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Patrick Cassidy was born in Londons east ent in 1923. He was the only son of Martin and Eleanor Cassidy and brother of Peggie and Monie.

Patrick was very gifted, he played the piano, mouth organ and had a beautiful singing voice.He loved to dance and collected the latest music of the day. His sister Peggy, my mother, recalls wuth joy, how when their parents were out they would mimic their hereos from the big screen. he would be Errol Flynn, sword fighting around the room, using poker and brush shaft as swords; sometimes Fred Astaire and mum, Ginger Rodgers, tap dancing on top of the tables, much to the annoyance of the neighbours in the apartment below.

Pat was also a talented artist and would spend hours drawing and sketching. He was tall and lean, with fair hair and blue grey eyes. He loved life and was always active.
Keen Boxer
He cycled and was a member of the local cycling club, his sundays were often spent cycling for miles with his friends. He learnt to box with the help of his father, who was a keen boxer in his army days and loved the sport.

Patrick was very protective of his sisters and often received and gave a bloody nose in the school playground when someone would bully them.

at school he excelled and won many prizes, including scholarships. Times were hard then and money was scarce, Pat had to leave school and earn money to help support his family. His first job was as an office clerk for a coal company, he then found a better paying job as a tailor. This was ideal as he had an eye for detail and was good with his hands. These carefree days were to end dramatically for Pat on the outbreak of the Second World War.

Nightly the shrill screech of the air raid warning was heard. Like many others Pat and his family huddled together in the underground, deep below for safety. Soon the drone of the Luffwaffe bombers would come, heavily laden with bombs and incendiaries. The sky soon lit up with spotlights and the sounds of anti aircraft fire. Then, the sickening whistling sound of bombs being dropped from thousands of feet above. The ground would vibrate would explode with the impact of exploding bombs raining death and destruction. The city Pat grew up in was slowly turning to rubble and bomb craters.

When Pat was seventeen he volunteered for the dangerous job of fire watcher. This meant he was positioned on top of buildings to watch for incendiaries, no longer in the relative safety of shelters, but in the thick of it.

One night, in the middle of a raid, Pat saw a hospital being hit and witnessed the absolute carnage. It was then he decided to enlist and fight back. He joined the Royal Airforce shortly after and was sent for training.

Pat was intelligent and quickly was proficient on the workings of the powerfull Rolls-Royce Merlin engines that lifted the heavy aircraft into the skies, and he soon knew every nut, bolt and wire in the aircrafts. When he completed his training after a remarkable six months, he was givent he rank of sergeant. how proud he must have been in his smart uniform, when he came home on leave.

Pat was his parents' life. They doted on him and him on them. You can only imagine the anxiety and dread they must have felt, especially knoeing of friends and neighbours that had lost sons and loved ones in the war.

Pat was soon posted and was now a member of a crew flying a huge Lancaster bombers. Each member of the seven man crew had his job on the aircraft, according to his particular talent. Pat earned the title of flight engineer due to his knowledge of the mechanics of the plane.

The pilot was a Canadian, Gordon Nicholl. They sat in the cockpit side by side. The navigator was sergeant Gadsby, wireless operator was sgt Lewis, bomb aimer, pilot officer, Baht, and gunners sgts Finch and Brown. They were little more than boys, Pat was only twenty years old. They depended on eachother for their very lives.

The bunked and ate together. We know Pat and his friends flew many dangerous missions , they must have known that each time they went out it could be their last. The chances of the surving this hazardous job was less than fifty-fifty.

Pat would say 'Hail Marys' whenever they released their bombs over the target area, praying that they wouldnt drop on innocent civilians. It must have been a relief to feel the wheels of the aircraft touch ground on the return journey, knowing they had made it this time, but some of their friends from other crews weren't so lucky. If the flak from the ground didn't get you, then the German fighter planes would, either en-route or on the flight home.

Before a mission they would have a meal together. They laughed, joked, played tricks on each other, trying to hide their fear before the time came to board the aircraft for yet another game of russian roulette.

At 11.00 p.m. on the nighh of October 8, 1943, they left R.A.F. Bourn in Cambidgeshire on a bombing raid over the german city of hanover.

Their luck had finally run out when coming under fire from the heavy ground flak exploding close to them, peppering the aircraft with chunks of hot metal. They took a direct hit.

Back home Pats family lived in dread of getting a telegram with the news they didn't want to hear. Pat's mother, Eleanor got hers. "we regret to inform you that your son, flight engineer, Sgt Patrick Cassidy is missing in action..."

It went on to say that his aircraft was hit by ground fire and one of the crew was seen to parachute from the burning plane. There was some hope, maybe it was Pat, Maybe he was the one wko escaped the wreckage. His family must have clung to this hope.

We know this from the replies we have from the air ministry and red cross letters that his mother kept right up until her death. However their worst fears were confirmed.
A red Cross letter from a prisoner of war camp in germany to RAF headquaters from P/O Nicoll, Prisoner Of War, told in much detail, events of the night of October 8,1943.

Teir bale out light was defective, so they decided that in an emergency the navigation lights would be flashed, signalling them to bale out. They had taken a direct hit on the port side, blowing out part of the tail and demolishing the cockpit. Pat was killed instantly, Nicoll was trapped in the mangled cock-pit, but managed to turn on the navigation lights, but knew then that the rest of the crew had been killed.
LUCK
The plane started to spin as it descended. With luck, he freed himself and baled out. The last thing he saw was the burning twisted wreckage spinning towards the ground.
In the cold darkness of that October he was captured and became a P.O.W.

Pat was one of more than 50,000 airmen who lost their lives in the duration of the war - short life loved by so many. Only one body was ever recovered, that of bomb aimer, Pilot Officer Baht R.C.A.F. who incidentally came from German distraction. All that was recovered of Pat was his charred wallet.

There was no one to grieve over, to touch, to say goodbye, no grave to visit or take care of - just a few old photographs and treasured memories.

My mother, Peggy, still clung onto hope and joined the RAF shortly after, hoping he might have survived. Maybe he would be shipped home and she would be there for him when he returned home. She is th strong one, God tested her, she had to work along with German POW's on some of her duties and couldn't find in her heart any bitterness towards them.

To this day, there hangs on the wall in her bedroom a picture of her beloved brother in uniform, painted by a German POW sixty years on, Pat, the one who looked out for her, sang with her, taught her all the latest dance moves and laughed with her. She will always carry him in her heart, until tey meet again.

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