Secret skies

My father was an Australian pilot who flew Halifax and Lancaster bombers during WWII. His photo sat in a frame on the bedside table. Dressed in uniform, with a trim mustache, his RAAF cap at a slight angle, he had a handsome face and every night my mother would kiss the photo goodnight.

My mum and I lived in the little town near Waddington, Lincolnshire UK, which was the main RAF base during the war, so it was an incredibly noisy place all the time but particularly at night. That was when the bombers would take off with their heavy burden of bombs to fly over strategic targets in Germany. I can remember hearing the roar of the engines as they fired up, first one engine, then No. 2, then No. 3 and finally No. 4 would burst into life. The noise was unbelievable. Mum and I would cuddle together in bed because I was always scared with the thoughts of ‘would my daddy come home’. My mother was amazing in the way she always comforted me, stroked my forehead and kissed my cheek. Sometimes I would hear her whisper “bring him home, bring him home”, I could feel her warm breath on my neck and at times a hot tear would fall. Finally we would fall asleep and the night became calm and quiet. There were some bitterly cold nights when I would creep out of bed and go to the window which overlooked the aerodrome. The window panes were all steamed up with glistening white frost on the outside. I would breathe onto the window and rub it with the sleeve of my pyjamas, that would give me a frosted outlook and I could see the bombers lining up to take off. They lumbered along the runway, slowly at first; they reminded me of overstuffed geese with their wings outstretched, then their speed would increase as they readied themselves to launch into the air. Once off the ground they became graceful as they swooped off. I would watch until they disappeared and became tiny dots in the night sky. 

Crews were always briefed before they went on a mission, clear instructions about their targets and what the weather forecast was indicating. Clear moonlit nights were the most dangerous as the enemy could see them clearly, silhouetted against the night sky. All the crew would scan the skies for the tell-tale signs of the German fighters. The safest nights were when there was good cloud cover, if they were intercepted by the enemy they could slip away into the clouds. The crew would return strung out; exhausted, minds and bodies battered and bruised, often at their wits end with worry about mates who had not returned. The crew were too busy with survival and so there was not enough time for them to look for the signs of white parachutes. To relieve the strain the crews would take time out and go the pub; The Carpenter or the White Horse, it was a good way to lessen the tension, the fear and the pain; catch up with mates and even talk about wives, lovers or family back home.

Fears and frustrations must have been my mother’s thoughts night after night, night after every miserable and lonely night. I was painfully aware of my mother’s emotions, feelings, fears and longings; but I was just too young to understand it fully. What I did understand from a very early age was a feeling of disconnect. Something else was going on here that didn’t make sense to me. My dad was a pilot flying across the British Channel almost every night and we would only see him when he had a few days off. He would come in, toss his hat onto the table and grab us both in a bear hug. I loved the smell of him, tobacco, perspiration, and coffee. He would swing Mum around and kiss her, then wander off to the bathroom to freshen up and get rid of the smells of war and fear.

Then he stopped coming, we waited and waited to hear him opening the front door with his key. Nothing! Not a word, not a sign. Nothing! We waited weeks and then months but we never saw him again. My mother cried a lot.

Finally a man in uniform came and spoke to her softly and she cried even harder. Afterwards she would pick up his photo frame and hold it to her chest. “Daddy won’t be coming back” she said. I was confused and wondered if he had gone back to Australia and left us behind. He used to sit me on his knee and tell me about the land of kangaroos and emus, had he gone back there? My mother comforted me and finally told me that my dad’s plane had been shot down and he was missing and that they thought he had not survived and so would not ever be coming home again. She rushed out of the room and came back holding the framed photo, clutching it to her chest.

The war went on and on, London was being bombed to smithereens every night, loss of life; crumbled, crumpled buildings; crumbled, crippled people; dampened spirits, fires, smoke, the scream of ambulances, volunteers sifting through the remnants of a home trying to find survivors. It was a nightmare. The King and Queen inspired Londoners by visiting bombed out areas and giving hope and comfort to the victims. They showed immense bravery and courage and lifted the spirits of their subjects.

My father disappeared from our lives; we had nothing but our memories and the framed photograph. I don’t know if my mother ever found out the truth about his loss, his sacrifice, his devotion to his crew and mates; how he had died or any other details. He just became a distant memory for me. After mum died I inherited the framed photograph and it sat on my mantelpiece for years.

London had suffered terribly during the war; it seemed a miracle that we survived as a country against the aggression.

Later in life I became aware of the incredible toll, loss of life, loss of aircraft and of the complete and utter havoc and destruction of our cities and people. When the war was over and there was jubilation and celebration but what a huge price was paid by our bomber command. Those pilots were so incredibly brave, they knew the statistics of how many bombers were lost, how many were shot down by the Germans. That unbelievable intrusion, fear and revulsion of a fighter coming up below you, above you; coming out of nowhere – it must have been terrifying.

In 1984 I read an article in a newspaper and saw a photograph that shocked me beyond belief. The photograph was of my father, the very same photo I had sitting on my mantel piece and the article was the first time I had heard of what had really happened to him. It was so shocking and graphic that I was unable to speak; I was totally struck dumb. Could this be real? Could this story be true? I had been a very young child when he disappeared on a bombing raid and was presumed dead.

The article of told how 3 airmen had been found by the resistance after their planes had crashed in Holland. They were harbored by the resistance, given food, clothing and protection in a safe house. Then traitors gave their secret hiding place away, the gestapo arrived, ushered the 3 men into the back yard and executed them, gunned them down; shot them at point blank range. It was the most horrifying thing I had ever read, and this was my father they were talking about. They mentioned his name and how he had a son living in Australia. More horror, more shock! Had my mother known, was she aware of this familial tragedy?

I sat on this information for quite some time before I shared it with my wife. I was glad my mother was not alive to receive this shocking news. I felt completely traumatized; to think that my beloved father, my war hero had another family in Australia.

I felt angry and cheated, I felt betrayed and assaulted. At that time I had been diagnosed with cancer and my time was running out. I needed to reveal the secret that had been kept for nearly forty long years. I was able to find the details of my father’s Australian family and decided that the other son should know the truth and the secret. With fear and trepidation I called Australia and asked the question of the man at the other end of the world; at the other end of the telephone line…..”Do you have a photograph of you father” I asked. The man answered “yes I do”. “I have the same photo” I said “we are half-brothers”.