大象传媒

I don鈥檛 remember the War. I wasn鈥檛 there. I wasn鈥檛 even conceived. But still it was a malign presence squatting over parts of my childhood. It had destroyed people I should have known. My grandparents displayed some family photographs in their front room. One of them was a pretty two year-old-child, with golden curls, wearing a white dress. I was surprised to learn this was a boy 鈥� my Uncle Frank, who had died of meningitis when he was fifteen. Seven years before the War. He was dead. We knew he was dead. He was under the sad little cross in Skegby churchyard.

Another photograph was smaller. A slightly built young man with a cheeky grin, was wearing Air Force uniform, with his cap set at the compulsory jaunty angle. This was my other uncle, Bernard, who had gone to fight in World War Two, and had never come home again.
I used to tell myself stories about him. I imagined that he had been rescued from the sea; he was still in prison somewhere and would escape soon; he had met a beautiful girl in a distant country, she looked after him, nursed him back to health and they were married; he had lost his memory and one day it would come back; he would walk in through the door, looking just as he had in the photograph, as simply as if he were coming in for his meal after a day at work. Bernard had been dead for seven years when I was born. Scarcely time to draw breath for his parents, but an age for me. After all 鈥渄uring the War鈥� was before my life-time. It might as well have been the Battle of Hastings.

In 1939, Bernard was seventeen and joined the Air Force 鈥� he was glad to have a job. After he left school, he started to work as a mechanic, but during the slump years, his boss had not been able to keep him on at the garage. He was soon in Wiltshire at the RAF training school near Calne.

Bernard wrote letters to his family- they arrived with the censor鈥檚 blue pencil struck through any details of where he was going and when. His letters were determinedly cheerful, and for a Mansfield lad who had never travelled far, it must have been quite an adventure.

Bernard went out to the Middle East in March 1940. Not by air, though. The men left camp on a Tuesday morning, and crossed the Channel overnight in a boat designed to hold about half the number of passengers it was carrying鈥� 500 of them had to sleep on the floor. After a lengthy wait at a station, they boarded a train. Their train took 35 hours to cross France. Each time it stopped at a station, the young men chatted to the local people, trying out the French they had learned at school not so long ago.

By Saturday they were on a ship heading for Egypt, crossing a choppy Mediterranean, though 鈥渦p to press I haven鈥檛 seen anyone seasick.鈥�

The way he described it, Bernard鈥檚 life didn鈥檛 sound too bad. 鈥淭he place is more like a holiday camp than an RAF station 鈥� no one ever worries us at all鈥� he wrote. They got up at five, worked from 5.30 to 7.15, had breakfast, paraded at 8.15, worked until noon. Then they were allowed out until 1.30 am. 鈥淣ice work 鈥攅h!鈥� he said. He shared his tent with 鈥渜uite a merry crew who don't care what happens as long as they have their beer.鈥�

He visited Cairo 鈥� there were only three drawbacks, he said, the language, the money and the cost of living. Egyptian street traders pestered the lads, but you could get hold of things cheaply if you were prepared to bargain. 鈥淗e tried to sell me a fly-swatter for ten piastres. I argued with him and eventually and got it for two.鈥� He had seen the pyramids from the air and was looking forward to visiting them. By May the temperature had reached 92 degrees, and there was little chance of it cooling down before November.

The squadron moved out into the desert, and the young men got down to the coast for a swim quite often. 鈥淎s you probably realise, that is the only way of a bath because we are rationed on fresh water. It is simply marvellous, going into the sea for half an hour and then lying on the beach sunbathing afterwards.鈥�

In July he mentioned that the squadron had lost a few men. 鈥� One of them, a pal of mine, who was an Air Gunner went on a raid and his machine was hit by shrapnel from anti-aircraft fire. The pilot tried to get it back over the border, but failed and they came down in the Mediterranean. The crew were picked up by the Italian Navy. Apparently they are now being held prisoners of war in Libya.鈥�

By September, Bernard had taken an Air Gunnery course, and was looking forward to 鈥済oing over Libya very shortly to see what I can do behind a gun in action. I have not been given the opportunity as yet but I shall be full out for it when I can go.鈥�

On the 20th September he wrote with the news that he was to be promoted to sergeant, and promised to send photographs as soon as he could. He had some taken, but had torn them up and burnt them, because they were absolutely horrible.鈥溾�hen I get a spot of leave, I will have some more taken, with the A.G.'s badge, W.Ops badge and stripes on, and shake you - your son a sergeant - absolutely astounding!!鈥�

Bernard鈥檚 letters were full of questions about life at home, too, asking them to make sure Pearl wrote to him as promised (鈥渘o cracks either please!鈥�). Was his sister Celia working at the Children鈥檚 Hospital now? What sort of work was his dad doing with the lorry, now that they had commandeered it for war work? He wanted to see photographs of the new air-raid shelter in the garden; he wished his dad many happy returns. The family wrote back, sent newspapers, handkerchiefs, knitted items and cakes, and hoped the war would finish quickly.

Then, on 3rd October, while Celia was helping her mother with some wall-papering, there was a knock on the door. Sarah looked out of the window. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the telegraph boy. Something鈥檚 happened.鈥� She went to open the door, took the flimsy brown envelope and came back inside. 鈥淧ut the kettle on,鈥� she said, automatically as she tore the telegram open. It stated baldly 鈥淩egret inform you your son, 642942 Sergeant Shelton reported missing 1/10 Letter follows.鈥�

A few days later the letter came, giving words of cold comfort, and the tiniest scrap of hope. The plane had failed to return to its base after an operational flight. 鈥淭his does not necessarily mean that he is killed or injured.鈥�

About six weeks later, another letter arrived from the base in Egypt. 鈥渄eepest sympathy鈥�..the aircraft鈥as seen to hit the sea. It is not known whether any of the crew escaped. Sergeant Shelton had proved his worth on many occasions and he is a real loss to the squadron.鈥�
For several months his parents hovered between hope and despair, and finally felt just the numb desire to know for certain.
In March 1941, another official letter arrived. 鈥溾�here can now be no reasonable grounds for believing that he can still be alive. It is now proposed to take official action to presume his death.鈥�
Bernard must be dead, but it was hard to accept without a body.

My grandmother, Sarah, wrote to the parents of the two other airmen who had gone missing in the same plane. She offered sympathy for their 鈥渢rouble鈥�- 鈥淚 will not say loss because we hope and pray that all three are somewhere safe and sound." Gradually, they all had to accept that their sons were not coming home.

Sarah kept the telegram and the letters, in an old writing paper box, for the rest of her life. Shut away with these was a thick curl of Frank鈥檚 dark blonde hair, lovingly stored in a box of the kind where jewellers keep rings or ear-rings. Fifty-five years later, in 1995, I found the box, in a cupboard at Celia鈥檚 house, the morning before her funeral.

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