大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by a volunteer from Northumberland on behalf of Don Simcock. Mr. Simcock fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions, and the story has been added to the site with his permission. It is written in the first person.

When I take my Grandchildren to the local playground with swings, roundabouts and other play ground equipment, as soon as I see the maker鈥檚 name 鈥� 鈥淲icksteed鈥� 鈥� I鈥檓 taken back to the time during the Second World War when I lived a short distance from Wicksteed Park at Kettering, Northamptonshire, which was donated to the town by Wicksteed himself for the enjoyment of local people. The Americans had taken over the buildings in the park as a base for their air force personnel although most of the open space was still available to local youngsters.

The high spirits and exuberant behaviour of the 鈥淵anks鈥� caused quite a few raised eyebrows and hostile reactions amongst some locals, especially when they drove their jeeps at high speed through villages, holding a Coca Cola can over the exhaust pipe to make a sound like machine-gun fire. Being very attractive to the local girls, and drinking the pubs dry also caused some friction!

Flying Fortress bombers had only recently arrived at Grafton Underwood Airfield but they were soon active, carrying out daylight bombing. As they took off they tested their half-inch calibre machine-guns over the open fields. First, we heard their chatter followed, almost at once, by the thud of spent shells hitting the ground. Luckily, or perhaps by judgement, no one got hit!

In 1942 or thereabouts, as sixteen year old boys, each morning with my friend, Clive Enoch, we counted the Fortresses out, and later counted them back again, at least those that made it. It did not take the Germans long to learn that if the formation on which the Fortresses depended could be broken up, the bombers lost most of their defensive capability and became very vulnerable to fighter attack. On most days, the returning Fortresses showed the wounds of battle, daylight clearly visible through gaping holes in wings, tail planes and fuselage, often with one or more engines either stopped or misfiring badly, some planes losing height despite the efforts of the pilots and crew.

On one unforgettable day, a Fortress, obviously seriously damaged, came into sight, more shot-up than usual and flying almost crablike, not in a straight line and with engines spluttering. As it passed overhead it was evident that major damage had been inflicted on the rear portion of the fuselage, just ahead of the tail fin. The rudder was hard over trying to correct the heading against the unequal pull of damaged engines. The strain on the Fortress became too great and as we watched, to our horror, the entire tail section drooped, twisted, and came away! We waited hoping to see a parachute or two, which was wishful thinking because at that height a parachute would be almost useless, and none appeared. Then, in apparent slow motion the Fortress spiralled downwards and vanished from view. Within seconds, a column of black smoke rose towards to clear blue sky as an epitaph to the dozen or so young men who perished.

Now that I am of an age when I could have been the Grandfather of those lads, because in truth they were only boys, I often think of them and the debt that those of us alive today owe to them. Realising that many of the American aircrew were barely eighteen years of age, only boys with their lives ahead of them, I now feel ashamed of the criticism then heaped upon them, and wish that there was some way in which I could make amends. We have all heard the remark 鈥淥ver paid, over sexed, and over here鈥�. All I can say is, 鈥淭hank God that they were over here!鈥�

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