´óÏó´«Ã½

Introductory note

This is the first part of a personal memoir of my experiences, discoveries and beliefs regarding the life, RAF career and death of my father, Squadron Leader Maurice ‘Roy’ Skeet (39800), RAF Bomber Command, 1937—42.

Heartbreaking news

‘He was a pilot in the RAF, and you were two years old when he died. After that, I married Harry, your stepfather, and now you are known by your stepfather’s name.’

As a four-year-old boy, I had just been informed by my mother of the death of my birth father.

‘How did he die?’ I asked.

‘It was to do with the war,’ my mother answered, hesitantly.

‘What kind of planes did he fly?’ I continued.

‘Bombers, I think,’ she replied. ‘Now it’s time for you to go to sleep — come on, lie down and close your eyes. We will talk about it tomorrow.’

My father the hero

I lay in my bed trying to absorb what I’d just been told. Although still young, I’d gradually become conscious of the war and was trying to understand a little of its impact on the world around me.

My father was probably one of those airmen missing in action. He must have been a hero! My childish thoughts were filled with naive excitement and growing pride as I drifted off to sleep.

Visit to a child therapist

A few weeks before I was told this news, mother had taken me to see a man in London, who’d asked me lots of questions and watched me play with some toys and sand. We had visited this man several times over the course of a few weeks, and he had spoken quietly to my mother whilst I played. It was only years later that I learnt that he was a child psychologist.

Apparently, mother had been worried about my somewhat shy and retiring nature. Thinking there might be something wrong with me, she had taken me to see him for his professional advice, and he had recommended that I should be told about my birth father.

Sense of pride in my real dad

Naturally, my curiosity about my airman father was overwhelming, and in the following weeks and months my questioning grew ever more frequent. I was not told very much, but what I did learn was that my father was named Maurice Roy Skeet, and that he had married mother before the war started.

Apparently, he was a squadron leader in the RAF with Bomber Command, and after their marriage they had lived with his mother, Mrs Jean Skeet. I was told his family had moved away after he died, and their whereabouts were unknown.

He was an airman

I began my education at a small private school a few months later. There I was given elocution lessons and other forms of instruction in addition to the ordinary lessons.

During this time, I was proud to inform my new-found chums that my real dad was an airman who had died serving his country in the war that was in progress.

Increasing loneliness and isolation

Shortly after the end of the war, my parent’s financial circumstances changed, and I was transferred to an ordinary, state primary school. There, the other children gave me the nickname ‘Pansy’ due to my newly polished accent, and I was sometimes teased and bullied without mercy.

This resulted in me becoming increasingly isolated and introspective. I began to find it a little difficult to make friends and interact with other children, and sometimes I felt very lonely.

Desire to know more

As I progressed through primary school, the questions I wanted to ask about my father became ever more detailed and complex. I was told he’d flown such aircraft as Blenhiems, Whitley and Wellington bombers, and that he’d been posted to the Middle East, where he had flown aircraft ferrying men and equipment.

Despite all my questions, I learnt very little more about his career, only that after his death he’d been buried in Yorkshire, near Lynton on Ouse.

Surprise at mother’s attitude

To my surprise, mother seemed critical of his personality and dismissive about his RAF career. Occasionally, when I asked about how he had died I was met with a stony silence or told to change the subject. Sometimes, when mother was angry with me for some childhood misdeed she would remark how much like my father I was. As I grew older, it became ever more obvious to me that mother was reluctant to comment further about him.

Increasing wall of silence

Concerned that I should not upset mother any more than necessary, I approached my grandparents Nan and Pop for some of the information I so eagerly sought. I felt very close to them and respected them greatly. They had often taken care of me on the occasions when my mother and Harry went out for long periods. They had treated me with a great deal of love and understanding as a young child.

However, they were somewhat reluctant or just not able to answer all my probing questions. They gave me a little information, but one day, in a concerned voice, Nan said kindly, ‘Don’t ask too many questions — you might find out things you would not like to know.’

Finding part of my paternal legacy

I’d imagined the sacrifice my father had made and developed a strong feeling of pride in his memory. I could not understand why my questions met with such a sense of mystery. In youthful ignorance, I felt a confusing sense of guilt for wanting to know.

Occasionally, I would search through the various cupboards at home. In my mother’s bedroom, I found some toys and a stamp collection mounted in official-looking stationery books. There were also some glass projection slides for a Magic Lantern and a few rolls of eight-millimetre film, including some cartoons of Popeye the Sailor, Mickey Mouse and a couple of home movies.

When I asked about them, I was told that they were things that had been left to me by my father. When I wondered why I was not allowed access to them, I was told that they would be kept for me until I was older.

Growing ever more suspicious

Mother seemed to find these things — and my interest in them — as disturbing as my questions. I often wondered where the equipment to project the video items had gone but was not offered any explanation other than mother had needed to dispose of some of my father’s things after his death.

I found a few RAF buttons, a pair of flying goggles and an RAF dagger in the cupboard under the stairs where Pop and I had slept during wartime air raids. But I felt these were meagre relics of my father’s life and his service career. By now, I was beginning to suspect that there might be much more to find out about my father’s existence than what I had already been told.

Pop’s death spurs on my curiosity

As I entered my teenage years, Pop passed away following a serious illness. This was a great loss to me as he was my most respected mentor. He’d helped me with my hobbies and encouraged me as a child, and he’d always seemed to understand and sympathise with my curiosity. The grief and distress I felt at his passing together with a sense of loss seemed to emphasise my inquisitiveness about my father.

I’d often wondered if my mother might have had some information about my father hidden away among the private papers that I knew she kept in her dressing table. One day I was alone in the house and could not resist the opportunity and temptation to satisfy my curiosity.

