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Born in Bolton Lancashire in 1922, one of eleven brothers and sisters. We had a happy but poor childhood, although I used to enjoy the long hot summers, and cruel hard winters, for we used to build, thick hard walls of snow blocks, and challenge the next street gang to snowfights -wonderful days!! We used to make our own games - top and whip, iron hoops with handles, to run fast and guiding these was great fun. The best was making a trolley of four old pram wheels and a plank of wood, and then steered with a rope handle.

My brother Jim and I were on our trolley one day, when a neighbour shouted “Jim, you have won a trip on an aeroplane” Jim was twelve years old and I was 10. What excitement there was in the street, for this was “Big” in our little town of Bolton.

When we arrived home, poor Jim was disappointed to hear it was our father Jim who had won the trip, for guessing the height of Sir Alan Cobham’s aeroplane, as it roared overhead. Dear old Dad was only two feet wrong in his estimation!!

Little did Jim and I realise we would be getting lots of free trips over enemy territory in a few short years. For Hitler was already “banging on the Drum” even then, and that dear old Jim’s life would end on December 6th 1942, only 22 years old. His body being washed ashore in Tenby, Wales - another Lancaster crew all wiped out, after bombing over Germany!

I was lucky enough to visit Jim at Holme-on-Spalding moor with 101 Squadron, just two weeks before his last trip. His crew were mostly Canadians and very friendly.

Now it was my turn to start my operational tour on Mitchell bombers, and wondered what fate had in store for me??

As for my sister Hilda’s husband Stanley Smith, he was taken prisoner in Singapore by the Japanese, we were both lucky to survive the war. My own three escapes from death are recounted later in this memoir.

Our holiday highlight in the 1930s’ was a once a year day trip to Blackpool, but wasn’t it great. Happy memories that you can never erase!! I will always remember that we had half-a-crown each to spend (12 ½ new pence) and whilst I bought sweets, ice cream etc, my dear brother Jim, spent his money on a religious book and I have always thought since “yes, the good always die young.”

He was a wonderful brother. We always looked to celebrating November 5th (bonfire day) - all the families in the street would contribute, making treacle toffee parkin (treacle cake) and there would be hot potatoes roasting in the fire. It was such a friendly and cheerful event, and would go on until the last dying embers of the fire. Again, great memories.

When I was 7 years old, my dad used to send me to a house in the street with a piece of paper and six pence old money (2 ½ new pence). I gave it to the lady who must have been 65 years old. How could I have known that this white haired granny was the local bookie, and was regularly fined by the police? How times have certainly changed!

I was 14 years old in 1936 and an errand boy for a grocery firm. I was shown my rounds by Alfred Phythean; previous errand boy would now be promoted to the counter. Little did we know that in 4 to 5 years he would lose his life flying over Germany, and that I would brush with death 3 times.

I was small and rather thin, but proud of my job as errand boy, for although the large basket was always full, and heavy; I prided myself on my ability to ride up the steep hills (shades of the Hovis advert here).

My only worry was the taunting and bullying by three boys who lived near the shop. “It’s the only job he could get” and worse taunts. They were all about my age and ready for leaving school. But one day after hard full time on the bike they pushed me too far!! I pushed them against my bike, which fell over, with both of them on top of it. I then faced up too the leader, and punched him on the face, drawing blood. — I was never troubled again, but for over fifty years, I have seen his face in my flashbacks for the poor boy was killed in the war- a soldier hero, fighting for his country. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could only turn back the clocks!!

When I joined the R.A.F. in Bolton in 1940, I palled up with Tom Bell, also from Bolton and we were posted to Blackpool on a flying course, as future wireless op./Air gunners. When we passed out as sergeants, we lost touch with each other, and I was shocked, and sorry to hear he was shot down and killed, earlier on in the war. I shall never forget visiting his widow on my next leave, as they had a cute baby girl. Tom had always been proud of his father, and wife and kiddie. Such sad times like these in many, many more homes all over Britain. Life seemed to be flying over so quickly!!

