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| A Short Stirling bomber. Via Wikipedia |
Then he had six weeks at Padgate for intensive initial training. That came as a shock. Drill, bull-shitting, tight discipline, verbal abuse from moronic drill-corporals and sergeants, insults from Physical Training instructors were all part of an extremely exhausting, daily routine. However, at the end of it he was fighting fit!
Christmas leave was a very welcome, temporary, respite from the enemy. The enemy was not German, he thought – but the petty tyrants at Padgate who ruled his every waking moment!
During his brief days of freedom, he and Margaret were much more at ease with each other. She was full of moans about his forsaking them and leaving them to a hard life at home. Nevertheless, there was an improved atmosphere in the house. She had missed him although she would not admit. She'd hated it being alone in their double bed.
After Christmas, he volunteered for Air Crew. He was sent to Hornchurch for aptitude tests. He was assessed as being suitable material. He was posted to Bomber Command for training as an Air Gunner. He would not be commissioned. If he passed the gunner's course, he would have the rank of Flight-Sergeant.
The chief benefit of it would be a substantial increase in pay. He strove as hard as possible to qualify. He desperately needed the extra money to help support his family. When he achieved the result he wanted at the end of April, his worries for those back at home eased.
The progress of the war was changing. The Phoney War was about to come to an end. The fall of France, the British Army's defeat and partial evacuation from Dunkirk were only weeks away. Talk of Hitler invading Britain was everywhere.
The obstacle to that was the Battle of Britain, in the late summer and early autumn. It was a crucial battle for supremacy in the air and the Luftwaffe lost. The prospect of having to face an invasion receded. When Hitler invaded Russia and, later still, the U.S.A. joined the Allies' side, it would only be a matter of time before the war was won.
That was a long way off when Gordon began his training to be an Air-Gunner in February. There would be setbacks and interruptions. It would be October before he was qualified and promoted.During that time and afterwards, a part of him came to be satisfied in a way that it had never been in civvy street.
As a trades unionist, he had looked for and preached the message of Unity Is Strength. As a Socialist, he had despaired when he read about the schisms and splits amongst the class strugglers, against the forces of Capitalism. As a family man, he had grown apart from his wife because her refusal to forgive him his straying with Beth. He hated her uncompromising attitude to life. He'd become impatient with her determination to put all of her effort into material things. He'd felt a desire for freedom and escape from the prison of his marriage.
"No, I'm being unfair there," he thought. "my marriage was hardly a prison!" But it was not the marriage he'd hoped for. It wasn't only Margaret's fault. Perhaps she was under-sexed or maybe he was over-sexed and that was the trouble. It was just how they were. No one was to blame. When they were courting, it had seemed different. She couldn't get enough of him then. Why was it so different once she had a ring on her finger?
"That's life!" he mused, as he sat finishing a letter to her with, 'All my love, Gordon'.
What he came to know and enjoy in the R.A.F. was the genuine team spirit, the camaraderie, the loyalty, the determination to 'stick by your mates no matter what.' He felt this very strongly as a member of Air Crew. There was a kinship amongst the crews of Bomber Command. Gordon developed an almost desperate sense of belonging with the men who shared his plane with him. It was a perfect consummation of mind and spirit.
Many men he had trained with and others who had flown alongside his aircraft had been killed. He felt a deep brotherhood with the dead and an acceptance that in due time it would be his fate in some respects his right to join them. In the meantime, there was the endurance, the bravery, the comradeship of the crew he was with. It all gave him courage in the face of his own cowardice, his doubts and uncertainties.
He clung desperately to the ideals which had brought him to what would probably be his coffin in the sky. At last, the instinctively good team-man within him was satisfied.
He tried to analyse it. Why should it be so when the cause was making war, of trying to kill an enemy, of slaughtering other human beings? Why did the worst of times bring out the best in people? Why had it not happened when he'd been trying to improve working conditions, to secure a fairer deal for his workmates? Why had there been so much apathy then?
Why had he betrayed his wife whom he loved? He knew that it was absolutely inconceivable he would ever betray or deliberately let down the other members of the crew of the aeroplane they flew in. Why? What unconscious forces remained dormant waiting arousal and then drove people in all kinds of unexpected ways?
