IN MEMORY

Mosquito IV

In the early hours of the morning of 26/27 November 1944, seventy-two years ago; two men flew deep into the heart of Germany, taking part in an operation from which they never returned. The mystery remains as to the truths of what happened to them, and to their aircraft, Mosquito DK292.

Official documents of the Royal Air Force Personnel Management Agency at RAF Innsworth, Gloucester, who in recent years agreed to re-investigate this mystery, show certain truths heavily laden with questions.

Their documents show Mosquito DK292 taking off at 02.58 hours on 27 November 1944 initially accompanying a Bomber Command intruder attack on Munich, Germany. Serving in RAF 100 Group's lead 192 Squadron, at Foulsham, Norfolk, the two crew members were:

Pilot Officer Jack Glen Millan Fisher (J88232), a Canadian

 Flight Lieutenant Henry Victor Alexander Vinnell (123505)

Both were experienced and qualified members of the very secret RAF 100 Group made up of fifteen Squadrons based on airfields around Norfolk, serving under Bomber Command. Otherwise, they were ordinary young men doing a job for which they had been trained, yearning for the Second World War to be over so that they could return to civilian life.

Born on the 21st September 1922, Vic had been an Assistant Salesman working at a wholesale Grocers. As an only child, he had been brought up by an Aunt in London. He volunteered for the RAF in 1940, which his father opposed and as a consequence, disowned him. Training had taken him to Winnipeg, Canada, where he received his flying badge in March 1942. A Commission was granted in April that year, and he joined 418 (RCAF) Squadron for Night Intruding operations in July. After completing 13 sorties, he was sent to Cranwell for re-mustering at No. 1 Radio School, where he went from being a NAV/B to qualifying in September 1943 as a NAV B/W, whereupon he was sent to RAF Wheaton Aston in October that year, pending a further posting.

It was at RAF Wheaton Aston he met Nina Chessall, my mother, a WAAF working as Private Secretary to a Group Captain she referred affectionately to as 'Brownie'. Vic and Nina's first meeting at the Christmas Eve dance blossomed into a romance, and by Spring 1944 they were planning an engagement. They were living in a time when, each time they met could easily be their last ... the tragic cost of war! However, Vic unexpectedly was called to London for an interview with the Air Ministry, and from that point on, could no longer talk or share about his work which became Classified, Top Secret. He had signed the Official Secrets Act, aware from what had been said at the interview that there would shortly follow a move. Already they were writing several letters a day to one another, very committed and involved in one another's every day lives as much as they could be in war. Vic joined Nina at her mother's home during Leaves, and became loved by her family as one of their own. However, uncertain about the future, and what his pending move would mean for them both, they cycled out one evening, following the winding country lanes, to an old darkened church at Blymhill where, at nine o'clock, they stepped inside and, hand in hand, quietly and solemnly shared their wedding vows. Thereafter, their trysting hour became nine o'clock, their promise being that, no matter where they were or what they were doing; they would look up at the moon and think of these precious moments shared as well as each other, praying to God to keep their sweetheart safe.

 

 Blymhill Church, Staffordshire

Surprisingly, perhaps, given Vic's interest in photography, there are few pictures of him; those which do exist are small and personal. I have never in 25 years of being a part of RAF 100 Group Association, discovered a Squadron photograph including him. He was a keen cricketer, Squash and Tennis player. But the love of his life was Nina. Having no family to call his own, she was all the more precious to him, fulfilling a host of roles including that of sister, mother, companion, confidante, soulmate, and wife-to-be. She filled his heart with such love it overflowed onto paper several times a day, and he vowed in the summer of 1944, that once war was done he would become an author and write a book about their love, their life, inspiring others to share experiences, passing on his belief that love is eternal ... Love transcends all!

Nina, Vic and Jack's story can be found in my book: 'Nina & Vic - A World War Two Love Story' which fulfills Vic's promise to Nina, and in turn the promise she passed on to me as we spent ten long years researching and writing the book together before she died, sadly without seeing the reality of her dream.

