Читать книгу Sherlock's Squadron - The Incredible True Story of the Unsung Heroes of World War Two - Steve Holmes - Страница 9

By the evening of September 3rd, Britain and France were at war with Germany and within a week, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa had also joined the conflict. The world had been plunged into its second world war in 25 years. No one, not John, not his father, mother or his brothers or sisters would have believed that the war would last six long and bloody years. No one would have predicted it would be so fierce and fought over many thousands of square miles or would claim so many innocent lives. It would be fought from the hedgerows of Normandy to the streets of Stalingrad, the icy slopes of Norway and Finland to the sweltering heat of North Africa and the insect infested jungles of Burma and the tropics of Java. It would affect every single family in Great Britain.

Towards the end of September, John made his way home from work and lingered on his boss’s words that it would be over by Christmas. He hoped that was the case, he hoped everyone would return home safely and they would enjoy the festivities like he’d remembered from the year before. But something welling in the pit of his stomach told him that wouldn’t be the case.

He recalled the history lessons at school as his teacher, Mr Mackenzie, gave him the facts on World War One. ‘The War To End All Wars,’ ‘The Great War.’ The teacher said as he pontificated at the front of the classroom. What a stupid name, thought John; which idiot named it ‘The Great War?’ It didn’t appear very ‘great’ after listening to his lessons.

It was the Germans again who had antagonised half of Europe by invading Belgium, Luxembourg and France. The war was fought mainly in the trenches of Northern France, young men and boys massacred like toy soldiers. Cannon fodder, Mr Mackenzie had said, and by the war end, Great Britain had lost five million military personnel. John couldn’t even contemplate those sorts of figures. One of his classmates said there wasn’t a million minutes in a year; he wondered if that were true?

His boss was wrong; the war hadn’t ended by Christmas. John still listened to the radio reports about the battles and the push for territory, the successes and the losses sustained by the Allies. He hated to admit it but he was almost disappointed that the war hadn’t seemed to have reached Lancaster. Why hadn’t the war arrived here?

Lancaster was so distant, it had never seen any real action. It was like there wasn’t a war going on at all, as if it was happening somewhere else in some far-off distant land. No strategic bombing, no soldiers patrolling the streets or air wardens shining small torches through gaps in windows ordering people to block out lights. Nothing. No munitions factories here. Just warehouses, textile mills, cobbled streets and the Crook O’ Lune.

But the war was happening in Lancaster, and it was happening in Skerton too as one by one, young men and women in their early twenties gradually disappeared from the grey cobbled streets to do their duty for King and Country fighting a war in a foreign land. John recalled Mrs Roberts from a few doors down standing in the kitchen of her home as she proudly boasted to John’s mother that her son Frank was one of the first to be called up. And she had been proud, mighty proud as the day for Frank’s departure arrived. John watched from his bedroom window as close relatives and extended family arrived at number 43 to wave Frank off until eventually a small crowd gathered around the step to the front door. And they sang songs and waved flags and bunting adorned the doorway and hung from lampposts nearby. And how Mrs Roberts smiled and beamed with pride as Frank set off along the street.

And then it was John’s brothers’ turn as they received their papers. The papers told them to report to various drill halls in the North West. James, the eldest, received his call-up first. It was spring 1940. The letter advised him to report to a church hall in Lancaster on a specified date, unless he was in one of the reserve occupations listed, in which case he had to notify the war office within 48 hours. Georgina Holmes looked at the list. Dock-workers, miners, farmers, merchant seamen, firemen, railwaymen and utility workers in the water, gas, or electric industry. James had always wanted to be a fireman but she had discouraged him; she thought it was a dangerous occupation. She was so proud when he left school and took up his position as a store-man. Within a few short years he headed the department.

No one in the house knew of the torment she was going through as her eyes hovered over the word fireman. No one knew of the anguish she would suffer during the six years of conflict that would claim 60 million lives and devastate most of Europe and large parts of Asia and Africa.

