Those early Canadian volunteers went largely unsung for another reason. On arrival in Britain they were attached to Britain’s Royal Air Force (RAF), whereupon they were dispersed among its training units and operational squadrons to serve alongside British and other Dominion flyers. Those Canadians became the Royal Canadian Air Force’s orphans. Those who were killed before the formation of 6 Group – the Canadian squadrons in Bomber Command – in 1943 went unnoticed in the official histories of the RCAF and the RAF. They are barely mentioned in Canada’s War Museum, and their stories are largely untold in the many popular histories and accounts of the RCAF published after the war.
The veterans of the air war have by now written their last accounts. No one alive and alert today can relate from his own experience a night run to a German industrial target in a Hampden bomber in 1941, undefended through cloud and darkness against anti-aircraft fire and enemy fighters, with the aid of only a map, a compass, and an airspeed indicator. The young Canadian airmen whose first experience of the air war was London in the Blitz are all gone.
How those veterans told their stories changed over the years. Memoirs written shortly after tours of duty were long on excitement and derring-do, but short on reflection. The first accounts of the bomber war told of exceptional deeds performed under exceptional danger, but little of the day-to-day experience of the tens of thousands of men who performed those deeds. Memoirs written twenty and thirty years later tended to be more reflective, and reveal more of the fear, though no less of the courage, that accompanied dangerous and exhausting night bombing runs over enemy territory. If recall of the details faded or seemed less important, the intensity of the experience did not. As the decades passed, veterans’ stories became filtered by the accumulation of life’s experience and reflection, and coloured by a mix of gratitude and guilt for having survived when so many others did not. Some were motivated by the desire to set the record straight in response to the steady flow of popular and professional histories of the bomber war. Some just wanted to tell their stories to a public that had forgotten or never knew what they had done and why.
This account returns to the time when the daily events of war actually happened. Seventy-five years later, the lively, articulate, and intimate conversation between father and son, and among close friends, has lost none of its freshness and immediacy. It is a record of their time and place, now beyond living memory, told as they experienced it, without the memoirist’s reflection, revision, or hindsight. They could not know the outcome. Joey never got to read the history books. I have accordingly let their writing take centre stage in this book. Father and son speak for themselves, even after all these years.
Joey Jacobson died when I was six weeks old, and he remained at the outer edge of my consciousness for most of my life. His father Percy died when I was ten. His mother May, my great-aunt, kept Joey’s uniformed portrait on her living-room wall, and she wore his operational wings on her lapel every day. I don’t recall her ever speaking of him, though, and I never asked. Nonetheless I came to understand that Joey had been a very special member of our family, and that his loss, even if unspoken, had left a hole in many hearts.
Growing up in the shadow of the Second World War shaped my sensibilities in ways I saw very clearly at the time, and in others that took me much longer to comprehend. The war took the youngest of my parents’ generation. They were the men I never knew.
In 1992, a Canadian television documentary about that increasingly forgotten war suggested that the bomber crews were led to their deaths unknowing of what they were destroying below or of the risk to themselves. The program attracted substantial ire among veterans. One of them, Joey’s cousin Ray Silver, decided to write his own book in response. It was in those years that I began to ask myself what my relatives who had served in Bomber Command had really done and experienced so many years ago. Periodic visits to Joey’s sisters Edith and Janet in Montreal prompted the discovery of letters, diaries, and photographs long stashed away in cupboards and basements.
In 2004, not long after I read Joe’s daily diary, I had lunch with his best friend, Monty Berger. On parting, Monty handed me a bundle of letters that he had kept for sixty years. Anticipating my interest, he had brought them to entrust in my care. I would become Joey’s biographer, he said, and it was then that I realized that I had taken on the obligation to write this book. Shortly after I came across a news item about the son of Joe’s wireless operator in England, and about their wartime funeral in Lichtenvoorde. In the months following I visited England and the Netherlands to find out more. So began my voyage of inquiry in England, the Netherlands, and Canada.