At the beginning of the war, whilst under training for aircrew at Blackpool, we were waiting for a Morse code test. Then suddenly an Airman at our table started to sing “A nightingale sang in Berkeley square” in a really posh Noel Coward type voice. It was years alter that I realised that it was that fine English actor Denholm Elliot who also passed out as an aircrew member.

I remember whilst training for aircrew, I you failed at any time, what ever it be - wireless or gunnery or Morse speed, you were instantly taken off the course. And I have seen men of 18-20 years old burst out in tears at failure. To think that we worked hard before exams, just so that some German could perhaps shoot you out the sky - and it wasn’t until the end of the war that we knew the odds were only 1 in 4 of surviving the bombing raids! Still I know that all the young sailors, army and airmen I met were dedicated to beating Hitler! There was a glorious camaraderie amongst us all.

Trapped in a sinking Plane:

September 21st 1943 was just another bombing run to us — our sixth trip only, but already hardened to the hazards of war, having seen, on our third op. the plane in front of us dip at the end of the runway and explode, with all her crew blown to smithereens.
As we flew low-level over the sea in our ‘box of six’ after our rendezvous with the fighter escort, we knew this was to be a tougher op. - alongside a larger fighter escort — and a feeling of tension was in the air as we zoomed high now over our target area. The flak had been more concentrated than usual and more accurate, but our ‘box of six’ was, up to now, unscathed.
“Bombs gone” came the message we were always glad to hear from Dick, our navigator and bomb-aimer, for we seemed to be cut off from the rest of the crew, being in the rear as wireless / air-gunners.

Then it happened, just as we turned for home; “Bandits at 1’o’clock high” came the scrambled message over the intercom, and as we were the last six to bomb we knew ‘this was it’. 50mm cannon shells burst through the fuselage from three attacking Focke-Wulf 190’s and as the wireless compartment cleared of smoke I could see the top gunner’s leg was shattered. Through the porthole I noticed one engine was on fire and we were now losing height. One of our aircraft was spiralling down in flames and, in the distance, our four other aircraft were now far away. We were on our own, and the second attack came. This resulted in our other engine cutting out, and we lost height rapidly — the pilot calling out “ditching, ditching”.
I sent out a hurried S.O.S. and clamped my Morse key down, and I will never forget the gunner’s face as he beckoned me to get into my ditching position. The horror in his eyes must surely have matched mine.
In the seconds that we were crashing downwards, my mingled thoughts were that Jim, my older brother, must have gone down like this only nine months ago. Dear good-natured Jim.

When the nose of the aircraft hit the sea I realised it was too late to get into the ditching position, for I was flung backwards when the tail hit the sea and I momentarily blacked out. The rush of sea-water coming through the cannon shell holes revived me, just in time to see the top gunner disappear through the escape porthole. After the noise and excitement of the battle in the air, all that could be heard now was the lapping of the waves around the sinking aircraft — and Dick’s voice, “Where are you Spike?” (That was my wartime nickname.)

“I’m stuck with my ruddy harness” I cried out, for in panic and haste I could not release my parachute harness, and with this on I could not escape through the porthole. “I’ll wait for you Spike” came Dick’s helpful plea, for he knew that I could not swim.

I was standing on my wireless seat by now, the water almost up to my shoulders, still attempting to release the harness — a harder task now, underwater — when I suddenly shouted “Mother, please not this way”. It must have been an automatic reaction, a form of prayer to my dear mother who was buried on my eighteenth birthday. Then I suddenly released the harness the correct way and now seemed more clear-headed.

“Right, no use inflating my Mae West (life jacket) yet until I am clear of the hole” I thought; “Deep breath — hold it — dive for the hole — through it — now”.

I released the valve that inflated the Mae West still under water and as I popped to the surface — I realised to my horror that it was useless, for the tube was uncorked. But faithful Dick was there; he just grabbed me and managed it to the dinghy, which was now about 200 yards away with the pilot and gunner in it. The plane had sunk immediately I escaped, and the suction nearly dragged Dick and me under.

After that horrifying five minutes in the sinking plane, I shall never forget the sight from the dinghy, picturesque in its horror. Planes and parachutes dropping from the sky in this crisp, clear September morning. Dog fights here and there. Then they came at us; three aircraft as specks in the distance, then nearer they swooped down on us, and I remember thinking that after all we were still going to die, for they must be ‘Jerry’. But no, they gave us the thumbs up sign from the Spitfire leader. I wonder where those brave pilots are today, for they were low-flying heroes alright!