James reported for duty and basic training at Squire’s Gate Camp in Blackpool. He had chosen the East Lancashire Regiment. After eight weeks’ basic training he would find himself fighting the Germans in a muddy field in northern France. Latterly he would be posted to Malaya and Burma. He was 25 years of age when he kissed goodbye to his family. His sister, Alice, held his girlfriend Marjorie tight as James walked to the end of the street. Marjorie cried as if the world had come to an end. She was inconsolable.

Ernie was next. His papers arrived two weeks later. Ernie’s girlfriend Dorothy Mossop was having tea with the family when William placed the envelope on the kitchen table.

‘This came this morning,’ he announced. ‘I thought I’d wait until we’d finished our tea.’

Ernie had forked the last piece of potato into his mouth, which was just as well because his appetite vanished immediately. There was a prolonged silence. It was only an envelope, yet everyone who crowded around the small kitchen table knew of its significance, not least his girlfriend Dorothy who burst into tears as she dropped a knife onto her plate causing everyone to jump. Ernie laughed it off.

‘Don’t be stupid lass, we knew this day would come and you know how much I want to go and give Hitler the kicking he deserves.’

John smiled. He wanted to go and give Hitler a good kicking too. John wanted to join his two older brothers, wherever, whenever. Why couldn’t he go? He could work, he could get served in the local pubs and hotels in Lancaster and he was even old enough to get married and yet he couldn’t go and serve his country, protect it from a man and a country hell bent on destruction.

‘It’ll be over soon, don’t you fret Dot, and I’ll be back before you know it.’

John admired his older brother’s courage and dignity, even if he was just putting on a brave face. John was always close to Ernie despite the five-year gap. It had been Ernie who took him into the Greaves Hotel in town and bought him his first pint of bitter a few weeks back and it had been Ernie who first encouraged him to ask the attractive-looking barmaid, Joyce, out on a date even if she was quite a few years older than him. John would miss Ernie, that was for sure. He’d miss his guidance and his protection, his humour too. He had accepted a small packet from Ernie the third time he had taken Joyce out.

‘I got these from the barber, John. I think you’ll need them soon.’

John unwrapped the stiff brown paper. He was about to open the packet in full view of the regulars in the pub. Ernie reached across and clamped his hand on the packet.

‘Not here, our kid… later,’ he grinned.

John sensed from Ernie’s smile that they were something to be opened in private though at the time didn’t know exactly what it was he held in the palm of his hand. He slid the packet in his pocket and promised himself he would take a peek the next time he needed to go to the toilet.

Ernie joined the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. He read up on the regiment at the local library and was very proud to be joining such a famous and well respected outfit. During the weeks before he left for their headquarters at Fulwood Barracks, Preston, he reminded anyone who would listen that during World War One three members of the Regiment had been awarded the Victoria Cross. He said that the regiment recruited from the towns of Central Lancashire, including Preston, Chorley, Bolton and Wigan. What more could he ask for than to go to war with a bunch of his blood brothers, salt of the earth Lancashire lads?

‘Don’t worry,’ he called out to his parents as he walked out of the front door en route to the railway station. ‘We’ll look out for each other. You’ll see me quicker than you think.’

Georgina Holmes tried her best not to cry. It was the last thing her son would want to see. She fought the tears; she fought harder than she’d ever fought anything before and just about managed to carry it off. Ernie was 22. He promised to write to his mother as often as he could. But as Ernie turned the corner of Ashton Drive, he turned and gave a final wave. As he disappeared from view her legs gave way, not unlike a heavyweight boxer caught on the ropes with nowhere to hide. It took her husband all his strength to keep her from collapsing in a heap on their front doorstep.

