大象传媒

(This is written by Mildred Joan Tulip, nee Nichols).
I was born during the First World War in 1913, one of four children. So was my brother, the baby of the family, born in 1916. Growing up after that awful conflict, we all believed it had been a war to end wars and did not suspect that the very generation born in this time of war would be the one to suffer again. My mother, bouncing my brother on her knee, even used to say, " YOU won't have to go and fight, little boy" and he'd say in his toddler voice, "I grow up bigger and stronger", whereupon she'd repeat, "But you won't ever have to fight!" and would tickle him to make him laugh. He was christened James Alfred Nichols in memory of his uncle Jim, much respected in Middlesbrough where he had been the captain of the cricket team, who had been killed in the trenches.

We had an idyllic childhood and Jim then took an English degree at Oxford. You can find his name on the war memorial at Queen's College there. He was married in 1939 and was to have started a teaching career but instead volunteered as soon as war was declared. This is my remembered account of what happened to him.

Volunteers could choose their service and he chose the RAF. He tended to get seasick, so that was against the navy; and the army was a reminder of Uncle Jim's trenches; but he knew very well that the RAF was particularly risky. He was made a navigator because his eyesight was particularly good.

After training, his early patrols were in a Blenheim, flying over NW Scotland: he told me he had seen the Cuillins below, where we had once climbed together. But of the crews that started in this north-west patrol with him, only 2 crews out of 14 survived. They knew the odds were against them.

Later he flew in a Wellington bomber from Oakington airfield in Cambridgeshire. My recollection is that they thought the Wellingtons less good than the Blenheims. But both these early planes were I think cold and uncomfortable. Conditions at the bases were however reasonably good in themselves: there were nice baths and good food, in contrast with the day-to-day deprivations in the army where the daily hardship was greater. There was excitement too, and some feeling of independence and being in control of your plane. But the loss of good friends was horribly routine. And each time they took off they knew they weren't likely to return.

Jim flew from Oakington in a series of missions over Germany, e.g. to the heavily defended Kiel canal. I believe his widdow Brenda still has his logbook. By this time he had a young daughter, Rosalind, and another - Juliet - was on the way. His last flight was from Oakington.

All we learnt afterwards was from a telegram sent to my parents' home in Middlesbrough where Brenda came to live too, saying he was missing over Germany. After six months if nothing more was heard he would be presumed dead. So we never knew exactly what happened and for a long time - this was very difficulot - still clung onto some hope. Afte all, there was always a chance, even if a small chance, that he might have been taken prisoner or have managed to land and was on the run. In fact Jim used to joke with us that if he went missing we should be sure he'd be making his way back to the family through France, whispering sideways from behind his hand - here he acted this out - "English airman!" to French people who would be helping him escape and giving him food. After the plane was lost, the parents of one of the other boys - several years younger than Jim - came to see us and said that with his sense of humour and cheerfulness, Jim had been the one keeping their spirits up. He always was full of fun and that is how I will remember him.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.