大象传媒

I was going to meet the King but if asked I must say" I am seven". I do remember this but over the years I am not always sure what I remember when I was only five, am I thinking of a photo or was it an active imagination coupled with stories retold?

My father had volunteered for the R.A.F. and had become a navigator on heavy bombers, had been stationed back to our home city of Lincoln. I think I remember him in uniform coming down the path to the front door but I am certain of memories of lying in bed and hearing the subdued roar as the Lancaster bombers ran up their engines in the evening, a sure sign of an impending raid. The County of Lincolnshire is flat, making it ideal for airfields and Lincoln had three or four within a five mile radius. The Bombers used to circle Lincoln Cathedral forming into groups to fly to Germany. They must have been watched by many wives and girlfriends, not knowing where they were going, the walls have ears, and all hoping to hear a similar sound in the early hours hopefully signallling the safe return of their special man. My mother must have listened and had some very sleepless nights but my father survived his tour, thirty bombing missions but over 50% of the crews did not. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, and to my mother's relief a safe training job training young navigators. He called in at the airfield to pick up some kit, the training officer was ill and he was persuaded to take up a plane full of young student navigators for training. A Lancaster, badly damaged and returning from a raid had lost it's radio. There was a mid air collision and both crewswere lost, the fifteen young men in my fathers aircraft, mainly from Australia and never took part in the war died.My mother became a widow.

She expected my Father home for supper but there must have been a visit that she could not have anticipated. She was pregnant with my brother and I was three, there were some kind and consoling letters but little family support or the modern bereavement counselling. I do not remember seeing my mother grieve, I was too young to understand but I know she loved him dearly.

My father was buried in a small country church yard near his R.A.F. station along with the young student navigators, the graves are cherished by the War Graves Commission and red roses bloom every Summer. Next door to the church was a farm and I recall visiting his grave when small and telling the farmer next door why we were there. He gave my brother and I an egg each and we ran to tell my mother and she wept.

I lived in a happy five year old's world and did not realise what had happened until much later when I really missed not having a father in many ways. I remember going on a picnc and being taken behind a tree by a male family friend and shown that men could pee without taking down their trousers.

My mother had a letter from Buckingham Palace inviting her to receive my father' medal and she was allowed one guest, the minimum age was seven. She thought my father would have wanted me to be there so she read the instructions in the letter and I had a crash course in royal etiquette including how to bow. I practised bowing in front of family friends until perfect and was told that I must say I was seven and that it was only a little fib.

I do not remember the train journey to London but we were met by grandpa (my father's side of the family) and stayed with them in Balham, my grandma was going to look after my little brother Stephen. I remember the blitzed houses and shops and the barrage balloons on Clapham Common. I remember going to sleep in the Morrison shelter, the heavy steel box with wire mesh around it, in case the house was bombed. I must have shown some anxiety but Grandma said "Hitler would not bomb little boys". Suitable reassured I must have slept well because I was up early to collect the shrapnel from the anti-aircraft shells that had fallen overnight in the garden.

The big day arrived; I have only hazy memories of standing in the throne room with hundreds of other recipients and being brought forward, seeing the King and having the medal pinned on my coat. Afterwards in Buckingham Palace yard I was photographed with the medal proudly displayed on my dark melton coat and this photograph duly appeared in our local paper.

It was only later that my humiliation was revealed when my mother was describing the ceremony to the family. She was ushered in front of the King and I closely followed, my mother curtsied and in the heat of the moment, my practising forgotten, I grabbed the edges of my coat and curtised too. Now if I had really been seven.........

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