the broken glass and push my way through the nettles and brambles to reach an old dispersal hut, the place feels alive with the presence of that doomed generation.

  I have always believed we cannot relive the past, nor should we try to inhabit the minds of the dead, so although building houses on the disused airfield at Leckonby made sense, I hope you can understand why I felt more than a hint of sacrilege at the prospect. Utterly illogical of course, but as I’ve explained, the atmosphere that goes with these decaying monuments affects me very strongly.

  ***

  As strength began its slow return I found walking to be a great solace. In my head, I’d describe what I saw to Amy, sharing with her the beauty of a hawthorn in bloom or a field full of spring lambs, bounding and leaping, quivering their silly tails just for the fun of it. So it was, that a few weeks after the announcement of the Leckonby Master Plan, I decided to swap the cabin fever of a suicide-grey Sunday afternoon for a walk at the disused airfield. Parking on one of the old dispersal areas which bordered the road, I pulled on my boots and set off, following the perimeter track towards what had been the bomb dump. Cold air, spilling down from the Wolds on a damp easterly wind, was condensing out into mist, reducing the visibility to a few hundred yards. Hands in pockets, head down and thinking about Amy, I felt cocooned by the mist which, rather than spoiling the view, merely added to the atmosphere. From the gloom in front of me, a grass-covered bank rose up – one of the earth blast walls surrounding the buildings that had once held the airfield’s stock of bombs and ammunition – and with feet skidding on the wet grass, I scrambled to the top. I had only gone a few yards when I felt something wet against my hand. I spun round in surprise, only to be greeted by the happy face and wagging tail of a black Labrador.

  ‘Snipe, dammit, leave the man alone will you.’ The dog’s owner loomed up out of the mist. Clad in a thick tweed suit, and with a battered brown trilby on his head he looked as though he had come straight from the shooting field. ‘I’m awfully sorry about that,’ he said, in clipped, no-nonsense tones. As he drew closer I could see that he was older than I had first thought – at least seventy, but ramrod straight and brisk in his movements.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, patting the dog, who treated me to another lick. ‘He just gave me a surprise that’s all. Didn’t hear him coming, I’m a bit deaf in one ear.’

  The old man fixed me with his pale blue, almost colourless eyes. I wasn’t sure whether they signalled approval or suspicion. ‘
Not sure we’ve met. Not from round here, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, a little taken aback by his abrupt manner. ‘I live in Lincoln – I’m a reporter for the Lincoln Post.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Well, you can tell your editor from me that covering perfectly good land in concrete is the height of stupidity. Needs to be on the front page every day.’ The way he put it sounded more like a direct order than a rhetorical complaint. ‘There’s backhanders and greasing of palms going on. That’s what they’re up to. You mark my words.’

  This was interesting. The solitude of my walk had been broken and, even if the old man’s story did turn out to be just the usual conspiracy theory of dodgy councillors on the take from big developers, my journalist’s nose caught the whiff of a story. ‘Do you have any proof?’ I asked.

  His lined features flushed bright red and I thought he was going to explode like an angry colonel in a Bateman cartoon. ‘Proof? Dammit, man, of course I have. Letters, photographs too. I’ll show you. Then you can print it in that paper of yours. That’ll settle their hash.’

  The sheer incongruity of the conversation made it hard for me to hide a smile. Two grown men, standing on a bank in the fog on the edge of a disused airfield, discussing the relative merits of old, broken wartime concrete versus modern concrete, was beyond surreal. ‘Listen,’ he said, looking over his shoulder as though anyone else would be mad enough to be out walking in this weather, let alone eavesdrop on our conversation. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a flat silver case and opened the lid. ‘Here’s my card. Come for tea tomorrow – three o’clock sharp, don’t be late, can’t stand people who are late – and I’ll show you just what they’re up to.’

  I examined the card – expensive, printed on good quality stiff paper, embossed letters, very old school. I read, “Lieutenant Colonel AWP Cavendish, Hobbs End Hall, Leckonby, Lincs”. So he was a colonel after all. The card bore no post code, no phone number, no e-mail – his disdain for the modern world was plain to see. I patted my pockets. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any cards on me. I’m Bill Price, by the way.’ I offered my hand.

  He shook it firmly. ‘Aubrey Cavendish. How d’you do?’

  ‘So where exactly is Hobbs End Hall?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t miss it,’ he said. ‘Follow the Horncastle road out of the village and it’s about a mile on the right. Now don’t be late, mind. Three o’clock sharp.’ With that, he turned away and with the dog gambolling at his heels, disappeared into the mist.

  The following day I set off from Lincoln for my appointment with Colonel Cavendish. Strictly speaking, I should never have started driving again, but I had told the doctor that the hallucinations had stopped and only ever affected me at night when I was dozy and about to fall asleep. In reality they were getting steadily worse as the little Scottish neurologist had warned me they might. I was on a course of Levetipine tablets which he explained were dopamine and D2-specific receptor agonists. Whatever they were, just as he predicted, their effectiveness was wearing off. My visits from the non-existent ginger cat and the hubbub of voices from the next room had become more frequent. On one occasion, I swerved the car to avoid a red letterbox which wandered out into the road in front of me. Luckily, there was nothing coming the other way and when I got out to investigate, the box was firmly embedded in the grass verge where it had been ever since – according to the embossed crest on the door – the reign of George VIth.

