13th October 1940
Finally arrived at base. Stationed at Methwold, 30 miles out of Cambridge with two other Squadrons. I’ve been on a boat for the last few weeks and can’t wait to fly. Chaps here seem like they have a nice temperament, though they’re not too forthcoming in terms of friendships. Can’t say why.
Crew is bonding well, and I think I’m going to like it here. It's cold, wet and constantly pounding down but I s’pose that’s Britain for you. We’ll be flying Short Stirlings, of British make, and they look sturdy enough. Briefing tomorrow. Time to unpack and get settled in.
15th October 1940
Straight on the job today. By God, what an experience! We flew a supply run to the French Resistance. It was a beautiful moonlit night and we soared at 500 feet, making sure we were under Jerry’s Radar. We skimmed over incredible treetops and spacious paddocks. It was as though everything was alive. In the end we dropped the supplies and turned around. I watched the boxes (I’m not too sure what they contain) drift gently on their parachutes, down towards the ground where they were collected by the Frenchmen.
Most of the chaps came back tonight.
8th August 1942
Squadron was converted to Heavy Bombers today. New planes arrived. Avro Lancasters. We started training with them. They’re marvellous aircraft, they look much more advanced than the Stirlings with all their turrets and so forth. The Lancaster has a nice spacious bomb bay too. Not too sure when or where our first mission will be, all I know is that we probably aren’t going to run supplies anymore with such powerful aircraft.
9th August 1942
My prediction was correct, and unfortunate at that. The morning started off like any other, with a relatively hearty breakfast of eggs on toast (I’ve learnt that the Airforce fairs a lot better than the Army). Then the pilots were called to a briefing. My heart leapt with excitement and fear as the announcement was made. There is so much secrecy about missions, telephones and radios are unplugged so a turncoat couldn’t call the enemy. Finally, our pilot informed us of the target: Duisberg, an arms factories. I couldn’t decide what I was more afraid of, dying or becoming a Prisoner of War.
By the time we were up in the air, the mix of feelings became a daze, consistent and unyielding like the drone of the aircraft’s engines, every few minutes passing with the odd pang of fear. It felt like I was drifting in and out of slumber. I tried to keep myself calm. We usually conduct missions in radio silence so I don’t have a lot to do (not that I’m complaining), apart from warning the pilot of any impending danger as I watch on from the astrodome (a little glass bubble situated just behind the cockpit). Without warning, there was an earsplitting crack and the plane tossed slightly, like a sleeping giant being prodded with a fork. More of these explosions presented themselves around us and when I finally realised we were being shot at, you couldn’t distinguish individual shells, it was just one humming mass of destruction. I peered frightfully out of the astrodome as our aircraft lurched and buckled. The air was littered with spherical black clouds, what seemed like millions of them. I saw a fellow bumping along beside us, when his wing suddenly caught fire! The fire spread from nose to tail and in an instant, he was spiralling down, down, engines whining. I watched the wreckage as it hurtled away until it was obscured by the frame of my little peep hole. I heard the sickening eruption as it smashed into the ground. I didn’t see a parachute.
All of our crew was at work: our bomb aimer was instructing the pilot, the gunners taking out targets on the ground, so I decided I should be too, so I sat at my radio and listened to all the coordinates of downed aircraft, their Wireless Operators sent out a last fruitless message before he bailed out. Or crashed.
We made it through the massacre and bombed the factories. Then on the way home we hoped that the flack continued, because when stops that’s when the night fighters come out. Those I don’t want to cross. Now I know the reason why the men and women here aren’t overly friendly. Once you get too attached to someone and they get killed, you feel it. The less you feel, the more likely you are to survive.
6th May 1944
Heading home. Boarding the HMS Nieuw Amsterdam. She’s a troop ship and a beautiful one at that. How I wish for the comfort of my own bed. I’m extremely tired, all those night missions. I counted every one of them. 36 in all. Anyway, I got off light. You should see some of the men that are boarding. Missing limbs, bandaged heads, eyepatches. War is truely horrible. We left Methwold this morning. I'd say we’re pretty close to winning the war now, even after all that has happened. Our boys will bump old Hitler off soon enough, you'll see. I’m just glad I won’t be among them when they do.
8th May 1944
Victory in Europe! What a feat! After all this time, the bloodshed, the tears, we won! Yes sir, on your way Mr. Hitler! I don’t think I can write anymore. This vessel is ablaze with joy. Anyway, off for a tot of whisky, captain’s orders!
19th January 1946
I have reached the final page of this journal, which happens to coincide rather nicely with the ceasing of conflict. These past few years have been an unprecedented, horrid experience. I still see some of our fallen boys in my mind’s eye. Yes, I don’t think the war will ever leave me. Goodbye old friends and let this be a lesson to the next man who stands against the world. But for now, Peace.