- Contributed byÌý
- Frank Mee Researcher 241911
- People in story:Ìý
- Frank P Mee Researcher 241911
- Location of story:Ìý
- Norton-on-Tees
- Article ID:Ìý
- A2204326
- Contributed on:Ìý
- 15 January 2004
A lovely summer evening - the boys and girls played on Norton Green, with its duck pond for sailing our homemade boats. The roller skates, bikes, and bags full of glass marbles were put aside as we concentrated on getting the boats to sail straight and not sink. People walked round the green, sat on the seats and talked. A peaceful, idyllic scene - yet it was wartime.
Suddenly, we all became aware of a steady humming sound, which got louder until it was a roar. There above us were bomber planes, masses of them flying in a wide arc. The roaring got louder as more groups of planes arrived overhead in blocks, one above the other. They flew in wide circles, seeming to be centred on the green.
All playing had stopped, the boats forgotten, as we stared at such a magnitude of four-engined bombers, by now deafening in their noise. One seemed to stagger and we could see smoke coming from an engine as it dropped out of line and turned back towards Goosepool Aerodrome (Middleton St George, or Teesside Airport as it is now known), just a mile or two away.
The whole of North Yorkshire and South Durham had become one large Airforce base, with Aerodromes at Goosepool, Croft, Leeming Bar, Dalton, Topcliffe, Dishforth and elsewhere. (Leeming Bar is still an RAF station, which sent men to the two Gulf wars and the Balkens, 60 odd years later.)
I knew all the stations as my father, a haulage contractor, took runway-making materials to them all, often with me riding shotgun, fighting Peter our dog for the window seat; he took umbrage when I tried to take over his private seat in Dad's cab.
Goosepool was home to mainly Canadians, although we did know one or two Americans who had crossed the border to join the Canadian Airforce and see the action. We had men from every part of the Empire up here: some of them were coloured; all had exotic names, reminiscent of sunny climes in far off places, on their shoulder flashes.
The sky was now black with bombers blotting out the last rays of sun, and the noise overhead had reached a crescendo. Suddenly, they started to straighten out and head for the coast. As the last engine sound died away all was quiet and tranquil once more.
Time for bed: time to collect your boats, skates and marbles, and head home for a cup of Ovaltine or, if the food box had arrived from New Zealand, a cup of Milo, a wonderful drink, plus a lard sandwich with plenty of salt. (I have reached 74 - does this put paid to all those food fad theories, I wonder?)
Next day, on the six o’clock news, we heard that there had been a thousand-bomber raid on Germany. Our brave boys had given the Hun hell, showing them that bombing us night after night would only bring repercussions. As an afterthought it was mentioned that 20 of our aircraft had failed to return. We knew that meant a lot of men were missing or dead – we’d seen the planes limping back with engines out and damage that could be seen from the ground.
I personally had seen badly shot-up planes land when I was visiting those aerodromes with dad. One came into a shelter, near where we stood, with no rear gun turret at all; it had been shot off over Germany. We saw the wounded being unloaded and the dead covered with a blanket. Also, there were planes that never made it in, the ones that crashed on the approach or the end of the runway. Sometimes there would be hung bombs that exploded as they landed, those were classed as accidents and never went on the list of dead or missing announced by the ´óÏó´«Ã½, and we now know those figures were played down as well.
We had gone to bed after an idyllic evening’s play, plus the spectacle of those masses of planes, not realising those men up there would be wondering what fate had in store, trying not to show fear, many never returning for their breakfast the next morning. War was all things to all people: to us children it was spectacle; to those involved, terror, boredom and the unknown. Is it any wonder those boys came to town and let their hair down whenever they could? They deserved all the fun they could get, as life for them was often short.
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