During 1940, Gordon's Squadron was at Upper Heyford. It moved on to Finningley, Leeming and, in October, to Oakington. During August, Gordon flew in a Short Stirling bomber. They went on leaflet-dropping missions. They dropped mines at sea. There was no great element of danger in those early flights.
Authority had it all worked out. Crews had to bond. Any man who was uncomfortable with the other members could ask to join another crew. It was essential that their bonding should be tight and flawless. Gordon and the other seven airmen allocated to the Sterling Short were all more than comfortable with each other.
Officers and N.C.O's were on Christian name terms when flying. There was saluting, but only when a higher-ranking officer was present on the ground. They drank in the same bar in pubs. In one establishment, the barmaid informed them that the lounge bar was for officers only. The three officers amongst the crew went into the public bar with the rest of them. They drank with them and lodged a formal complaint with the management of the pub about the discrimination policy.
They shared the same fatalistic humour. When a plane went missing, it was a case of their comrades having 'gone for a Burton'. Burton ales had an advertisement which showed two men up a ladder and in the second of two illustrations, one was still on the ladder, the other had disappeared, having 'gone for a Burton Ale.'
The Stirling was a lousy plane. Its wings were too short because the Air Ministry had said they didn't have hangars to accommodate wider-winged planes! It had a towering undercarriage to compensate for that deficiency. Fully loaded, they could not persuade it to climb higher than 13,000 feet, although it was supposed to go to 17,000 feet. Its top speed was only 270 m.p.h. Its guns were only 7.9mm; the enemy's were 20mm or 30mm cannon. They were often out-gunned but at least it manoeuvred quite well when they had to take evasive action.
They survived their first five missions jubilantly. It was during those that inexperienced crews' losses were at the highest. After that, they were sent on ever more dangerous raids over enemy territory.
Gordon passed hours of inactivity up in his gun turret, isolated from the rest of the crew. They communicated occasionally on their inter-com. He damn nearly froze to death in sub-zero temperatures. To pass the time, he invented new Gordon games.
He counted the rivets in a small area of the aircraft. He estimated, by multiplication, how many there were on the whole aircraft. He multiplied that figure again by how many aircraft there were in the Squadron, then by how many in the whole Air Force. There were a lot of rivets! If he was a P.O.W. and interrogated would the enemy be interested in that information?
Doubtful!
If one plane weighed 46,900lbs, what was the total weight of all of the Air Force aircraft?
If it was 59 hours and 46 minutes since his last leave, how long was it to his next one, allowing for six weeks between each leave?
If the survival rate, for Aircrew, was approximately one-third after 30 missions, when they would be entitled to six months off active duty, what were the odds against him surviving now that he had completed 25 missions?
He made separate estimates for categories he'd heard about. What were his chances, he asked himself continually during each mission? What are the new odds? They slowly and dangerously progressed from 1 towards the target of 30. He based his calculations on some statistics that a half-crazed Canadian Bomb-Aimer veteran offered him over a few beers one evening. He said, "Listen mate, for every 100 Air Crew, during their full 30 missions, 55 will be killed, 3 injured, 12 made prisoners of war, 2 shot down and saved and 27 will survive."
Gordon asked, "Why does that only made 99?"
The mad Canadian ignored this and said, " Sod it! Who cares? Another pint for you or would you like a brandy?"
The missing unit bothered Gordon. He should have insisted on an answer. He didn't like things that did not add up properly. He carried on trying to make his own barmy calculations accurate. He spent the cold, boring hours flying over land and sea doing pointless crazy sums. It helped to stop him from going completely bonkers.
The engine droned monotonously. He wished he was at home with Margaret, Michael and Gwyn. He missed the cats. The last time he'd been on leave, his garden looked neglected and full of weeds. He'd dug up the potatoes they'd been urged to grow. 'Digging For Victory' they called it. Soon, it would be back to being the wilderness it had been before they'd moved into Sefton Drive.
He thought about Joyce and wondered what she was getting up to. He thought about Beth. He tried not to think about Beth.
He thought about Lancaster. How by enlisting, by one simple act, he'd transformed his existence. Instead of going over Carlisle Bridge and along the banks of the Lune to work every day, here he was, high in the air over Germany, in a bloody aeroplane that was supposed to have a range of 2,000 miles. It didn't meet any other of its other supposed specifications. Why should it meet that one? If they managed to drop their bombs and return, would they have enough juice to make it to their own aerodrome? This was the first time they'd been asked to fly almost to the limit of the distance it had been built for.