A signed book is available direct from me

Simply write to the email given above for details

Meanwhile, the re-investigation of the PMA (Personal Management Agency), says that, following their accompaniment of the Bomber Command attack on Munich, the aircraft was due to return to RAF Ford at 07.00 hours ... yet nothing was heard from them after take-off, and they certainly didn't arrive at Ford. Phil James, MBE, raises the question as to whether they were visiting Ford to refuel, or for some other reason about which we shall never know. He also queries as to why they would have been flying towards France. Phil also served at RAF Foulsham in 192 Squadron and knew Vic and Jack well. He remembers the board showing them as 'Missing' and everyone holding their breaths, hoping they would either be found safe, or at the most had become prisoners of war. Finally, hearts sank as their names were scrubbed from the board. However, the PMA document goes on to say that information was received later (how much later, we don't know!) that Mosquito DK292 crashed on the French Coast at Vassonville, north of Le Havre at 06.30 hours on 27 November 1944.

It begs the question, how can anyone be certain of the time with no witnesses, no Accident Report, no indication that anyone saw what happened?

In response, it has been decided that the wreckage was covered by the sea at high tide. But by the direction of the aircraft, it is assumed it flew into a cliff and exploded on impact. The air-frame completely disintegrated. Yet again, where is the evidence to support this? Yes, the Mosquito aircraft was made of wood. However, it had two Merlin engines. My hope remains that these may still surface someday through the sands as many others have done in recent years, and their final resting place will be verified and known.

In discussing my questions, it appears that this beach was probably mined. They could either have had engine trouble and been forced to land, not knowing of that danger, believing they were safe; or, if flying into the cliff is plausible, with the beach being mined, attempts to salvage wreckage would have been deemed impracticable. No vehicles would have been able to access the beach under these conditions. Therefore, no evidence would have been sought, and nothing redeemed. However, single items of clothing were sent to their respective families said to have been discovered where the Mosquito went down ... an Officer's cap marked P/O Fisher 232, and a sock marked N B A Vinnell.

N. B. A. Vinnell? But his name was Henry Victor Alexander Vinnell!!

To complicate things further at the time, Nina, my mother, was a fiance, not a wife. She therefore didn't have the same Rights. Despite Vic writing a Will in the event of his death to the effect that all his belongings should be sent direct to her home address, in truth, they were sent to his father ... including their wedding rings which Vic had specially made, their initials laid one over the other in silver. His Mosquito was known as 'N for Nina'. The letter 'N' also had special significance as it was part of his uniform as a Navigator/Special Operator ... providing personally-marked Captain's maps for their journeys into enemy territory, specialising in Radar and Radio jamming aimed at confusing the enemy, keeping their bombers safe. 

Loss is always unimaginable, unthinkable, the grief overwhelming, compounded by the manner in which a loved one dies. In this case, it was four or five long weeks before Nina was even to hear that something had happened because of the secrecy of his work. She had just been posted to RAF Ludford Magna, Lincoln, another Bomber Command base. She had been trying to join Vic at his base at Foulsham. Her new abode as a place where accommodation was primitive to the extent that she needed wellie boots to slip her feet into when getting out of bed!! Imagine! Otherwise, the one thing she did receive from the Air Ministry, alongside the dreaded telegrams and Air Ministry letters confirming truths she didn't want to hear; was a pair of inner silk flying gloves. However, these had never been touched by sea water, and obviously a spare pair. Remembering they had been members of a highly secret Group involved in covert operations, Nina asked a lot of questions, understandably wanting to know what had become of her beloved Vic and the man who was to have been their Best Man a few days on at their wedding - Canadian Jack Fisher. I believe she was sent letters to pacify and quieten her doubts and fears. She never did believe that he had simply vanished on the French coast ... because all those years ago, she was asking the exact same question I ask today ... where is the evidence to support that theory?

In truth, the bodies of these airmen were never found, nor was any part of the aircraft or anything they had aboard. From the description of the Mosquito having exploded on impact ... either on hitting the cliff, or a mined beach ... and the disintegration of the fuselage; it was assumed the remains of the crew were washed away by the tide. Consequently, both Pilot Officer Fisher and Flight Lieutenant Vinnell were recorded as 'Missing Presumed Dead - Lost at Sea'. Their names are recorded on the Runnymede Memorial on panels 246 and 203 respectively. When I was three years old, Mum took me to introduce me to 'her Vic', speaking quietly to him about me and my tender years. They are also commemorated in the Royal Air Force Books of Remembrance held in St Clement Danes Church, the Strand, London. Pilot Officer Fisher is recorded in Volume 4, Page 63 and Flight Lieutenant Vinnell in Volume 9, page 16. Their names also appear in a Remembrance Book at Foulsham Church, and at Ely Cathedral where books remain under glass to protect them.

