大象传媒

A SMALL INCIDENT OF NOTE

By May 1940 the German War Machine had overrun most of France and Belgium. The British Expeditionary Force and the remnants of the French and Belgian armies were in disarray. Defeated, dejected and demoralized they retreated towards the Channel Coast and the beaches of Dunkirk. Inexorably, the German Army followed. On the beaches the vanquished British Soldiers and their Allies awaited their fate; at best to be taken Prisoner of War or, probably to meet their death. The 鈥楳iracle of Dunkirk鈥�, as Winston Churchill later described it was but an evolving dream. Time was desperately needed. Any delay which could be placed in the path of the advance of the German Army would provide the essential time to allow the dream to become reality. The reality was Churchill鈥檚 鈥楳iracle鈥�. It was an Armada of ships of all shapes and sizes amassed on the Coast of South England. Bravely, the men who crewed the ships crossed and recrossed the Channel. Many were sunk, lives were lost but they plucked almost 300,000 doomed men from the Beaches of Dunkirk and brought them safely home.

Actions designed to delay the surge of the German Army towards Dunkirk were unreported and lost by the immense dilemma of the forlorn troops retreating towards Dunkirk. A small but significant incident occurred on 19th May 1940. It went unheralded but was one of many other courageous events which was overshadowed at that time. This is a short record of that event and the lives it touched.

In May 1940 the 102 Squadron, Bomber Command of The Royal Air Force was stationed at Driffield in Yorkshire. The Squadron flew Armstrong Whitley Bombers. Each plane was crewed by five who were supported by many but often forgotten groundstaff. It fell to them to mount a catalogue of relentless, dangerous daily missions to disrupt and hinder the advance of the German Army towards the Northern French Coast.

The 19th May dawned a pleasant, warm, spring-like day in Yorkshire. It went unnoticed by the tired and weary aircrew and groundstaff who were more concerned with their daily routine and what the day and the night held in store. Five Aircraft were detailed to fly a Mission to destroy bridges across the River Oise in Northern France and to disorganize and interfere with enemy movements. One of these Aircraft was a Whitley Bomber, numbered N1380. The Aircraft was crewed by Flight Lieutentant David Owen, aged 22 years, Pilot Officer Dennis Holbrook, aged 20 years. Sergeant Duncan Barrett aged 20 years, Aircraftsman David Dolan, aged 19 years and Leading Aircraftman Reginald Newberry, aged 20 years. The five Aircraft took off shortly after 8pm. The mission required low level flying despite the known presence of enemy anti aircraft fire and aircraft. The records reveal they reached their targets and completed their tasks. Four of the aircraft returned to Driffield during the early hours of the morning of 20th May. Aircraft N1380 did not return and was presumed lost at about 11.30pm on the night of 19th May 1940 near St. Quentin in Northern France. It subsequently transpired N1380 had fallen a victim to enemy anti-aircraft fire.
It was not until 1975 that I was in a position to start to quell the ache in my heart and begin to enquire into the death of my brother David. When the tragedy occurred I was but nine years old. I lived with my widowed Mother and elder sister in Liverpool. I had fond memories of David who was a gentle, happy natured person. We seemed to have a special bond; to me he was extra special and I think I was, somehow, extra special to him. I also had deep memories of his last visit home, hearing him quietly sob in the arms of my Mother during the late evening when I was, supposedly, upstairs in bed asleep. With mature knowledge I think he knew of the average life span of a 鈥榯ail end Charlie鈥� and that his time was about to run out. I, also, had deep memories of how my Mother hid her grief but could not stem the sobbing and flow of tears when she was alone at night.

It was not until 1944 we learned that David had died on the fateful night and was buried near to the Village of Brissy Hamegicourt, Northern France. The official notification arrived on Christmas Eve 1944. Until then my Mother had fostered the fervent belief that David was alive and would return. That belief could no longer be sustained but, nevertheless, she maintained her dignified and restrained manner whilst remaining a warm and loving mother to my sister and me. My mother died in 1945 and by reason of events I was, shortly, on my own, living in lodgings and caring for myself until I met and married my husband in 1950.

In 1975 I traveled with my young son, Keith, to Brissy to visit my brother鈥檚 grave in the Cemetery adjoining the village church. Our visit was unannounced. We found the grave. It was alongside the graves of the other members of the crew 鈥� comrades buried side by side in a plot that was immaculately preserved and obviously tended with care. Each had a headstone and all but one had an inscription in addition to the identity of the fallen flyer. I visited a shop in the village and managed to converse, after a fashion, with the shopkeeper. When he learned the reason for my visit, he indicated I should wait in the shop. He left and returned in a short time with a man who spoke English. He introduced himself with warmth and obvious pleasure. He was the Mayor of Brissy Hamagicourt. He invited my son and I to have lunch with him, during which he explained that David鈥檚 body had been recovered immediately after the aircraft had crashed and had been buried in the graveyard. Seemingly, the aircraft had disintegrated when it was struck and the rear of the fuselage which David occupied as the rear gunner had fallen away from the main part of the aircraft containing David鈥檚 comrades. They had fallen some distance away at a place named Senerey and they were buried in a wood nearby. When the War ended the people of Brissy Hamagicourt removed an ancient family vault from the graveyard and brought the remains of David鈥檚 comrades to the graveyard and buried them alongside David鈥檚 grave. The War Graves Commission had erected the gravestones and engraved David鈥檚 grave with my Mother鈥檚 chosen words: 鈥淥nly a boy-but he played a man鈥檚 part鈥�. When our visit ended I felt very mixed emotions 鈥� a sense of sadness but also a feeling of relief and achievement to name but a few. Somehow, I felt a quest remained, an unfulfilled quest for more knowledge of what had happened to my dear brother, what were his comrades like; what of their families? It was and remains difficult to describe. It was a feeling that there was a curtain which veiled more that I should know and there was a stirring within me that I should try to draw back the curtain further in search of greater knowledge.

In 1978 I visited York on a day trip by coach. It was selected at random. I went to see York Minster. In an alcove inside the Minster I came across a tribute to all wartime airmen who had flown out of airfields in Yorkshire. The Tribute is in the form of an astronomical clock adorned with moving stars and an image of the dome of the Minster. I learned this image depicted the dome as it would be seen by aircraft crew flying over York and was used as navigational aid. In front of the tribute there was a large Roll of Honour book protected by a glass cover. The names of all wartime airmen, from many countries, who died on missions flown out of Yorkshire were inscribed in it. The book was open at a page. I looked at the list of names. As my eyes glanced down at each name I could not restrain a gasp of astonishment and disbelief when I realized I was reading my brother鈥檚 name. It seemed to be emboldened as if to transfix my gaze. I felt deeply shaken and after a few moments whilst I tried to recover my composure I simply left the Minster. Intrigued, curious and still shaken, I returned to the Minster some weeks later. I went to the book and looked at it with some trepidation. It was open as before but upon closer inspection I saw it was open at a different page to the one I had seen on my earlier visit. I enquired about the book from one of the officials of the Minster and told him of my earlier experience. He told me it was a ritual to turn the pages of the book at specific times several times a day and it was clear the chances of me seeing my brother鈥檚 name on my first visit were almost incalculable. My ever-growing curiosity about my brother and his comrades was stimulated and I went on to visit Driffield to try to feel the ambience of the place where they had last set foot before their fatal flight.

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