By virtue of my undertaking, Joey came alive and immediate to me in a way that my other uncles, middle-aged men when I was a boy, never had. I liked them, of course, but a generation stood between us. Joey’s letters and diaries revealed a vibrant young man in whom I could recognize something of myself at that age. But he had been confronted by circumstances that my generation had not. And so I came to see and also to wonder about what I too had lost, and to grieve for the man I never met.
Acknowledgements
This book is based on the letters and diaries of Joe Jacobson and his father Percy, and the letters Joe received from his friends. I first became aware of them through his sisters, Edith Jacobson Low-Beer and Janet Jacobson Kwass, and his closest friend, Monty Berger. I am deeply grateful for their assistance and encouragement along the way. I am also grateful to their children, Jo-Ann and Peter Kwass, and Susan and Jane Low-Beer, for their co-operation and assistance in organizing the donation of Joe’s letters, diaries, and photos to the Alex Dworkin Canadian Jewish Archives in 2012.
Over the fifteen years since I first imagined this book, I have had the opportunity to visit or obtain the assistance of numerous libraries, archives, and museums. In Canada, these included Library and Archives Canada, the Directorate of History and Heritage (Department of National Defence), the Canadian War Museum, the Canadian Aviation and Space Museum and Library, Carleton University Library, and the Ottawa Public Library (in Ottawa); the Alex Dworkin Canadian Jewish Archives and McGill University Archives (in Montreal); the Toronto Public Library (in Toronto); the Royal Canadian Air Force Museum (Trenton, Ontario); Cambridge City Archives (Cambridge, Ontario); Kitchener Public Library (Kitchener, Ontario); Debert Military Museum (Debert, Nova Scotia); and the Canadian Museum of Flight and Transportation (Langley, British Columbia).
In the United Kingdom, I benefited from visits to or assistance from The National Archives, the Imperial War Museum, the Royal Air Force Museum, the British Library, the Jewish Military Museum, and the Air Historical Branch (RAF) (in London); Cambridge University Library (Cambridge); the National Meteorological Archive (Exeter); the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (Maidstone); the Woodhall Spa Library (Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire); the Metheringham Airfield Visitor Centre (Metheringham, Lincolnshire); the Lincolnshire Aviation Heritage Centre (East Kirkby, Lincolnshire); and the RAF Museum at Cosford. I was also assisted on visits to the AVOG Crash Museum in Leivelde, Netherlands, and the National Archives and Records Administration in College Park, Maryland, in the United States. The staff at all of these institutions were invariably helpful, but I must single out a few for special recognition: Janice Rosen at the Canadian Jewish Archives, Stephen Harris at the Directorate of History and Heritage, William Spencer at The National Archives, John Marshall-East at the Aviation Heritage Centre, and Jan Geerdinck at the AVOG Crash Museum.
Site visits to Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, and to the Lichtenvoorde area in the Netherlands, provided me essential grounding for the events described here. I owe my deepest thanks to Wim Rhebergen of Hoevelaken, NL, without whose meticulous investigations of Allied bomber crashes in the Achterhoek area of the Netherlands, and whose dedication to communicating his findings to the families of the lost airmen, I would never have learned of the events of early 1942 in Lichtenvoorde. He guided me on site visits, provided me with records and translations
, and steered me through the complex story of occupation and resistance there.
I am also indebted to many friends, colleagues, and others who graciously provided me with encouragement, advice, and information over the life of this project. In Canada, they include Chris Burn, Ted Chamberlin, Tim Cook, Michael Cristofaro, John Godwin, Jack Granatstein, Jim Lotz, Ian McKendry, Sietze Praamsma, Hulbert Silver, Gerald Smith, Norm Snow, John Stager, Ron Verzuh, Randall Wakelam, Robert Willinsky, and (in the United States) Yvette Kale (née Kostoris) and Herb Ross. My special thanks to Gerald Tulchinsky for his encouragement and sage guidance along the way, and to my editor at Wilfrid Laurier University Press, Mike Bechthold.