John noticed the subtle differences in the house, particularly in his mother’s attitude towards him. She would hardly let him out of her sight and fussed around him like an old mother hen. John knew how difficult it was for her, having lost two sons, and even his sisters appeared to treat him a little differently. There was no name calling or teasing which was always par for the course and each week, on pay day, Mary and Alice would bring him a little treat, a bar of chocolate or a magazine. He thanked them of course but then always reminded them there wasn’t any need to bring him gifts, he wasn’t a baby anymore and he had his own wages now. He was wrong, thought Georgina Holmes. He was the baby, always had been and always would be.

Mary and Alice were lucky; although they weren’t in reserved occupation they had escaped being called up into the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, the Nursing Corps or indeed to factories further afield making munitions. Mary worked at K shoes at Lancaster and had done since she left school at 15. She had risen to the rank of supervisor and had 25 people working under her. In 1939 K shoes had been contracted to produce aircraft covers, tents, service boots, kit bags, gaiters and even RAF flying boots. Production was stepped up and an extra hour put onto the working day. The government deemed that Mary would be best placed to remain in her current employment and help with the war effort that way. John adored Mary, who reminded him very much of his mother. In fact it was as if he had two mothers at number 59 Ashton Drive.

Alice, on the other hand, was totally different to Mary, like chalk and cheese but just as special to John.

Alice took great pride in her appearance, always dressed immaculately whenever she left the house and although the smallest of the brothers and sisters at just under five foot, she carried herself high. John’s mother would sometimes have a little laugh at her expense, announcing ‘here’s her majesty a’coming’ if she spotted her in the street from the bay window of the lounge. The jackets and skirts from her wardrobe were carefully tailored, more contoured to the shape of her figure, and consequently looked more feminine than the other box-cut fashions some of her friends and colleagues wore. One particular favourite of Alice’s was a suit that many women wore during the war years. The suits were made from a tartan cloth and would later be nicknamed ‘siren suits’ when hordes of tartan-clad girls would be seen running for the air raid shelters when the sirens sounded. Alice demanded everything neat and tidy and took her tea in a delicate china cup. She positively frowned with displeasure when John and his dad took theirs from white tin mugs. John’s dad said it made no sense.

‘Give me a mug,’ he’d command. ‘Can’t get any more than a gob full out of those bloody thimbles.’

Alice, aged 23, was office manager in the accounts department of the local council. She helped set the budgets, kept essential services financed and made sure the wages were paid to the workers. Again the government thought it prudent that she stayed put in Lancaster. Georgina Holmes was luckier than most; three out of five at home isn’t bad, she thought. But as the three remaining siblings settled down to listen to the evening news from the BBC she wondered just how long it would be before she was left with two. John sat down on the rug and crossed his legs. He leant up against his mother’s knees as she put down her knitting and rubbed a weary hand through his hair.

John had to get used to being the only boy in the household. His chores were increased to make up for the fact that his two older brothers were away to war and suddenly there was only him and his dad to cut wood, bring in the coal, clean the fire and tend to the allotment. All in all John didn’t mind; he moaned occasionally but it was just a front to cover the fact that he missed his brothers so much.

John continued to swim in the Crook O’ Lune and was selected for the legendary Lancaster water polo team, arguably the top club in England. They would win every game John played but sadly travelling to events and competitions was restricted because of the war. Nevertheless it was another small release for John who desperately wanted to join his brothers fighting for his country.

John had also struck up a friendship with a local boy, Norman Shaw. Norman was quite a small lad, as were most of his family, or so Norman said. Norman lived with his parents, brothers and sisters in a very imposing three storey, four bedroomed end terrace house. It was in Belle Vue Terrace, in the Greaves area of Lancaster. The house was elevated up from the main A6 road on a terrace known locally as the Monkey Rack. It was definitely the posh end of town. Norman and John got on like a house on fire and met most evenings for a couple of pints in the Greaves Hotel after the nine o’clock BBC news briefing. The war was the one subject on everyone’s lips and Norman and John were no different. The two young men knew that the war wasn’t going as well as expected.

‘They’re evacuating the Allied troops at Dunkirk, John.’

John took a mouthful of beer, replaced his glass on the table. ‘So I heard. Probably nothing, you can’t win every battle in the war, Norm’.’

