大象传媒

This is the story of my brother who died in World War 2. When my sisters and I also come to die 鈥� and I, the middle one am already 79 鈥� then there will be no one able to add body to the bare facts of his history.

His name was William Charlton Lawson and his rank when he died was Flight-Sgt. in the Royal Air Force, a fighter pilot with a Spitfire Squadron, ( the East India). His age at death was 23 years and his name is inscribed on the El Alamein Memorial (Column 269). We have an official photograph of the relevant lines of the inscription, but have never seen the original.

At time of his death in June 1943 he was living under canvas and working from an airstrip somewhere along the coast of Libya. His squadron was engaged in practising low-flying sorties over the Mediterranean Sea in preparation for the invasion of Sicily. The North Africa campaign had been fought and won and only mopping-up operations were still going on along that coast by early 1943. Many of the fighter squadrons were being transferred to Malta.

I have a book called Spitfires over Sicily: the crucial role of the Malta Spitfires in the Battle of Sicily, January-August 1943, by Brian Cull and others. It includes excerpts from the diaries and letters of pilots there at that time, almost all operating from Malta. One of the most apposite describes the low-flying sorties that they made, skimming closely over the waves to evade detection by enemy radar. The writer says:

鈥淒id a sweep to Lampedusa and Limosa but saw nothing. Went in at at sea level. It鈥檚 a long stretch of water and it wouldn鈥檛 be a nice place for engine trouble to develop鈥�. (Chapter 1, Page 7).

And one can imagine the difficulty of wrestling with an engine fault when only a few moments of loss of control could mean a fatal plunge into the sea. That, I think, is what happened to my brother.

His Squadron-Leader, P.W. Humphries, sent a letter to my mother dated 29th June 1943. I think a telegram had already been dispatched for he died at 16.15 hrs. on 23 June. He said that somehow my brother seemed to lose control of his plane. He said also, that the loss of 鈥楪inger鈥� (as he was known to his friends) would be deeply felt not only by his particular friends but by all in the pilots鈥� mess where he was known and liked for his red-head and for his cheerfulness.

He was 鈥淏illy鈥� to us, however. In the few years before the war he was being trained to be a draughtsman at F. Turnbull and Co, Ironfounders, Heaton Junction, in Newcastle upon Tyne. F. Turnbull was his uncle but except for the continued kindness of his cousin (also at the works) there had been no family privilege involved. He was encouraged to join the Territorial Army in the very late 鈥榯hirties and this must have given some colour to his days for he did not have the temperament for an orderly office life. This meant that at the outbreak of War he was among the first to be called up and found himself in the 鈥楾ynes鈥� regiment. Thereafter he seemed to drive army lorries about. He was not with the British Expeditionary Force in France. I think the ordinariness of his routine bored him. He had two great friends in the 鈥楾ynes鈥� and at last all three decided to transfer to the R.A.F., hopefully to learn to fly. He changed character completely. I think that this venture and the support of his friends brought together in him all the strands of ability and ambition. He who didn鈥檛 pass the scholarship (though he failed by only one mark, I am told, to win a place offered every few years by the Friends鈥� School at Great Ayton to the children of the village), got a place at Cranwell and applied his mind to mathematics, trigonometry and aerodynamics and to the adventure of taking an aeroplane up into the clouds. When he passed out from Cranwell and was stationed in other parts of the country, he visited a very favourite aunt and told her that he loved his Spitfire.

I think that some exploits in his childhood must have also moulded his character. We lived on a farm near to Roseberry Topping in N. Yorkshire, where there had been ironstone mines. Some shacks left behind after the mine closures were rented by some young motor-cycle speedway riders from Middlesbrough 鈥� quite well-known ones in those days. Two of them were Frank and Jack Hodgson. They came at weekends and they befriended Billy. They lent him a 2-stroke motor-bike on which he used to ride over the rough ground around the base and the flanks of Roseberry Topping.

The Depression was always menacing my father with bankruptcy but the summers seemed glorious and in the skies above, aircraft from Teeside Aeronautical Club roared and soared and looped the loop to the delight and wonder of us all. I am told that Capt. W.E. Johns, the author of those once highly popular books for boys, the 鈥楤iggles鈥� books, was a prominent member. Quite enough to inflame an adventurous imagination!

After my father died in 1935 the farm stock and implements were sold off to settle an overdraft at his bank and my mother was persuaded to move to Newcastle upon Tyne where she had relatives.

When I think of my brother I think of a line from a poem by W.B. Yeats - An Irish Airman foresees his death, concerning a 鈥榣onely impulse of delight鈥� that 鈥榙rove to this tumult in the clouds鈥�. I think there was a fatalism in his aspect when he was preparing to set off for North Africa in 1943. He went round family members offering items of his belongings to them. He offered me a hairbrush. Did he know that he wouldn鈥檛 come back? One of his friends wrote to me in later years describing him as a 鈥榢ind, generous and happy friend who would never let anyone down鈥�. That friend 鈥榟opped鈥� a plane to visit Billy at his airstrip two weeks or so before his accident. I wish my brother were not forever at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. I have a map reference and the number of his tail-plane but that is all.

I include a snapshot of the three friends. My brother is on the right, Jack Smith (who survives still, I think) is on the left and the third who also perished (though on a sea voyage across the Atlantic, not in the air) is in the centre. There is also a snapshot of my brother taken on leave after getting his 鈥榳ings鈥�. The third picture is of a group at Howarden aerodrome in 1942 鈥� my brother second from left, back row.

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