During the few minutes of anxiety during take-off and landing, during intermittent combat, and when over their target, all other thoughts were forgotten. They were the times of adrenalin flowing and of intense concentration. Gordon's flying time was 99 per cent extreme tension and one per cent absolute hell! Weird that such elements were what combined to inspire the mens' togetherness!
It never occurred to him to ask to be taken off flying missions. This was permissible. Your application could be accepted. You were not shot for cowardice. Not wanting to fight anymore did not mean you would be executed by your own side as had been the case in the First World War. Those who applied were simply stripped of their rank, classified as L.M.F. (Lacking Moral Fibre), humiliated publicly and despatched to another station and given the most menial jobs available. Bog cleaning, licking the boots of R.A.F. Policemen, and painting coal white were some of their more unpleasant jobs.
Michael knew his Dad was a hero and boasted about it to the all of the other kids at school.
The N.A.A.F.I. on Gordon's R.A.F. Station sold postcards. On the front of the cards were photographs of Britain's fighting planes. Before his every mission, Gordon wrote a message to Michael on the back of one of these. The cards were collected for posting, just before he made his way out to the board the aeroplane.
Dear Michael,
Glad that you like these postcards. Keep them clean. Love for you and Gwyn.
Daddy.
Xxx For Gwyn.
Dear Michael,
This is a photo of our latest fighter that is helping to beat the Germans. Be a good boy for your Mam. Daddy sends his love for you and Gwyn.
Daddy.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Dear Michael,
This is a grand action photo of Wellington Bombers. It shows our brave and daring pilots and aircrews.
Love for you and Gwyn,
Daddy.
Dear Michael,
This plane and the Spitfire are mainly responsible for the large number of enemy planes that have been destroyed. I hope you like this coloured one. Don't forget to keep the cards clean.
Love for you and Gwyn.
Xxxxxx For Gwyn.
When Gordon had completed his full set of 30 missions, he came home on leave. One evening, he and Michael placed all of the cards in an album, the sort that didn't need paste, so the messages on the back were not harmed. "You're a good boy Michael," Dad said, "The cards are in perfect condition. Well done!"
The next morning, Gordon dug the garden and planted some potatoes. He set himself a target. "I'll dig ten rows an hour. That means I'll be ready for planting by eleven. I'll be finished by noon. Just in time for some grub!"
Margaret watched him working. "Gordon, why are you going at it like a maniac? Why don't you stop and have a cup of tea?"
He replied, without looking round from his digging, "Can't stop! No time! Must be done by noon!"
"Why Gordon? Why?"
"Because! Because!"
She went on with her work. She smiled to herself, "The same old Gordon. He'll never change!"
During his leaves, Gordon went to see Jack and Nan. He followed the same route. Nan lived further on than Jack so he usually went to jack's on the way back from his mother's.
Going there he set himself other, meaningless targets. Successive visits which he sometimes confused with unavoidable missions had to be completed in an ever-decreasing number of strides. At first, it took him 760 strides to go from home to Jack's, and 1010 strides to arrive at his mother's. He had to reduce these by at least ten strides every time that he walked to one or the other.
The strain was beginning to tell and people gave him curious looks when his strides lengthened. He was an object of real curiosity when started making his journeys not by walking but by leaping.
It was when he visited Jack that Jack made one of his impassioned, impromptu statements. His words rang in Gordon's ears and stayed in his mind. Jack had told Gordon that he was no better then the Fascists who had bombed the towns of Spain.
"You're just as bad as them," Jack said. " You're killing innocent civilians on your bombing-raids. It can't be justified." He described vividly, the effect of bomb blast which he had seen on women and children in Barcelona. Dwelling on this was nearly enough to tip Gordon over the edge. Margaret noticed a persistent twitching in Gordon's right cheek muscles and an involuntary, pronounced blinking of his eyes.
The four of them were returning home from Morecambe by bus. At their stop, on Scale Hall Lane, he stayed on the bus, after Margaret and the children had alighted. When he arrived home, ten minutes later, he wouldn't say why he'd not got off with them.
The next evening, they went by bus to see Margaret's brother Dick, at Morecambe. Margaret and the children alighted at the Odeon cinema but Gordon stayed on again. He went as far as Euston Road before leaving the bus. He arrived at Dick's five minutes after the others. The children were worried. Michael could not understand why his father was doing strange things. In bed, Margaret coaxed an answer out of him.