‘Perhaps not. Any idea where Ernie and James are?’

John shook his head. ‘No, heard nothing since they left their billets.’

Both brothers had written a couple of times during their basic training but the family had heard nothing since they were put on troop trains at Liverpool Lime Street Station some weeks back. Their destination was top secret.

The British Government hadn’t disclosed the full facts about the evacuation at Dunkirk, for obvious reasons. Great Britain and the Allies had been on the verge of defeat. 300,000 Allied troops were stranded on the beaches at Dunkirk. They had not eaten in days, they were low on ammunition and their dead and wounded colleagues lay all around. The might of a fully equipped and confident German Army had pinned them on the beaches and encircled them. The German Luftwaffe was ready to take off and obliterate the beaches and the bodies on them as soon as their Fuhrer gave the order. Hitler spoke to his victorious troops.

‘Dunkirk has fallen… with it has ended the greatest battle of world history. Soldiers! My confidence in you knows no bounds. You have not disappointed me.’

In the House of Commons Winston Churchill put on a brave face.

‘We must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory. Wars are not won by evacuations.’

He also praised the RAF. The Royal Air Force played a pivotal role protecting the retreating troops from the Luftwaffe. It was said that the sandy beaches softened the explosions from the German bombs, minimising casualties, but there is no doubt that the pilots and crews of the RAF bought the time necessary to get British, French and Belgian troops back to the southern shores of Hampshire, Kent and Sussex in order that they could live to fight another day. Between 26th May and 4th June during the evacuation, the RAF flew a total of 4,822 sorties over Dunkirk. They claimed 262 Luftwaffe aircraft.

In the wake of the evacuation of Dunkirk in the summer of 1940, Hitler’s generals proposed that the German army should invade Britain. The operation was codenamed Sea Lion but the Generals quite rightly conceded that it could only be achieved with full superiority in the air over the British Isles.

Hitler sent out the order to prepare the Luftwaffe for action with the prime objective to destroy the British Royal Air Force. The Luftwaffe was unquestionably much greater than their British counterpart with much more experience too. The German pilots were well blooded in the bombing raids on Spain towards the end of the Civil War and the Blitzkrieg in France had also served them well. As the German generals addressed the key people of the Luftwaffe in Berlin towards the beginning of June 1940 they reassured them that victory would be theirs very soon. They reminded them that the German aircraft superiority outnumbered that of the RAF by nearly four to one. A slight exaggeration perhaps, but not a million miles from the truth. Goering went a step further; he estimated that it would take just four days to defeat the RAF Fighter Command in southern England. He would follow it up with a four-week offensive during which the bombers and long-range fighters would destroy all military installations throughout the country. In addition they would attempt to wreck the British aircraft industry. The campaign would start with attacks on airfields near the coast, gradually moving inland to attack the ring of airfields defending London.

The British people were gearing up for a German invasion. On 18th June 1940, Winston Churchill spoke in the House of Commons.

‘The Battle of France is over,’ he said. ‘I expect the Battle of Britain is about to begin. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say this was their finest hour.’

Over the summer of 1940, in the skies in the south of England, dogfights could regularly be seen between RAF and German fighters and the fighter airfields of the south were relentlessly bombed by the Luftwaffe. The losses on both sides were great. At one point, unknown to Goering, the RAF were on their knees, but after Bomber Command attacks on Berlin, Goering decided to turn the might of the Luftwaffe on London giving the RAF respite and much needed time to rearm. In late September the Battle of Britain had ended and Operation Sea Lion had been postponed indefinitely. Against overwhelming odds the RAF fighter command had overcome the might of the Luftwaffe. It led to another important address to the nation by Winston Churchill, the British Prime Minister. He ended with the immortal line:

‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’