In Great Britain they include Phil Bonner, Mark Connelly, Linzee Duncan, Simon Elmer, Marilyn Farias (née Selfe), Stuart Hadaway, Dave Harrigan, Andrew and Janette Hodgkinson, Mike Hulme, Brian and Denise (née Michaels) Infield, Andy Marson, Margorie Sargeant, Des Richards, Rod Sanders, Margo Schwartz, Peter and Zena Scoley, Martin Sugarman, and Derek Thomas. In the Netherlands, I owe a debt of gratitude to Henny Bennink, Henk Heinst, Theo and Hannie Leemreize, and John Griffiths.
Several of those who inspired and assisted me over the last twenty years did not live to see the result. They include Joey’s sister Edith, his best friend Monty, and three men who also served as navigators in Bomber Command: my mother’s (and Joe’s) cousin Lionel (Ray) Silver, my father-in-law Al White, and my mentor and dear friend Moose Kerr. Had our conversations not been terminated before I really knew what to ask them about, this would have been a better book.
I am grateful to those who read and commented on drafts, in whole or in part, including Hugh Brody, Gillian O’Reilly, Wim Rhebergen, Diana Schwartz, George Thompson, and Tony Usher. My greatest debt is to my wife, Pamela White, whose unstinting support, close reading, and incisive observations have sustained me throughout.
Most of the photographs in this book were originally provided by the Jacobson family. Some of them are now in the Percy and Joe Jacobson collection at the Alex Dworkin Canadian Jewish Archives, and are credited accordingly; the others are credited to Janet Jacobson Kwass. Other photographs were obtained from Library and Archives Canada, the Laurier Centre for Military Strategic and Disarmament Studies, the Imperial War Museum, the Metheringham Airfield Visitor Centre, the AVOG Crash Museum, Marilyn Farias, Mrs. Leo Passhuis, and Robert Willinsky.
Part One
Father and Son
We have taken the very cream of the youth of Canada. These boys are … bred in Canada, schooled in Canadian schools and with an intensely Canadian viewpoint.
– Charles Power, Minister of National Defence for Air, 6 November 1941
The honour of our race is in the keeping of but a fraction of her people.
– Lord Moran, The Anatomy of Courage, 1945
One
September 1939
On the day that news of the German invasion of Poland arrived in Montreal, Percy Jacobson rolled a blank sheet of paper on to his typewriter carriage, noted the date at the top, and began to write. He would do this most days for the next six years of war, recording his observations on daily events at home and abroad, not least on what they might mean for his only remaining son, Joe. Percy had expected war and dreaded it. He knew it would bring disruption and sorrow to his family circle at 635 Grosvenor Avenue, just as it would to his city, to Canada, and to the nations of Europe. Yet on this day he was relieved that the necessary struggle would finally be engaged.
Joe Jacobson was an ambitious young man and an accomplished athlete. He was the only Jew on McGill University’s 1938 intercollegiate champion football team. He had graduated in commerce in the spring of 1939. He had set course to enter his father’s office furniture business, which supplied many of Montreal’s corporate headquarters. To that end, he had a factory job lined up with one of his father’s business associates in Ontario. But when Joe returned to Montreal from summer camp at the end of August, troops were already on guard at railway yards, bridges, and power stations, and the Red Cross was training ambulance drivers and nurses.
For several days now, in fact ever since the war, I have had Joe on my mind. He is twenty-one and must make his own decision. I know that he can’t keep out of it. First of all we are Jews and Hitler’s persecution of the Jews will go down into history along with the stories of the Spanish Inquisition. Second of all even if he felt war was wrong and realized the wickedness of destroying the youth of the world he couldn’t stand by and see his friends fight for him. And third as a graduate of McGill with a fine record in the classroom and on the field, he would lose caste in his own eyes as well as with his fellow men. Then again he is just the right age and his physical fitness is par.