Later an air-sea rescue launch picked us up and those wonderful medical orderlies tended us. I didn’t realise how deep was my head wound until I saw my blood-saturated pillow. Although my leg wound was throbbing most.

It took us nearly two hours to get to Dover through the minefields, and we were put in different parts of the hospital. Although given sedatives for the first night I had this horribly watery nightmare, but was thrilled to hear the news on the wireless ”Mitchell attacked a target in Lens; two bombers are missing but the crew of one are safe”. Short and sweet, but that was it. Yes, it was good to realise that I was back in old England.

I didn’t see any of the crew again until we met at base six weeks later, when we were given another top gunner and did another trip before we were given our 14 days survivor’s leave, and then returned to finish our ‘ops’. We were later made members of the exclusive “Goldfish Club”. But if any man deserved the Distinguished Flying Medal (DFM) it was certainly Dickie Burridge (sergeant-navigator) for staying with me, knowing that he could have gone down with a sinking plane. Yet, at this time of war, it was as my title says, ‘No time for medals’.

Ditched for a Second Time:

My second ditching occurred two years later. One week before Christmas, after engine failure, my pilot and I ditched just off Douglas, Isle of Man. This time I was ready with my hand on the Dinghy release. It was dark and the sea was rough, and raining heavily. As we were crashing downwards the date seemed to flash before me - December 18th 1945 - exactly five years to the day I enlisted to the R.A.F. Was this an omen I thought, as I still couldn’t swim. We managed to get into the Dinghy and start to row to Douglas, but the rough sea made this almost impossible. The Air Sea rescue launch eventually picked us up and were given rum and blankets around us. As I went up the Jetty steps, I saw an ambulance at the top, and a crowd of people, but half way up the steps was a police man dressed in oil skins and wellingtons as it was still raining heavily. The amazing thing was he had his bicycle lamp between his teeth, shining on to his Notebook, this making his speech guttural - like an amateur ventriloquist. Just imagine this - the narrow jetty steps, no rail to hang on to, the sea pounding against the jetty, and still raining heavily. The policeman did his best to ask numerous questions. Name? What kind of aeroplane? Where we were stationed? etc. Then he let the pilot go into the ambulance. Then he first asked my name. “Harry” I replied. At this he burst out laughing, another Harry (the pilot’s name being Harry) he said, still with his lamp between his teeth. I remember thinking at the time - we have a right one here. Well I got the same questions and was by now feeling quite dizzy, with the rough sea down below, and the torrential rain. Then his next question “Is there anyone else in the sinking plane?” still speaking like a ventriloquist. Speaking, I could not help my answer (as we were always ready for a laugh being bomb happy) so I said “Anyone else in the plane?” “Yes, just my wife, but she has been up and down three times- so forget about her”.

At this I expected him to really roar with laughter, for if he could be amused at two Harrys, what now? Then the crunch came - “I’ll have to write her name in the book.” What a sight, and what an experience!! But I should not make fun of him, as he was a very conscientious policeman. No illegal immigrant would have got past him!! When I told the pilot, we had a good laugh in the ambulance, although we were still shaken, by the ditching, and with minor bruises.

Demobbed, and I Escape Death for a Third Time:

In the second week of July in 1946 I received my “Demob” medical at 11 o’clock on the Tuesday morning and was due to get my “civvy suit” on Thursday after five and a half years in the R.A.F. As I should have been flying at two o’clock, Tuesday, a wireless operator had to take my place. This was at Shawberry R.A.F station, as we were instructing Canadian personnel. About 5:30 p.m. on Tuesday, we were playing cricket outside the huts, when someone came running across to tell us that the aircraft I should have been in had crashed, killing all the crew.

I remember being stunned with shock at the news, after all, I had escaped death a third time, but after all these 50 years, I will never forget the smiling face of Tony, from Abergavenny, as he said “lucky guy Spike, getting demobbed”
For Tony was my unfortunate replacement in the doomed aircraft.

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