I was also, upon returning to Cosford, reunited with now ex-prisoners who I had been with at both Stalag 357 and Stalag Luft VI, but it took some time to realise who they were. Not only did they appear much wider and thicker, but also much taller. They were all smiling and radiating confidence. Their recovery was remarkable.
Back at Stalag Luft VI there was some organised entertainment in a building the Germans had allowed prisoners to adapt as a theatre. All tastes were catered for, but on the lighter side an ex-professional comedian was always popular, and his name was Ross Jones. During those few days when we returned to Cosford, enjoying a fine summer visiting Wolverhampton with David, we bumped into Ross Jones. We reminded him of how we knew him and were told that while he also was back at Cosford, with official permission, he had already got himself a week’s work at the local Empire Theatre. Thereupon, he reached into his pocket and produced two complementary tickets for the show, about to start!
A few days later, which were spent with more medical checks and form filling, we were sent back on leave indefinitely and told to await further orders, and I headed home.
I was able to spend two days with Adelaide where she was stationed, having kindly been granted permission by her CO to be there. While there I received a telegram telling me to report to RAF West Milling in Kent but with no further details. I knew West Malling to be a fighter station, or so it was in the war, and wondered why I was going there. On arrival David was already there and I learned from him that we were to have a course of rehabilitation. I imagined all sorts of strenuous exercising and even revision in square-bashing but was soon to learn it was going to be just the opposite.
As the course assembled, several familiar faces appeared. Most of them also thought they were here to be knocked back into shape until we met the CO and his staff, who all had a most friendly and helpful manner. It turned out that we were to have a most interesting and enjoyable two weeks, with most of the time spent visiting the workplaces of local industry, but also benefitting from some wise and helpful counselling. The visits were to a sweet factory with generous samples provided, a brewery only previously dreamed about by most, the Short aircraft factory at Rochester, where the famous Sunderland was still in production, and Croydon aerodrome.
Croydon was one of the few airports in the country and it served London before Heathrow was ever thought of. What made it so interesting was the national airline of that time◦– British Overseas Airways Corporation, was struggling to create and maintain air services across the world. There were no civilian airliners being manufactured, so RAF planes were being modified to pioneer the new routes that were being allocated, until more suitable aircraft became available. Profitability could not be considered at this stage. It was explained to us that the Dakota was by far the most suitable because it was designed as a civilian aircraft, however it only had a short range. So, with great interest, we watched Lancasters being modified to fly the long-distance routes. Economic efficiency could not be considered. If the opportunity was not taken up immediately, to establish a route, it could be lost for ever. Consequently, the Lancaster, in its modified form and renamed the Lancastrian, would fly the Australia route in several hops. It would need a crew of four to transport only five passengers. We never guessed what a great industry was going to be developed from these makeshift aircraft.
The Dakotas were already flying regular services to some continental capitals, including Brussels, and this was seen as a great opportunity by two of our party. They had been shot down over Belgium in a Halifax and had been sheltered by the Resistance with a family there. Cheekily they asked if there was a chance of a free flight. This was granted with the approval of our CO who was with us on the visit.
Back at West Malling, David and I made plans to visit the families of the crew who had not survived. Although we knew we should do this, and wanted to, we were quite apprehensive about it, so sought some advice from the CO. He encouraged us to go ahead, but wisely pointed out that we could not assume that our crew were all dead, so warned we must be careful.
The visits were not nearly so difficult as we thought they would be because the families were so brave. They had accepted that the worst had happened and did not ask for details of how their sons or husbands had died. Each family made us very welcome, which made us feel much more comfortable with our task.
David was also able to make contact with Bob Brown, our Canadian crew member, confirming that he had survived◦– he had recovered from leg wounds and was now back home and looking very well in a photograph he sent.
Eventually, after some more leave, and with aircrews no longer being in demand, I was posted to Cranwell, the original home of RAF Signals, to serve out the final period of my war service◦– it was to be more than a year before I was a civilian again and able to return to coachbuilding◦– helping to train members of the Royal Dutch Navy to become air operators.
During my time at Cranwell weekend leave could be taken for granted, so Adelaide and I were able to see each other regularly and, with the war in the Far East coming to an end, making our future far more predictable.
Chapter 10
Wedding Day
September 29, 1945, started out looking like anything but a promising day weather-wise; it was quite cold for early autumn. There was a thick fog slowing down the London traffic as my Best Man, also my best friend, and I made our way to St Pancras railway station to catch the train to Market Harborough. It was my wedding day.
Fortunately, because of the timing of the buses we had no option other than leave in good time to catch the train. Hailing a taxi to take us to the station was not even considered in those days, that was still only something the rich did, even on such an important journey. Not long after the start of the rail journey we knew we were going to be late in reaching our destination, the train was barely maintaining thirty miles an hour because of the fog, but, with the unfounded optimism of youth, we did not panic.
At Adelaide’s house her mother, on seeing the fog, had already expressed her doubts that Ron and I would arrive on time. However, later on in the morning, the fog rapidly disappeared. Our train was able to safely make up some of the lost time and we arrived in the village with enough spare time to have a quick drink in the Red Lion, before taking up our places, as rehearsed previously, inside the Parish Church in Sibbertoft.
As the pews filled up behind me I began to feel quite nervous and was glad when the organ struck up and I could get up and look back down the aisle and see Adelaide, looking absolutely lovely, on the arm of her father, coming slowly towards me. As we joined up, completely forgetting the onlookers, I gave her a saucy wink and a smile. Then all was well.
The reception was held in the close-by village school where Adelaide had attended as a pupil until the age of eleven. An excellent wedding breakfast was made possible by the generosity of friends and relatives who for some weeks had managed to save small amounts from their meagre weekly food ration; it was in all ways a truly village wedding.