Gordon explained, "You know that four-figure number, the one that is stencilled on the body of the bus upstairs, just above the big front window?"
"No, I can't say I've noticed," Margaret said. "What about it?"
"What I have to do, is start dividing it by two, time-and-time again, until I reach four places of decimals. Then I have to check it, to make sure that I've got it right. You have to have it right when you're on a mission?"
"What mission?"
"Every mission! They all count don't they! You have to complete your mission properly. Otherwise, there will be consequences.You don't understand! You've never understood! Nobody understands! Why did you ask me?"
Margaret frowned and said to him,"You're being silly Gordon."
Gordon smiled and replied, "Don't be stupid woman! Can't you see, I'm going stark crazy!"
Gordon counted the windows on a double-decker bus before he boarded it. He went to the upper deck. Before he alighted, he felt compelled to estimate how many buses were used on the Lancaster to Morecambe and Lancaster to Heysham bus routes. He allowed fifteen minute to go to Morecambe and half an hour to go to Heysham? How many panes of glass would there be in all of those buses, not forgetting the reserve vehicles, in the garages at Skerton and behind Roseberry Avenue? Not forgetting the single-deckers that were sometimes used! Not forgetting the other routes to Preston, to Warton and the outlying districts around Lancaster!
He'd started his calculations one evening when he was going home on leave. It was raining so he decided to catch a bus at Lancaster Bus Station. By the time the bus reached his stop, his calculations were only half over. He stayed on the bus way past his stop. The bus-conductor came and demanded extra money. "Sorry mate but you've gome past your stop. That will cost you extra."
Gordon replied, "I'll pay you when I decide to get off."
"Oh aye," said the conductor, "and when will that be?"
"When I've finished my decimals."
He went all the way to Heysham. He still had not finished his sums. He sat on the bus doing his mental arithmetic.
"You'll have to get off mate," said the conductor. "This is the last bus. We're going back to the depot now." When they arrived there, he told his driver, "We had a real nutter on board that last run."
Gordon had to walk four miles back to Sefton Drive. He still was not sure that he'd got his sums right by the time that he reached home after midnight. "Where on earth have you been? I was expecting you hours ago," asked Margaret.
"Shush! Just a minute, I'm thinking about something," he said, still trying to sort it all out in his mind.
His odd behaviour was noticed by Authority. He covered up cleverly at the medical he had to have. The R.A.F. doctors agreed, with some misgivings, that he could complete the second set of missions with his comrades. He was terrified that he might go berserk, while in the air, and be a danger to the others.
There were near misses. They encountered all sorts of dangers. Flak damaged the aircraft. Bullets from enemy planes injured some and killed one. The rest of Gordon's crew and himself survived. Many aeroplanes and their men did not. He learned that his best friend from gunnery school had been posted as missing after his aeroplane failed to return from the fourteenth mission of the second set of twenty.
Gordon was Michael's hero. He boasted about his father's role in the war, exaggerated his flying exploits and invented others. No one could contradict him. His father wore his uniform when he was on leave. Michael's friends had seen the wings on it which denoted that he was a flier. A generation of boys dreamed of growing up and being in Air Crew. They looked at Gordon with a certain amount of awe. They also wondered why he walked in such a peculiar fashion. Maybe flying in aeroplanes had that effect on you when you were back on the ground. A bit like a sailor's rolling gait.
Margaret had a regular job now helping Joyce, Monday to Friday. She worked during the
day in her pub.
Gordon carried on with his games. "How many boots are needed to shoe a Squadron or a Group or an Air Force? How many acres of leather are needed for the repairing of the soles? How many cattle hides are needed for the leather? How many nails are needed for fastening the soles to the boots?"
He felt compelled to find the answer to these and many other questions which clogged his brain. He muttered his calculations out loud during his lonely flights. At the same time he was ever vigilant for the enemy. Most of the missions were during the night, high in the sky, over Europe. At least they had a decent 'plane to fly now. It was a Lancaster, named after his own home town.
There was only the transparent canopy of his turret between him and the stars on cloudless nights, the dreaded moonlit cloudless nights, when they were an easy target for their enemy.
He decided against trying to count the stars. Even he had to admit that that would be an impossible target...
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