I am looking at a photograph of my grandmother, Olive in 1920. I know this because my parents thoughtfully kept this photo, neatly labelled, so that we kids could one day look back and appreciate that this once-young and fascinating woman had a life before she became the grey-haired lady who served us hanger-on and custard every Sunday during our childhood. Now dream this - 50 years from now, you will be a face in a faded photograph (they may even be laughing at what you're wearing too!).......your great-great grandchild may be researching the distant past of their family tree......they may know your name, and that you are the one 3rd from the right......but will they know that you used to play piano, or that you were left-handed, or that your baker came by horse and cart?
My father recently unearthed a plastic bag which had lain unopened for 65 years. In it was the costly correspondence in the middle of his oldest brother Joe and their mum (the very same Olive, above) during the war years, when Joe trained in an Raf Lancaster Bomber squadron.
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Meet Uncle Joe. I never did, by the way. He died many, many years before I was born. I recall his photograph sitting on my Nan's sideboard. It was, in all honesty, an decoration to me as a child, someone else 'thing' which I did not understand the significance or provenance of, but which seemed to carry with it a safe bet 'taboo', as though it was not to be spoken of.
Some 30+ years on, I now understand the gravity of this image, and I hope to repay Joe for my infantile ignorance by bringing his story to the world. Every family has a hero - Joe is as a matter of fact ours. Joseph was the eldest of 4 children (my dad being the youngest by some 9 years or more) and was doing very grown up things when my father was still, quite literally, in short trousers. He went off to war as an eager young teenager and spent a year or two in oppressive training in the Raf, then active assistance as a Lancaster Bomber gunner.
There were many young men like Joe, so why is he so marvelous to me? Well, what makes Joe's story stand out is the fact that he wrote it all down for us in this series of letters home to his mum and sister. A opportunity discussion about family history led to their discovery. My dad did not even know they existed, and since he had never as a matter of fact known Joe in the way brothers should, was understandably nervous about the emotions which might be stirred by reading them. The letters sit in their original envelopes. They talk of Joe's chums, training regimes, night flying, the cold of the aircraft (Lancaster Bombers) and of his love for a young youthful girl. They are written as a boy would write, since that's exactly what most of these young men were, and are mostly light-hearted and light.
On the first active bombing raid mission which Joe and crew took part in, they were caught in a dog fight and were shot down over the sea outside Holland. We have discovered an list of this episode, (miraculous coincidence), written by one of Joe's crew members who recently passed away. This is not fiction, not a movie, but a real incident in which my own uncle was involved. A piece of history which must be treasured and preserved as part of our family's and country's heritage. Here is an extract. 'Mac' is Joe's nickname......
"The crew reported in turn and then all that could be heard on the intercom was the sound of heavy breathing. I lay there with Mac, listening to the sound of our one engine, looking the fuselage twitch as we rolled and yawed and the skipper corrected. There were no other thoughts except what if I broke a leg or an arm on impact? Would it hurt much? "4000 feet" called Harry. I signalled '4' to Mac and just as I did this the motor coughed and went dead. The nose tilted forward. Just as suddenly the motor roared into life........."3000 feet" said Harry. I signalled '3' to Mac.........I lay perfectly calm now, listening and waiting for what was now inevitable. God, we're going in fast, I thought. Sweat was breaking on my skin. Mac was looking at me with a frown and puzzled look on his face. I signalled '1'.
Mac looked at me as though to say 'what happened to 2?!' I looked at him, slowly held him closer and shook my head, listening hard. I felt Mac start to tense his body. He too probably knew we were going to hit hard.........I tried with my right hand to reach the side of the fuselage and then - Wham! The inside of the aeroplane then whirred with vibration.....and suddenly I was on my feet. Mac was already up. A wave of water poured through the leave hatch..... I glanced back and to my bad dream saw that the aircraft had broken in two just aft of the bomb bay. The tail plane and my turret were beginning to float away....... At last I was on top of the fuselage. Harry was just pulling clear through the leave hatch which had been above his head.......For a moment he sat on the edge on top of the cockpit canopy with his back to us. He looked round as he pulled his legs clear. He was grinning at us. "Well boys, we made it" he shouted to us......."
This list is written over some 17 pages. It is the first time I have cried for someone I never even met. It is the uncomplicated humanity embedded in the words which makes it so real, the ordinariness of putting on a tie to potentially fly to your death, having to wear a heated air suit and looking that your sandwiches have toasted in your pocket. These are the things which rarely get passed on through the generations.
Joseph survived being shot down. He also survived the war. He went on to serve in Singapore, still writing home throughout. In 1945 at the age of just 22, with the cruelest irony, Joe died tragically from cancer. He never married his youthful love, and the letters ceased. My dad has read and re-read these letters. He has made foot-notes and settled them in chronological order, and has transcribed the letters by hand. This is the work of a dedicated brother, wrought with new, raw emotions which had been long-since buried.
If I hadn't asked, I would not know anything more about Joe today than I did back then as a child. The letters would remain in their plastic bag. My father would have gone to his grave without knowledge or comprehension of his hero brother.
Our children never ask us about our lives and so we never tell them. And there lies the greatest tragedy of all. Would that my Nan were here today to pour out the loving stories of Joe which only a mum could tell...I would transcribe every word and save them as tiny microscopic audio heirlooms for our family's future.
I implore you all, don't leave it too late to tell your stories. And don't leave them in a plastic bag.
What Will They Remember About You? Wwii Letters Home Spend 65 Years in a Plastic Bag
