My dad was a sports fan and over lunch on Sunday, shortly before I was due to set off on the slow journey back to the airfield, he mentioned that he’d seen our squadron mentioned in one of the newspapers. A former sporting hero had become a bomber pilot with the RAF and was based at Tealby Moor. He asked me if I knew who they meant. Of course, without more clues than that it could have been anyone. Dad said he’d kept the newspaper and he started hunting around for it, determined to show me and to find out the name of the man. He was still searching when I had to leave.
The following evening, when I was back at the base, Dad phoned me from a callbox. His voice was faint and we were limited to three minutes, but his excitement was almost tangible.
‘That chap I told you about,’ he shouted down the line. ‘His name is Sawyer, J. L. Sawyer. Do you know him?’
‘JL’s our pilot, Dad,’ I said. ‘I told you that ages ago, when I first got here. He’ll be in that crew photograph I sent you.’
‘Name wouldn’t have meant anything to me then. But listen, I’ve been looking him up in a book in the library and he took a bronze for Great Britain.’
‘A bronze medal?’ I said stupidly. ‘Like in the Olympics?’
‘That’s right. He was out in Berlin in 1936. The Jerries came first, but it was a hard race and we came in a good third. Has he ever talked about it?’
‘No, never. Not to me, at any rate.’
‘Why don’t you ask him? That was something, going over to Germany like that and winning a few medals.’
‘What event was he in, Dad? Was he a runner, or what?’
‘He was a rower. Coxless pairs. It all comes back to me. I heard it on the wireless at the time. It was him and his brother, identical twins called Sawyer. They did well for England, they did.’
‘Does it say what his brother’s name is?’ I said.
‘They didn’t put first names in the book. All the competitors are there under their initials. That’s the funny thing about those two: they had the same initials. "J. L." That’s what they were both called.’
‘Does it say one of them was called Jack?’
‘No . . . just ‘J. L." for them both,’ my father said, but our conversation ended peremptorily when the money ran out.
5
Then came the evening of May 10, 1941, the night our plane was shot down.
It began as one of those long evenings of early summer when light seems to hang around for ever, even after sunset. During the long winter we had grown used to the idea that we would take off in the dark and never see daylight again until we woke up the next day, after the raid. But now we were in May and double summer time had been introduced the weekend before. We took off while the sun was still just above the horizon and as we circled for height and set out eastwards across the North Sea we were flying in a serene evening light. The air was soft, free of turbulence. Whenever I went to the navigator’s dome to take a positional fix I could see the long twilight lingering around us.
We were about a hour into the flight, still climbing slowly towards our operating altitude, when Ted Burrage in the forward gun turret suddenly yelled into the intercom.
‘Fighters! German fighters down there!’
‘Where are they, Ted?’ JL’s voice came immediately. He sounded calm. ‘I can’t see them yet.’
‘About twelve o’clock, sir. Dead ahead, quite a long way off’
‘I still can’t see them.’
‘Sorry, there’s only one. Me-110,I think. Way below us, heading west, straight for us.’
‘Is he acting as if he’s seen us?’
‘I don’t think so!’
I was standing at the side nav window at the time and had a clear view around and below us. No other aircraft were in sight. As soon as Ted called his warning I moved forward, clambering up into the cockpit behind JL’s seat so that I could look through the main canopy. Moments later I too could see the plane: a small black shape, some way below us, fully visible against a silvery plateau of clouds.
It was unusual to meet any German fighters so far out to sea, even more so to see one at low altitude. Luftwaffe pilots normally gained the advantage of height before diving to attack.
‘Permission to open fire on him, skip?’ Ted said. ‘He’s almost in range.’
‘No, keep an eye on him, Ted. No point letting him know we’re here if he hasn’t spotted us yet.’
I suddenly made out a movement beyond the Me-110.
‘There are more of them down there!’ I said. ‘Look! Behind him!’
Four single-engined fighters were rapidly catching up with the larger aircraft, swooping down on it from the east. Even as I watched they went into a steep turning dive and accelerated towards the twin-engined plane. I could see the firefly flicker of their wing-mounted cannons, the lines of tracer curving towards the Me-110. The pilot of the twin-engined plane responded at last, making a climbing turn, briefly presenting a plan shape of his aircraft against the grey clouds, but then twisting around, diving away from his attackers. I saw a spurt of flame from one of his engines.
Our own track was taking us on past the fight. We were almost on top of the German aircraft. I dodged back to one of the side windows, but could see nothing.
‘Boom! Boom!’ It was Kris’s distinctive voice, loud in my earphones.
‘What’s up?’ said JL.
‘They got him! I see it all. Four Me-109s and a 110. They got him! Boom!’
‘Is he down?’
‘Bloody big bang! Big flames, big smoke! Down in the sea, skip!’
‘What about the 109s?’
‘Can’t see. They scattered.’
‘Kris, are you certain you saw the 110 crash?’
‘Rear gunner has best seat. Germans attacking Germans. Good stuff!’
‘OK, everyone, keep your eyes open for more bandits.’
I clambered awkwardly up through the fuselage, past Col’s radio kit, and returned to the cockpit, intending to talk to JL about what had happened. He was fully alert, scanning the sky in all directions. He registered my presence and unclipped the mike so we could speak direct.
‘Did you see the 110 go down, Sam?’ he shouted over the roar of the engines.
‘No. We’ve only Kris to go on.’
‘Good enough for me,’ JL said, and I nodded vehemently. We both clipped our mikes on again.
‘More Messerschmitts!’ It was Ted again, from the front turret. ‘About three o’clock. Below us again.’
I craned forward, trying to see down and to the right-hand side. JL kept the Wellington on a steady track, still climbing slowly.
‘I can see!’ I shouted. ‘Same thing as before . . . another Me-110, this one heading due north. He’ll cross under us in a moment.’
‘Has he seen us?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
He was a long way off to our right, flying low against the clouds, crossing our track.
‘Hold your fire, gunners!’JL said crisply. ‘They’re not looking for us.’
‘What’s going on down there, JL?’
‘Haven’t the faintest.’
‘There are the 109s again!’ This was Lofty, from somewhere down the fuselage. ‘They must have circled round.’