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A personal memoir of my experiences, discoveries and beliefs regarding the life, RAF career and death of my late father, SQUADRON LEADER, MAURICE 'ROY' SKEET, (39800) RAF BOMBER COMMAND 1937-42. Part 1.

EARLY MEMORIES

"He was a pilot in the RAF; 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 4-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" 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, lay down and close your eyes. We will talk about it tomorrow."

I lay in my bed trying to absorb what I'd just been told. 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.

A few weeks before I was told this news mother had taken me to see a man in London who asked me lots of questions and watched me playing some toys and sand. We visited this man several times over the course of a few weeks and he spoke quietly to my mother whilst I played.

(I learnt some years later that mother had been worried about my somewhat shy and retiring nature. Thinking there might be something wrong with me she had taken me to a Child Psychologist and he had recommended that I should told about my birth father.)

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 I learned that my father was named Maurice Roy Skeet and he married mother before the war started. Apparently they had lived with his mother Mrs Jean Skeet and he was a Squadron Leader in the RAF with Bomber Command. I was told his family had moved away after he died and their whereabouts were unknown.

I began my education at a small Private School a few months later and 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 and had died serving his country in the war that was in progress.

Shortly after the end of the war my parent's financial circumstances changed and I was transferred to an ordinary state primary school. At this school the other children gave me the nickname of ‘Pansy’ due to my acquired vocal accent and I was sometimes teased and bullied without mercy. This resulted in me becoming increasingly isolated and introspective in character. I began to find it a little difficult to make friends and interact with the other children, sometimes I felt very lonely.

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 my questions I learnt very little more about his career only that after his death he'd been buried in Yorkshire near to a place called Lynton on Ouse. To my surprise mother seemed critical of his personality and dismissive about his RAF career. Occasionally when I asked about how 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 was becoming even more obvious to me that mother was reluctant to comment further about my father. Being concerned that I should not upset her 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 my stepfather 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 unable 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".

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 created 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 one of my mother’s bedroom cupboards I found some toys and a stamp collection mounted in official looking stationary books. There were also some glass projection slides for a Magic Lantern and a few rolls of eight millimetre film which included some cartoons of "Popeye The Sailor", "Mickey Mouse" and a couple of home movies.

I was told that these were things left for me by my father and wondered why I was not allowed to have access to them, I was told they would be kept for me until I was older. Mother seemed to find these things and my interest in them as disturbing as my questioning. 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 Fathers existence than what I had already been told.

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, he always seemed to understand and sympathise with my curiosity. The grief and distress I felt at his death and my sense of loss seemed to emphasise my curiosity about my father.

I often wondered if my mother might have 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 over the paper desperately seeking an error, a mistake, an inaccuracy, but none was there! - I closed my eyes for a moment hoping it was nightmare and that the horror of the words would vanish. - But they hadn't, they were still there, - the hand-written words. - The 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 close by.

My mind reeled in tortured confusion, for what seemed like a lifetime, I sat 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 me little consolation in my state of misery.

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. 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.

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? - Was I in some way just like him? as she had often angrily remarked?

Bewildered, I replaced the bundle 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 being replaced with resentment, doubt and disillusion. I was just thirteen years old.

I kept this apparently shameful and terrible secret to myself and consequently became almost completely isolated and self-conscious, the only person I confided in was my childhood girlfriend.

In my Nineteenth year I married my childhood girlfriend and we went to live in a shared flat with a young married couple who we'd been friends with 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 a RAF Officer colleague of my father who was living locally.

A CONFUSING CALL

Having found the telephone number of the RAF officer Nan had mentioned and since the anguish of my earlier discoveries had subsided a little, my curiosity was once again beginning to stir. I tried to make contact with the Officer by telephone; my first call resulted in being asked to phone back a few days later.

During the second call the Officer said he knew my father well and held him in high regard, as did his fellow officers. He also said that Roy Skeet had exhibited courage and conviction and that the men under his command had great respect for him. However, he said he was unable to give me any further information for fear of being accused of slander by my mother. I was very curious to understand the reason for the Officers concluding remarks, however, I was unable to enquire into this new mystery, as mother was unaware I knew of the death certificate.

(I learnt sometime later that the Officer had contacted my mother telling her of my inquiry after my first call.)

The compliments I’d heard reminded me of the letter I discovered with my mother's private papers, its contents had remained buried in my memory. I was comforted by the Officers opinion of my father and it enabled me to recover a little of the pride and self-respect I'd felt before my traumatic discovery as a young teenager. Nevertheless I remained very confused and unable to understand why there seemed to be such a difference in the opinions about my father between my mother and what I’d heard from the Officer. For the next few years I concentrated on my career and tried not to dwell on the confusion and frustration I felt and avoided any temptation to question the subject further.

PAINFULL TIMES

In 1962 my stepfather Harry passed away suddenly and then three years later Nan died, both of these deaths effected me deeply. After Pop’s death I had grown closer to my stepfather and Nan had remained as a close support and confidant. On these occasions of grief I found my mind dwelling on my father's death and the questions it evoked. I began to realise that this was becoming an obsessive and recurring theme in my personal life.

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 to occasionally spend time away from home to carry out my work. During this time my marriage had begun to suffer due to an earlier indiscretion of mine. On one occasion I had completed a week working at a location close to the borders of Yorkshire and was feeling somewhat depressed and unwilling to return straight home. Remembering I was not far from where I had heard my father was buried I felt the urge to try and find his memorial.

On an early spring Saturday morning I drove through the countryside to Yorkshire in the bright sunshine. On the way I passed through the ancient town of York and a little further on stopped at a large Airforce base. I told the young Airman on duty at the gatehouse that I believed my father might have served there during the war and that I was looking for the location of the churchyard where I thought he was buried. The young Airman 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 the Airman what I knew about my father’s burial place he gave me some detailed directions and I continued to my intended destination.

Read Part 2 of this story.

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