JL struck me as a typical RAF ‘type’: he was handsome, wore his cap at a rakish angle, he was obsessed with flying, used RAF slang with an easy familiarity, moved his hands around to simulate aircraft movements, he was battle-experienced, knowledgeable about targets and bombing methods and full of good advice for us inexperienced recruits. He even told us he’d been to Germany before the war and had seen Hitler in person. Before I went to bed that night I was congratulating myself on having found a first-rate captain.
Four weeks later, after we completed intensive navigation, gunnery and bombing trials, we were feeling as if we were a proper crew. JL’s experience was invaluable. He’d been on daylight ops, for one thing, which earned our respect: we knew how dangerous those trips had been. Then he’d been on several shipping sweeps, again a background that gave him a great deal of experience of flying over the sea, which was handy for us. By RAF wartime standards he was an old hand at the bombing game, already partway through his first tour with eleven completed raids under his belt. He was a natural leader and gained our respect from the outset.
After the trials we were assigned our own Wellington: A-Able. We flew on our first proper mission as a crew in the last week of August 1940, a raid on somewhere in the Ruhr. I don’t mind admitting I was terrified by the experience. Even at the time I’d no idea if we hit the target or not. The next night we were sent to attack an airfield in the Low Countries. More raids followed, and that became the way we lived our lives in the next few weeks and months: a constant round of training, preparedness, stand-bys, raids. It was a hard, cold, frightening and exhausting time, but I think I can speak for all of JL’s crew during those weeks when I say that none of us would have changed a thing.
2
For several weeks during the winter and spring of 1941, though, I was convinced JL was cracking up under the strain. Strange behaviour went with the job we were doing. They used to say that you had to be crazy to volunteer for active duty, but that was only partly serious, almost an embarrassed excuse. A lot of us were recruits but we were willing recruits, knowing we had to do our bit in the war. We were attracted by the feeling of defiance to Hitler that was such a feature of life in those days. As for volunteering for ops: if truth be known, most of us secretly thought we had the best of it. None of us would swap our lot for what the ground crews had to do, for instance. They weren’t in much danger but they worked long, hard hours, slaving outside in all weathers, a daily round of chores with not much chance of excitement. We wanted a bit of action, a bit of glamour, and although the reality of being aircrew was not in the least glamorous, we were the only ones who knew that. Being aircrew was a sure-fire way of impressing girls, for one thing.
The real problem was the stark contrast between the inactivity of most of the days and the dangers of some of the nights. Many of the men developed a reputation for odd behaviour, verging in some cases on eccentricity or weirdness. After a while you took no notice of the air-gunner who went everywhere in his balaclava helmet, the man who whistled quietly through his teeth through the briefing sessions, the flight engineer who adamantly refused to take off his flying jacket, even when he went to bed. Everyone carried personal good-luck tokens - hours could be spent in frantic searching when one of those little mascots went missing. Some people became withdrawn or aggressive between ops, yet transformed themselves into wild extroverts before we actually took off. On the nights when we were not on operations, most of us would go down to the mess and get smashed: drunken revels were not only tolerated by our senior officers, in the end we came to think they were expected of us.
So odd behaviour was normal, nothing you would comment on. Unless, that is, it showed itself in a member of your own crew. Then you began to worry if your own safety in the air might be at risk.
This was what started to worry me about JL. I noticed that he often went off the airfield without telling us he was going, sometimes, as far as I could tell, without arranging official leave. He was secretive about these activities and other matters. Things came to a head when Kris Galasckja, our rear gunner, commented that he’d accidentally overheard JL on the telephone one morning and thought he’d heard him speaking German.
Lofty Skinner was the second most senior member of the crew, so I had a word with him first. It turned out that he too had been observing JL’s behaviour. We therefore cornered JL one evening in the bar and asked him straight out what was going on. He was surprised at first, then he looked relieved and admitted he was glad we had asked him. He said that there was something he had been trying to keep quiet, for all sorts of reasons. He asked us to keep it under our hats too.
He told us that he was married and that he had been since before the war. He knew that it didn’t create a special situation, but he said he and his wife had been trying for some time to start a family. Now she was pregnant, with the baby expected at the end of May.
‘The first two or three months were relatively trouble-free, but she’s been having a lot of problems recently Her blood pressure’s up and there are other symptoms. Because of the war, because of the difficulties of my being away from home, I’m going crazy with worry about her.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in hospital?’ I said.
‘Yes, of course. But we live close to Manchester and because of the bombing the hospitals are stretched to the limit. Pregnant women are being kept at home as much as possible.’
He explained how isolated their house was, in a village on the Cheshire side of the Pennines, no telephone, not much in the way of modern comforts. JL said that he was using a motorcycle borrowed from one of the other pilots. Whenever he saw the chance, he said, he hopped on the motorbike and rode home as quickly as possible. He always made sure he was back at the base in time and, like us, he treated the safety of the crew as a priority.
‘Skip, that’s not good enough,’ Lofty said. ‘Some of the other officers are married and several of them have brought their wives to live close to the airfield. Why can’t you do that? There are all the maternity facilities at Barnham Hospital she would ever need. And why haven’t you said anything about it before?’
‘I didn’t want to concern you.’
‘It is our concern, JL. If your mind is on something else while we’re on a raid, if you’re tired out from riding a motorbike half across England to be back in time, you won’t be up to the mark.’
‘Have you ever felt I have endangered you?’
‘No,’ Lofty said, and I had to agree with him.
‘Then can’t we leave it at that?’
‘I’m still not happy about it. Why do you have to be so secretive? Does the Wingco know what’s going on?’
‘No,’ JL said. ‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Then why not?’
‘I haven’t got around to mentioning it.’
Lofty spoke again. ‘JL, do you speak German?’
‘Yes, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Sam, tell him.’
‘The other day, Kris overheard you on the phone. He said you were speaking German.’
‘I was probably making one of my regular calls to Adolf Hitler, tipping him off about the next raid.’ JL grinned at us, then took a deep swig of his beer. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the rest. My wife was born in Germany. I sometimes speak to her in her own language.’
‘Your wife is German?’ I said, amazed by the revelation.
‘No, she’s British, but she was born in Germany. She moved to Britain in 1936 and she was naturalized as soon as we were married. There’s a lot I could tell you about her, but since the war began I’ve felt that the less said about her background the better. We’re in a bit of a jam over it. You’ve heard the rumours about a fifth column. Because of the rumours the government is interning German nationals, or anyone with even a remote connection with the place. Well, my wife is on that list, I’m sorry to say. Only the fact that she’s pregnant and is married to a serving RAF officer is keeping her safe from internment. Or, at least, that’s what I suspect is the case.’