大象传媒

Big Brother

Ron was a tease. Before he went in the RAF we shared a bedroom. I was usually asleep when he came to bed 鈥� or pretended to be. I would peep over the bedclothes as he leapt into bed, clad only in a short vest, and giggle on seeing his bare bum disappearing beneath the sheets. If I was awake, he would chat briefly to his seven year old kid brother. One line he sometimes used was, 鈥榃atch out our kid, there鈥檚 a Gerry under the bed.鈥� I would tremble for a while thinking a German was about to stick me with his bayonet, until he said, 鈥業t鈥檚 your potty, you daft thing.鈥�
Summer of 1941 we had a weeks holiday in Blackpool. At two o鈥檆lock on the last Saturday, Ron met us on the promenade, face aglow and a beaming smile as he leaned on the handlebars of his bike.
鈥淪o Mr Arthur let you off early then son?鈥� My dad asked.
鈥淵es, he said I could go at five to twelve.鈥�
Dad looked at his watch. 鈥淐rikey. You鈥檝e cycled the fifty two miles from Manchester in just over two hours.鈥�

September saw him setting off for Padgate to start his basic training for the RAF. He was nineteen, and eager to do his bit for his country.

All of the next two years I eagerly looked forward to the infrequent 鈥榣eaves鈥� of my big brother. One of the most exciting was when he came home with his flying kit. He staggered home carrying a heavy kitbag on each shoulder and a knapsack on his back.
That weekend, I had a rare old time trying on his helmet and goggles, trying to stomp around in his thick fleece lined boots, and being fascinated by three pairs of gloves.
鈥淲hy do you have to wear three pairs of gloves Ron?鈥�
鈥淵our fingers would freeze and drop off if you didn鈥檛 wear them.鈥�
鈥淚 don鈥檛 believe you.鈥�
鈥淟isten our kid. If you touched any metal part of the plane with your bare hand when flying at 20 000 feet, you鈥檙e skin would stick to the metal.鈥� He grinned as my jaw dropped open. 鈥淭his fine silk inner pair is the first layer of insulation, then these warm woolly ones come next, and finally the leather gauntlets.鈥�
I snuggled my small hands into the luxurious warmth of the beautiful gauntlets
and imagined myself holding the four Browning guns in his rear turret.

Sometimes his 鈥榣eaves鈥� would coincide with his mates, and evenings at home would be full of laughter and tall stories from their respective barracks.
One 36 hour pass he brought home Gerald, the mid upper gunner from his crew. I was entranced listening to his soft Cornish accent as he told stories from home.
Ronald was on leave for my sister鈥檚 seventeenth birthday. He surprised her, and all of us by turning up with a lovely silver ladies racing bike.
Apart from cycling, his other passion was stamp collecting. I recall him spending much of one wet weekend meticulously sorting a set of British Empire commemoratives into a new album. He鈥檇 purchased both from J E Lea鈥檚 in Manchester.
He was not allowed to see me during one leave. I was incarcerated in my parent鈥檚 bedroom being nursed with Scarlet fever. A sheet soaked in disinfectant hung over the door, and only my mam was allowed in. We did manage a shouted conversation through the door.

While he was training for flying duties, he was billeted in the cottage of a farm labourer in the tiny village of North Crawley. My mam and me were invited to spend a week with them in the summer of 1942. I was fascinated by the long train journey from Manchester to Bedford. Nearing that town I saw a forest of tall chimneys in the distance.
鈥淲hat are all those chimney鈥檚 for mam?鈥�
鈥淥h, that鈥檚 where they make bricks.鈥滱 mine of information was my mam.
A twelve mile bus ride brought us to Cranfield, where Ronald met us on his bike. The next part of the journey was the most novel I鈥檝e ever had. Around the corner, waiting for us was a pony and trap. Joe, the driver, courteously helped mam into the bench seat behind his. I barely managed to suppress a giggle on hearing him speak. I couldn鈥檛 make head or tail of what he was saying. Ron rode by the side for the first three miles, then suddenly he was away, shouting as he waved back,
鈥淚鈥檒l tell Mr and Mrs Stanton you鈥檙e nearly here.鈥�
Their welcome was almost overwhelming.
鈥淵ou鈥檓 must be tired poor dears. You鈥檙e bed鈥檚 made up ready and warmed with the warming pan. The kettle鈥檚 on and we鈥檒l soon have a cup of tea. I鈥檝e made e some nice ham sandwiches. My Will鈥檚 cut em nice and thin from the leg in the larder.

On a couple of occasions, mam and me accompanied Ronald to the station to catch his train back to camp. The first time we travelled into town with him to Central Station. The second time, he wouldn鈥檛 allow us to go further than our local Crumpsall Station. Station Road runs parallel with the cutting by the station. He didn鈥檛 want us to come onto the platform, so our goodbye鈥檚 were said at the station entrance. We waited by the wooden railings at a point overlooking the platform. We couldn鈥檛 see him get on the train, because the train came in at the opposite platform. My vision, was of him waving to us through the window as the train pulled out.
I linked mam鈥檚 arm as we strode up Station Road on our way to visit Gran and Grandad in Cheetam Hill. I sensed a tension in her as she gripped my arm fiercely.
鈥淲e鈥檒l never see him again.鈥� She said tersely.
I was puzzled.
鈥淐ourse we will mam. He said he鈥檒l have a 48 hour pass in a month鈥檚 time.鈥�

The morning of the 21鈥檚t June, mam looked upset. After breakfast, I pretended to be engrossed in my 鈥楢dventure鈥� comic, but listened in some alarm as mam talked to dad.
鈥淚 had such a dreadful dream last night Tom. I saw Ronald. He was trapped in his gun turret, and the plane was burning.鈥�
Though the rest of that day was a blur, young lad鈥檚 just get on with life. It was a glorious spring day, and mates to impress.
At the end of the week a smartly uniformed teenager knocked on our door.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a telegram for Mr and Mrs Bradshaw. Will you sign please?鈥�
I didn鈥檛 find this out till I arrived home from school. Mam was white faced and tight lipped, not my usual smiling welcoming mother. The telegram said Ronald鈥檚 aircraft had not returned from an air raid on Coblenz on the night of 20th to 21st June, and he was 鈥榤issing鈥�.
鈥淒on鈥檛 worry mam. Our Ron鈥檚 tough. He鈥檒l work his way back to England, and he鈥檒l be home soon.鈥�
A week later another telegram arrived. 鈥榃e regret鈥our son Sergeant Ronald Bradshaw has not returned from a mission over enemy territory, and is missing presumed killed. His personal effects will be returned as soon as possible.鈥�
It had an immediate effect on my mother. That gentle soft voiced lady became a wailing banshee. I couldn鈥檛 understand it. The effect on me was to giggle. My brother wasn鈥檛 dead, he couldn鈥檛 be. Dad made me go to my room.
A month later, I accepted the inevitable. I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed my heart out. My hero brother wasn鈥檛 coming home after thirteen missions. 1943 was not a good year.

After the war, dad used to take to Manchester Wheelers to see the track racing cyclists. Reg Harris was my hero. I sometimes wonder if it might have been Ron Bradshaw.

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