  You would think I would have had the common sense, particularly given what had happened to me, to take road safety more seriously, but I’m ashamed to say that my selfish need to get around under my own steam rather than rely on public transport, overrode my consideration for my fellow road-users.

  ***

  The mists of the previous day had given way to leaden skies from which fell a fine drizzle, the kind of soaking rain that forces its way into every corner and seems to dampen everything in its way. The streets of Leckonby village were deserted and a dark, grey day which had imperceptibly lightened around noon, had already given up the unequal struggle and agreed surrender terms with dusk well before mid-afternoon.

  Just as Cavendish had said, after about a mile, an imposing pile of a house, built in red brick, loomed up out of the dripping gloom on the right hand side of the road. A large, freshly-painted sign, spotlit from below, announced Hobbs End Hall to be a retirement home. He had seemed far too sprightly to be a resident in a place like this and I tried to picture him, sitting in a circle of the demented and the dying, tunelessly bashing at a tambourine while an earnest young care assistant tried to jolly the inmates into a sing-song. I shuddered. Just like death or road accidents, ending up in places like this was something that happened to other people.

  Parking outside the entrance, I hurried into the welcome shelter of the porch and pushed open the double doors, trying not to leave finger marks on the highly-polished brass handles. Clearly Hobbs End Hall was doing well financially, as it had none of the end-of-the-pier shabbiness that these places usually exude. Inside, the heat nearly bowled me over. I had forgotten how sensitive the elderly are to the cold.

  A smiling blonde receptionist greeted me in an eastern European accent. I gave her my name and told her I had been invited for tea with Lieutenant Colonel Cavendish at three o’clock. At once, the smile evaporated and her face went the colour of putty. ‘Cavendish? You’re sure about that name, Mr Price?’

  This seemed very odd. Maybe she was new or didn’t understand what I’d said. ‘Yes, absolutely. Aubrey Cavendish. Tall, pale blue eyes. Has a Labrador called Snipe.’

  She clasped her hand to her mouth and ran out from behind the desk. I thought for a moment she was going to be sick. With tears in her eyes, she ran across the expensive carpet and, without knocking, disappeared into the manager’s office. A few moments later, the door opened, and, dressed in a well-cut suit, more fitting for the City than a provincial retirement home, the manager appeared. I would have put him in his early forties, hints of grey at the temples and with a broad, open face that was clearly trying to hide the emotion he felt. He turned to the receptionist who followed a few paces behind him. ‘Don’t worry, Magda,’ he said. ‘Take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll deal with this.’

  She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and ran to get her coat. I introduced myself to the manager. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It looks as though I’ve upset your colleague.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Price, it’s not your fault,’ he replied.

  The penny dropped and I clasped my hand to my forehead. ‘Oh God, I’m awfully sorry. I take it the Colonel has passed away?’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ he said, ushering me into his office and offering me a seat. Without speaking he took a key from his desk drawer and opened a wooden cabinet that stood against the wall. From it he took out what looked like an old photo album. Flicking through the pages, he opened it and passed it to me, his finger resting on a photograph about eight inches by six. ‘Is that the gentleman who invited you for tea?’

  Although it was in black and white, there was no doubt as to the identity of the subject. Tall, late sixties or early seventies, upright, tweed suit and with a dark trilby slightly pulled down over his right eye. Next to him, sat a black Labrador looking adoringly up at its master. Underneath, in a precise copperplate hand, was written, Aubrey with Snipe. ‘Yes, that’s him, absolutely no doubt…’ but then my voice trailed away as I re-read it and saw the date – Aubrey with Snipe, October 1938. ‘But that’s not possible. It must be his son or his grandson that I met.’

  The manager shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Price, you’re not the first person this has happened to. We thought it had stopped, but the row about the new town on the airfield seems to have, how shall I put this? …disturbed things again. Magda has seen him too. You gave her a bit of fright I’m afraid.’

  For a moment I was speechless. Here was a grown man telling me I’d just had a conversation with a man who wou
ld by now be about a hundred and fifty years old. I knew a leg-pull when I saw one. ‘Hold on a minute,’ I said, tapping the photo with my finger. ‘Are you suggesting this is the same man who invited me here yesterday? And he was seventy-odd in 1938? Somebody’s having a laugh.’

  The manager spread his hands out as if to say he didn’t know what was going on. ‘I can’t explain it either, Mr Price, but I can tell you what I’ve managed to find out. There have been Cavendishes at Hobbs End Hall since the middle ages. Then the land was requisitioned in 1941 to build the airfield...’

  I interrupted. ‘That would explain what he said about covering perfectly good land in concrete.’

  ‘Yes’, he said. ‘From some of the letters I’ve seen, Aubrey Cavendish was livid about it. He certainly didn’t live long afterwards.’

  ‘Interesting. What else do you know about him?’

  ‘I haven’t found much. He was a colonel in the Lincolns during the First World War. When he left the army he went back to running the farm and died in 1942. His widow moved to a smaller house on the estate. That’s all we know. There were no children. By 1942, the airfield was completed and Hobbs End Hall became a military hospital. It reverted to the family after the war but they had to sell it in 1946 to pay death duties. It was a school for a while – that went bust in the nineties – and then it became a retirement home which it remains to this day. The photo album and other family papers were found in the loft when we refurbished the place.’

  This was all very odd. ‘So no son, no grandson, then who the hell did I meet yesterday?’ I asked. ‘A ghost?’