大象传媒

It was 1944 and I was 7 amd about to be 8 in the July following. It was a lovely Sunday lunch time round about Whitsuntide. My mum, dad and I were at the caravan just outside the village of Dungworth, on the north-west corner of Sheffield. We spent all our holidays and weekends there throughout the war period. My dad had bought the van just as war broke out, thinking that if anything happened to the house we would have somewhere to go. I loved it, although my brother (nine years my senior) was growing out of it. I loved the freedom to roam about the fields and woods, to paddle in the stream, and the views of the Damflask reservoir were terrific. We heard the aeroplanes before we saw them. The noise was almost earsplitting. Suddenly there they were, flying very low over the little bit of water we could see down the lower end of our little valley. Then came that terrific howl as they rose up and over the hills to make the run again. I think there were about three of them. I saw one of them dive low over the wooded hillside opposite us and I am sure the bomb doors were open.
Then I was called in for my dinner (cooked on a parafin stove as we could not get gas), whilst they continued to roar and dive overhead. We had no idea then what they were up to, and it was years before I personally realised they were the dam busters squadron practicing for their big night. Since then I have seen the Lancaster several times both going to and returning from air shows, and each time it's the roar of those four Rolls Royce Merlins which I hear first. That deep droning throb carries a message in my mind that all is well and the boys in light blue are taking care of us.

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