John Holmes rushed home every night, had a quick bite to eat and literally ran to the Roxy Cinema, which was replaying footage of the Battle of Britain. It was a ‘Movietone’ production that he sat watching as he munched through a chocolate bar, unable to take his eyes from the screen. The footage showed a group of Canadian pilots being scrambled as news of a German attack came in. The narrator proudly exclaimed that Fighter Command had already performed wonders and John watched as the Spitfires and Hurricanes roared down the runways and up into the air to engage the German aircraft. The footage switched to the air as it focused on a group of German bombers protected by Messerschmitt fighters. John knew that the Movietone production was heavily weighted towards the British successes but then again pictures didn’t lie and the film reel clearly showed dozens of clips of burning German aircraft hitting the ground with airfield fireman extinguishing the fires of German planes as the tail pieces, adorned with huge swastikas, took centre stage.

‘169 German aircraft lost in one day,’ the voice announced. The narrator said that the figures were compiled by the pilots who shot down the aircraft and an independent witness. John had to laugh; an independent witness, where would they find one of them? And still he waxed lyrical about the stricken German planes in his monotone public school voice.

‘Equivalent to twelve or fourteen squadrons, how long can the Nazis stand such losses? The Bosch got what was coming to them.’

The crews rested and played football between raids, a portable telephone on standby to warn them of the next attack. John wondered when they slept. A graveyard of Nazi hopes, the letters on the screen announced from a new film reel, this time a different production. The camera filmed a 20-acre scrap yard somewhere in southern England where the wreckage of hundreds of German planes were being dismantled for valuable scrap metal. In an incredible piece of footage the movie makers explained and detailed the tactics of a spitfire taking out a Heinkel bomber. The narrator explained the vulnerability of the Heinkel who had three gunners, one in the front, one in the rear and one underneath. The Heinkel design was poor he claimed, giving a clear arc of attack on the pilot should a spitfire come in from above at the correct angle. The guns of the bomber were effectively useless if the pilot of the Spitfire got his coordinates correct. And then the footage showed exactly the angle the pilot would fly in from. Pure genius thought John, pure genius. It was no accident that the casualties were running at around five to one in favour of the Allied aircraft. It then showed a real clip of a Spitfire doing exactly what the narrator had previously explained. The Spitfire powered in on the Heinkel and the bullets concentrated on the enemy cockpit. A little smoke poured from the cockpit, the pilot clearly dead and then the bomber burst into flames much to the delight of the assembled cinemagoers that started applauding loudly.

John returned to the cinema night after night during July, August, September and October 1940. His father claimed he was becoming obsessed, spending his entire wage packet on cinema tickets. John didn’t care and he was almost disappointed when the battle of Britain ended towards the end of October when the Luftwaffe turned their attention to British cities once again.

The two friends sat in silence for a few moments. Norman’s brother, Cliff, had also joined the East Lancashire Regiment along with James and had slept in the same billet during basic training. It only came out in a letter that Cliff sent home. In it he mentioned a ‘James Holmes’ from Skerton. Norman had brought the letter along to the pub to show John and the two friends had put two and two together. It was an amazing coincidence that the two soldiers had got on so well together, as had their two brothers back home in Civvy Street. It gave them a little reassurance knowing that they would look out for each other.

‘I wish I could be there with them, Norman; I feel so useless sat in a fucking factory ten hours a day,’ said John.

‘Me too, mate, but our time will come. Another few months and we’ll both get our chance. Will you be joining the East Lancaster’s?’

John shook his head. ‘Not me, Norman.’

‘What mob are you joining then?’

‘The RAF.’

Norman Shaw nearly choked on his beer. ‘The fucking Brylcreem Boys! I knew you were watching too much bloody footage at the pictures. The Battle of Britain is over mate, we won. You’re too late.’

Norman put his glass down onto the table, gazed across at his friend. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘You bet I am. I’ve never been so serious about anything in my life.’