I told him to think it out and if he decided to join up to select the work he is best fitted for. It is going to be very hard on his mother. I am desperately sorry for my boy, I know he hates war and hates fighting. He is a gentle nature and has an awfully lot of good sense. God Bless the boy. (PJD 13 September 1939)
Joe’s two best friends, lads about his age, came over in the afternoon and of course talked about the war. They are both intelligent and wide minded. … They are quite disillusioned about everything but they know that they are trapped, they know they must do their duty and they agree that the menace of Hitlerism is not mere propaganda but is borne out by actual facts. They feel, like I do, that when Hitler began his persecution against the Jews the civilized nations of the world attempted no interference. And when the purge of Jews was at its height and they were flung out into the world no country went on record as being willing to afford asylum for them. (PJD 14 September 1939)
What a difference between the young men of 1914 and the young men of today. What a happy go lucky crowd of lads they were full of gaiety and keen for adventure. They would march along the streets singing little knowing what they were in for. They would shout “We’re on our way to Berlin.” They visualized a tour of Europe at their country’s expense. We all know what happened. Now our boys know what they are up against, know what they are going into, and although they perhaps realize that there is a job to be done, they don’t like the business. But they will fight and if they have no stomach they have guts and backbone. One thing I notice particularly that they won’t stand for any cant or even idealisms. They are not to be fooled by high-sounding empty phrases. They are completely disillusioned and completely cynical about the whole affair. (PJD 15 September 1939)
The declaration of war did not immediately deflect Joe from his intended path. Even if he could step into his father’s business whenever he liked, he wanted to get some real work experience under his belt.
Tonight Joe left for Preston to work in a furniture factory. I am afraid he will not be there for long because the war news is so bad that it will not be long before every young man will be in the army. The reason Joe is still a civilian is due to my persuasion. I want him to carefully consider what branch of work he is best fitted for. At present the Government is unable to handle the men already enlisted.
Joe has the makings of a first class man. God grant that he may be allowed to be of more use to this Canada of ours than holding a rifle. That he may be called upon to do something better for his Alma Mater than stick some poor devil in the belly with a bayonet.
(PJD 18 September 1939)
There is no question that at present he is not needed and I am sure that the Government (although they dare not say so) are embarrassed about how to deal with the men they already have. (PJD 19 September 1939)
Yet Percy also knew that this state of suspension could not and must not last.
Those of us who have English blood in our veins, who know and love England, must be prepared to make every sacrifice that England and the British Empire may continue a factor in civilization. It is our one safeguard against the law of the jungle. I know England has made mistakes, terrible mistakes. … But I still love England. I don’t want to live under German rule. (PJD 22 September 1939)
Percy, alt
hough born in Montreal, spent his early childhood years in Liverpool and Manchester, where his mother’s family had long prospered in the tobacco manufacturing business. Some time after his father abandoned them, Mrs. Jacobson and her only son Percy returned to Canada, where the Montreal branch of the family saw to the boy’s welfare. Percy was sent to board at Lower Canada College, and by the age of twenty he had been set up in the office furniture business. Some years later he met May Silver, who was studying library science at McGill University, and married her.
In 1939, Percy and May were living halfway up the slopes of Westmount, in the heart of upper middle-class English Montreal. They had had four children: Edith, twenty-three years old when the war began, Joey, two years younger, Peter, who died of leukemia in 1937 while still in high school, and Janet, aged sixteen. The Thirties had brought Percy his share of business anxieties, but the family was always able to afford what mattered to them. They eschewed ostentation, but their house was spacious and comfortable, they employed a live-in maid as was common to their station, and they sent their children to summer camp.
Percy and May built an emotionally stable and nurturing household for their children, as well as a financially secure one. Much was given, much was accepted, and much was required of each member of the household. On Monday nights parents and children met to discuss family issues and plan the coming week. Joey was fiercely protective of his sisters despite some competitive but good-natured squabbling. He was the golden boy of his family. They were generous with him, as he was with them. Joey drew his ideals of family life from this background, observing that “of all the homes I have ever been in or all the families and gatherings I have been in, none have the warmth, informality or the vigour of ours.”
Joey Jacobson's War Page 2