Читать книгу The Red Line: The Gripping Story of the RAF’s Bloodiest Raid on Hitler’s Germany - John Nichol - Страница 7

They had waited 67 years and journeyed from every far-flung corner of the world for this day. A lifetime ago, young and idealistic, they had come together to battle against the Nazi scourge which threatened to engulf their homelands. Once sprightly, upright figures were now stooped by age or confined to wheelchairs, but medals were polished to perfection and trousers pressed to a razor-sharp crease, and nothing would prevent them from gathering to witness the closing chapter in their extraordinary and controversial story.

The sun shone down on London’s Green Park on 28 June 2012 as more than 800 Royal Air Force veterans paraded to witness the unveiling of the Bomber Command Memorial – their memorial. Some came from as far away as New Zealand, Canada and Australia, some just a few minutes’ bus-ride from nearby suburbs of the British capital. They were joined by widows, families, celebrities, political leaders and royalty. I was incredibly proud to be part of their day.

My association with the men of Bomber Command began in 1991. As a young Tornado navigator, I had been shot down over Iraq during the first Gulf War, captured, tortured and paraded on television screens around the world. My short but deeply unpleasant experience of captivity entitled me to join the RAF Ex-Prisoner of War Association.

Until that point, I had known little about my forebears who had flown the early bombers into the heart of German-occupied Europe during the darkest days of the Second World War. I’d watched the classic films like The Dambusters and The Great Escape, of course. I’d met veterans at various military functions, chatted politely and listened to the occasional war story. But I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t got to know these men; I understood little of their personal stories, their astonishing sacrifice and their incredible bravery.

Now I was able to join their illustrious gatherings – some raucous, laughter- and beer-filled, some poignant and sombre, when awe-inspiring stories of survival brought the occasional tear at the memory of lost friends, or moments of stillness at the recollection of life-threatening danger. Men like Lancaster navigator Harry Evans invited me into their homes to ‘share a brew’ and talk about wartime memories. Harry was just 18 when he joined up. ‘I’d seen the fighter pilots in the skies over London and wanted to be part of it all; it looked so exciting. I wanted to be one of those Brylcreem Boys who were fighting back against the Germans.’ He got his wish – and went on to be part of one of the most deadly chapters in aviation history.

Over the years, their reunions have become fewer and the numbers attending have diminished to the point where many Second World War old-comrade associations have now disbanded. At last year’s Remembrance Ceremony, only four surviving WWII prisoners-of-war managed to join us on parade at London’s Cenotaph. The eldest, Alfie Fripp, shot down in 1939, died on 3 January this year, aged 98. And so it was with a mixture of pride, pleasure and sorrow that I took my seat amidst the crowd of nearly 7,000, gathered around the memorial to honour and remember a truly extraordinary group of people.

I chatted with Lancaster pilot Rusty Waughman, who had come down from Coventry, the scene of a massive German blitz. Alongside his navigator, Alec Cowan, and bomb aimer, Norman Westby, who had travelled from Andorra in the Pyrenees, they relived experiences few could comprehend. Rusty spoke for so many when he told me, ‘We have waited a long time for this … The memorial is not a celebration of our work, it is recognition of the sacrifice so many of our friends made. We are proud to have been part of it all, to have made just a small contribution towards winning the war. I wasn’t an educated lad with a brilliant mind. You just did your job to the best of your ability. Luck played the major part in it really. We knew so many who were lost.’

Rusty and his crew truly understood the ‘luck factor’; they had witnessed those terrible losses at close quarters.

Every one of the 125,000 men who served with Bomber Command was a volunteer and their average age was 22. If the names and ages of each of the 55,573 who gave their lives had been read out at the unveiling ceremony, the roll of honour would have taken two full days – 48 hours – to complete. Yet the furore surrounding the RAF’s bombing of German cities and the lack of moral fibre of successive generations of politicians meant that they were denied the recognition their brethren in Fighter Command had been swiftly granted for their outstanding achievements in the Battle of Britain – and many of the survivors of the bomber war suffered downright hostility instead.

Some trace the roots of this invidious state of affairs back to that icon amongst British heroes, Winston Churchill. In the final year of the war he pressed Bomber Command to crush German resistance with ‘carpet bombing’ raids on cities in eastern Germany; his wish was to deliver a ‘basting [to] the Germans in their retreat’. When the Air Ministry demurred, he told them in no uncertain terms to get on with the job. ‘I asked whether Berlin, and no doubt other large cities in East Germany, should not now be considered especially attractive targets,’ he wrote. ‘I am glad this is “under examination”. Pray report to me tomorrow what is going to be done.’

Bomber Command was issued with a clear and unambiguous instruction to execute ‘one big attack on Berlin and attacks on Dresden, Leipzig, Chemnitz, or other cities where a severe blitz will not only cause confusion in the evacuation from the east but will also hamper the movement of troops from the west’.