John and his dad grew ever closer, as they never missed a single night by the radio. It had become a sort of tradition. They sat together in November 1940 as the BBC announced the destruction of the city of Coventry, the Coventry Blitz as it would be known. 515 German bombers had flown over the city in an operation codenamed Mondscheinsonate (Moonlight Sonata). It was an innovative raid which would influence all future strategic bombing raids. The Luftwaffe used pathfinder aircraft with electronic aids to mark the munitions factory targets before the main bombers went into action. The first wave of follow-up bombers dropped high explosive bombs, knocking out utilities, the gas, water and electricity networks. They deliberately cratered the roads, making it difficult for the fire engines to reach fires, and determined that the city of Coventry would burn like a firestorm. The bombers dropped a combination of high explosive and incendiary bombs. They damaged roofs, making it easier for the incendiary bombs to fall into buildings and ignite them. They may have struck lucky that night as they scored a direct hit on the fire brigade headquarters. The city burned for three days, the firemen unable to cope. The raid on Coventry claimed over 1,000 lives, the vast majority civilian women working a shift in the factories. An incredible 60,000 buildings were destroyed or damaged. It wasn’t surprising; the Germans had dropped 500 tons of high explosives and 36,000 incendiary bombs within a few hours. Mission accomplished for the pilots and aircrews of the Nazi air force.

John couldn’t contemplate the sheer scale of destruction. For once his father couldn’t bring himself to discuss the evening radio reports. He got up from the table shaking his head and as he walked out of the door John heard him mumble.

‘Coventry…Coventry… God help the poor bastards in Coventry.’

It was the first time John had heard his father curse in anger.

Two days later John and Norman were back together in the Greaves Hotel. Norman asked why John hadn’t appeared the night before and he explained that he’d had a hastily-arranged date with Joyce.

‘What was so hasty you couldn’t meet up with your pal?’

John smiled. ‘Her parents were out for the evening.’

Norman’s brow furrowed; he had a puzzled look etched across his face. He looked over to the bar where Joyce pulled a pint for one of the regulars. Then the penny dropped.

‘You didn’t?’

John grinned, signalled over to Joyce, put two fingers up and pointed to Norman and himself.

‘Two pints, John?’ she called over.

John nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll just pay for them mate.’

Norman grabbed his jacket as he stepped from behind the table.

‘You didn’t answer me, John.’

‘Answer what?’

‘You didn’t, did you?’

John bent over and whispered in his ear.

‘You bet I did mate. At least half a dozen times, she rode me like a jockey in the Derby, the Grand National and the St Ledger all rolled into one.’

For a few seconds Norman lost the power of speech as his jaw fell open but no words came.

John took a few paces towards the bar. ‘That reminds me, I’ll be needing a haircut soon to pick up some more military hardware.’

‘Well I never,’ mumbled Norman as he picked up his glass. ‘The dirty… rotten…lucky bastard.’

The meetings continued for some weeks, as did John’s dates with Joyce, and by this time he had another two girls on the go and he never tired of giving Norman a blow-by-blow account of each passionate encounter.

‘You’re some fellow, John Holmes,’ he joked. ‘You want to be careful – that cock of yours will drop off.’

The two friends sat at their regular table in the bar. The door opened to the street and a shape appeared in the doorway. It was a pleasant interlude. The girl took a step forward and gazed around the bar, obviously looking for someone. The only girls that came into the pubs and clubs of Lancaster at that particular time generally stood behind the bar and pulled pints. John’s jaw dropped. Suddenly Joyce had lost her appeal.

‘Look Norman, look.’ John pointed over to the girl.

Norman put his beer glass on the table and peered over, curious as to what John was so interested in.

The girl in the doorway couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, very petite, but extremely good looking and smartly dressed in a close fitting jacket, a tight pencil skirt and black high heels. John caught his breath as she seemed to recognise him and smiled. And to his absolute joy she closed the door and started walking towards their table.

‘Look Norm, she’s coming this way, she’s absolutely gorgeous.’

Norman turned to face him.

‘That she is, John…that she is. But I’ll thank you to keep your dirty fucking paws off her. That’s my sister Dorothy.’