A traumatic discovery

‘Haemorrhage and lacerations of the brain from a gunshot wound. Took his own life whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed.’ It took some moments for the words I had just read to penetrate my brain.

I read it again. This was his father’s death certificate. Suicide. It couldn’t be. It was. His name was there. His address. His rank. His service number. It was his! This is how he died.

Please. No! No! In disbelief, my childhood pride screamed out for it not to be true. The horror and anguish tore at my very existence. Again my eyes scoured the paper, desperately seeking an error, a mistake, an inaccuracy, but none was there.

Wishing it just a bad dream

I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping it was a nightmare and that the horror of the words would vanish. But it wasn’t, and the words were still there — the hand-written, official account of my father’s death.

Mortified, I put the small bundle of papers down on the top of the dressing table and turned away to sit stunned with shock on the bed.

Numb chill of betrayal

My mind reeled. For what seemed like a lifetime, I sat feeling tortured and confused, trying to make sense of that piece of paper and the information it contained. The numb chill of betrayal was consuming my very existence. My beliefs and pride were being washed away on a brutal tide of shame and humiliation.

After a while I cautiously picked up the papers and leafed through them again. One was addressed to mother. It was a letter from my father’s commanding officer.

In my state of shock I read through it, but the glowing references to his personality and compliments about his service in the RAF were overshadowed by the stark revelation of a few moments before. The letter gave little consolation to me in my state of misery.

Anger and bitterness

My anguish turned to anger and bitterness as I recalled some of the criticism mother had made about my father’s life and his family when I’d pressed for information in earlier years. She’d told me how my father had tricked Pop into signing permission for their marriage and her into unwanted pregnancy.

She’d also said how he’d been irresponsible with money and been sent abroad because of unpaid mess bills. I’d been told my father’s parents wanted nothing to do with me after my father died and that they were not worth finding out about.

Blaming myself

Why had mother kept the facts about his death from me? Why! Was there something wrong with me? Was I in some way to blame for this tragedy? Was this my legacy of shame and dishonour?

Was my childhood pride in his brave sacrifice in the war no more than a foolish delusion? As she had often angrily remarked, was I in some way just like him?

Keeping a shameful secret

Bewildered, I replaced the papers in the drawer where I’d found them. I left the room in a daze, hoping that mother would not realise that I’d disturbed them. Whilst I felt a pang of guilt for having invaded her privacy, my faith, trust and belief in her were now beginning to be replaced with resentment, doubt and disillusion.

Just 13 years old at the time of this discovery, I kept the apparently shameful and terrible secret to myself and, consequently, became almost completely isolated and increasingly self-conscious.

My sole confidante

The only person in whom I confided was my childhood girlfriend. In my 19th year, we married and went to share a flat with another young married couple with whom we’d been friends for some years.

However, a few months later, circumstances made it necessary for us to move back to live with my parents. During this time, my wife sometimes discussed my father’s history with my grandmother Nan. On one occasion, Nan mentioned that she knew of an RAF officer, a colleague of my father’s, who lived locally.

Mixed messages

When the anguish of my earlier discoveries had subsided a little, my curiosity about my father began to stir once again. I found the telephone number of the RAF officer and tried to make contact, but my first phone call resulted in a request to ring back a few days later.

During the second call, the officer said that he’d known my father well and had held him in high regard, as had his fellow officers. He also said that Roy Skeet had exhibited courage and conviction, and the men under his command had great respect for him. However, he said he was not able to give me any further information for fear of being accused of slander by my mother.

Restored pride and self-esteem

I was very curious to understand the reason for the officer’s concluding remarks. However, I was not able to enquire into this new mystery, as mother was unaware that I knew of the death certificate. It was only sometime later that I discovered that the officer had contacted my mother after my first call, telling her of my enquiry, which might go some way to explaining his response.

The compliments from him reminded me of the letter I’d found with my mother’s private papers, the contents of which had remained buried in my memory. I was comforted by his high opinion of my father, and this enabled me to recover a little of the pride and self-respect I’d felt before the discovery of his suicide those few years earlier when I was a young teenager.

Learning to live with it

None the less, I remained very confused and not able to understand the wide difference of opinion between my mother and the officer about my father.

For the next few years, I concentrated on my career and tried not to dwell on all the confusion and frustration I felt. I deliberately avoided any temptation to question the subject further.

Painful times

In 1962, however, my stepfather, Harry, passed away suddenly, and then, three years later, Nan died. Both their deaths affected me deeply. After Pop’s death, I had grown closer to my stepfather, while Nan had remained a close support and confidante.

On these occasions of grief, I found my mind dwelling on my father’s death and the questions it evoked in me. I began to realise that his death was taking me over. It had become an obsessive and recurring theme in my life.

A visit to Yorkshire

Some four years later, I was working as an installation engineer in what was then the developing computer industry. In this position it was necessary for me occasionally to spend time away from home.

On one occasion, I had completed a week’s work at a location close to the Yorkshire border. I was reluctant to return straight home, because my marriage had begun to suffer due to an earlier indiscretion of mine, and I was feeling somewhat depressed. When I realised that I was not far from the place where I had learnt my father was buried, I felt the urge to try and find his memorial.

In search of my father

On an early spring Saturday morning, I drove in bright sunshine through the countryside to Yorkshire. After I’d passed through the ancient town of York, I reached the large airforce base a little further on. I told the young airman on duty at the gatehouse that I believed my father might have served at the base during the war, and that I was looking for the location of the churchyard where I thought he was buried.

The young man informed me that if the commanding officer had not been away I might have been able to peruse the records at the station. Nevertheless, having told him what I knew about my father’s burial place he was able to give me some detailed directions, and I continued on to my intended destination.

Read Part 2 of this story.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.