The horrific loss of life in Dresden in particular came to epitomise the strategy, and perhaps prompted his astonishing U-turn six weeks later. ‘The destruction of Dresden remains a serious query against the conduct of Allied bombing,’ he told the Chiefs of Staff in a briefing paper, laying the blame for the death and destruction of which he was the architect squarely at the open bomb doors of Sir Arthur Harris and his ceaselessly loyal aircrews.

It remained there for many years.

No memorial was granted them; no campaign medal. But the survivors would not let their fallen comrades be exiled to the margins of history. A small but stubborn group finally determined to right this wrong. It took them five years and cost some £7 million – money raised by the men themselves, through newspaper appeals and personal donations that ranged from a few pence of a child’s pocket money to many thousands of pounds, and in one case an incredible £2 million. Alongside such luminaries as Bee Gee Robin Gibb (who sadly did not live to see the culmination of his incredible work), I joined their campaign. It was now my privilege to witness its outcome.

Just after midday, Her Majesty the Queen pulled aside the drapes to reveal Philip Jackson’s stunning sculpture, the centrepiece of architect Liam O’Connor’s beautiful Portland stone memorial. There were gasps of pleasure and admiration from the front of the crowd, and cheers from those of us further back who, for the time being, could only imagine the sight.

The bronze statues depict seven members of a bomber crew, recently returned from yet another sortie through enemy skies. Exhaustion and relief are etched on their faces. Five of the figures gaze skywards, praying for a glimpse of friends destined never to return; two stare downwards, perhaps reflecting on the ordeal they have just endured – and knowing they must do it all again before the sun rises tomorrow.

The sacrifice of thousands of young lives is woven into every fibre of the monument. A stainless steel lattice in its ceiling depicts the geometric fuselage construction of the early Wellington bombers. Aluminium from a crashed Halifax lines the roof; eight young men were killed when she was shot down over Belgium in May 1944, and three were still at their stations when she was discovered in 1997. Even the rivets connecting the pieces are scale replicas of those used in the aircraft. And as a symbol of generous reconciliation, a yew tree donated by the people of Germany grows alongside the memorial.

The verdict amongst those who shared the day was unanimous. Andy Wiseman, a Halifax bomb aimer, echoed the thoughts of many as he gazed at the bronze faces of the crew. ‘I understand just how they feel,’ he said softly. ‘This was us, every single night. My only sadness is that it took so long to get the memorial. It would have meant so much to the mothers and fathers who lost so many sons.’

The service of dedication was dignified yet simple. The Chief of the Air Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Stephen Dalton, promised the relatives of the dead that ‘they will now know that their service and raw courage has been recognised’. He spoke of the collective heroism of the men, highlighting the story of Canadian Air Gunner Charles Mynarski, who fought through the flames of his burning aircraft in an attempt to save his rear gunner. Mynarski died of the injuries he sustained during the rescue while the tail gunner survived. Mynarski was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his valour.

As the Venerable Ray Pentland, RAF Chaplain-in-Chief, began the dedication, four Tornado bombers roared overhead, to a chorus of cheers from the crowd and a wail of protest from a handful of car alarms. And then came the moment we had all been waiting for: ‘May this memorial commemorate the lives of all who have served and died in Bomber Command, as we acknowledge their sacrifice and service to others.’

As we reflected upon his words, the familiar drone of four Merlin engines filled the crowded park. And here she was, overhead: Britain’s last surviving airworthy Lancaster bomber. Many of those in wheelchairs struggled to their feet as our tear-filled eyes turned skywards and her massive bomb doors opened – to scatter thousands of blood-red poppies in a timeless Act of Remembrance.

We cheered and clapped in both celebration and sorrow, and in an instant she was gone.

‘You’ve waited a long time for it,’ the Queen had told Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Michael Beetham, himself a distinguished wartime pilot and one of the leaders of the campaign. ‘Well done.’

As the service ended, thousands queued to file through the memorial, to offer a quiet prayer or remember a fallen friend or loved one. The Royal Family wandered amongst the crowd, chatting to old and young alike; children played amidst the drifts of fallen poppies, and the bar began a roaring trade.

On stage in the entertainment area, TV presenter Carol Vorderman interviewed Rusty Waughman and his Lancaster crew about their experiences. Although more than a little uncomfortable about being singled out, Rusty was delighted with the day and its highlight: ‘Shaking hands with Prince Charles and being kissed by Carol Vorderman … twice!’

Although it was now late afternoon, bomb aimer Norman Westby had arranged a special feast at a local hotel. They were to be served bacon and eggs, the meal they had all enjoyed on the successful completion of each operation over enemy territory nearly 70 years before.

As Rusty and his crew departed for their own private Act of Remembrance, I have no doubt they reflected on the morning of 31 March 1944, when so many of their friends and fellow crew members had been absent from Bomber Command’s traditional ‘survivors’ breakfast.

JOHN NICHOL

Hertfordshire

13 January 2013