All these years on, questions remain about so many who simply disappeared without trace, such as Vic and Jack. Even today, truths are still shielded by layers of secrets. And it is the not knowing that makes their deaths all the more unbearable for those who survive. The most we can do is to remember and honour these brave heroes, to share their stories and wartime experiences, to ensure they are never forgotten ... just as we speak their names aloud each year in Norfolk during RAF 100 Group Association Reunions ... passing down to future generations what we know, what these people meant, and the importance of remembering the consequences and futility of war.

Pilot Officer Jack Glen Millan Fisher (J88232), a Canadian

 Flight Lieutenant Henry Victor Alexander Vinnell (123505)

x WE WILL REMEMBER YOU x

BELIEF IN ACTION

Majors Glenda, Jeff w Janine: Filey Salvation Army

In each heartbeat,

In every prayer,

Calling to me in the silence

I know God is there.

Sunday 20th November marks a very important milestone in my life journey as I become an Adherent of Filey Salvation Army Corps.

Adherent members do not wear the uniform, but are committed to The Salvation Army as their church and, as such, identify as a member of the Corps where they worship, continuing to explore their faith. This is a positive step in a very personal journey, in which they pledge their allegiance to God by signing a Certificate of Recognition declaring: 'This certificate confirms that .... is an Adherent Member of The Salvation Army ... a person who believes in the Lord Jesus Christ and seeks to follow and be like Him; participates in worship, fellowship, service and support of a local Salvation Army congregation; and identifies with the Army's Mission Statement.' A small badge is given as a token of that commitment, to wear with pride as a follower of Christ. In response, an Adherent is enveloped into the folds of the Family of the Corps, accepted just as they are, with ongoing encouragement and pastoral guidance as their journey of faith continues to unfold.

God has always been there for me, a valued part of my life. I have never doubted or questioned that belief, because the evidence has always been there to support it. I recall as a child, colouring leaflets we were given in Sunday School, gazing at the picture of a crippled man, lowered down on an improvised stretcher by his friends for Jesus to heal him so that he could walk away free. I remember comparing this picture of the crippled man with my own two legs bound by calipers, irons reaching up my legs, wondering if there was perhaps a reason why I was born this way and Jesus wasn't offering healing.

Mine was an innocent, childlike faith. Yet, through the years, it remained a faith that became the strongest part about me.

That doesn't mean I never experienced pain and suffering, as this blog and my writings clearly shows. Nor does it mean I could put aside fear, anxiety, panic, worry when things went wrong. What it did mean is that I could bring these emotions and the chaos of my life to God in prayer, and somehow, something remarkable would happen to change my situation.

Through years of abuse, I know I would not have survived if God had not been with me. God gave man free choice. He couldn't necessarily stop what was happening, but He could hold, comfort and carry me as darkness swallowed me up and I didn't think I could live any more. The trauma still lives on in me today. As anyone who has experienced historical child sexual abuse will know, the pain of those years, the confusion, the self-doubt, the shame, holding the secret close, afraid to let it go or to share for fear of what people would think; remains a life-sentence. And that's hard when you know that your abuser moves on with his life, affecting other lives, knowing what he does is wrong, yet unable to stop because of his addiction. He has no conception of the consequences of his actions until or unless he admits to being the person he really is. Sadly, it is increasingly becoming news headlines today involving people who have lived apparently successful and influential lives, covering their awful secrets well. Yet I learned, in faith, to openly share my abuse experiences in the early 1980s, to write about it in books, a lone voice. But then, through sharing, I found others reaching out in the same way as I ... so that LIFELINE, the national registered charity working with victims, survivors and paedophiles was borne. It was a one-stop shop, ultimately listening, supporting and actively working with agencies and affected families, approaching the problem as a whole to better understand the mindset of being Controlled.

One of the most profound miracles which has happened in my life came when I was informed by doctors I was unable to have children because of past abuse. I couldn't accept I would never be a mother, never get to hold my own child in my arms. But then, one night I was woken by a child about two or three years old, standing at the side of my bed. She had auburn hair, the face of a cherub, and simply stood, gazing into my eyes. It happened again a few nights later. Again the child. Again, the same as before, only this time she spoke, and we held a simple conversation. I can't remember what words were shared. It wasn't the words which were important. All I do know is that this reoccurred until I went back to the hospital, explaining that I believed I would become pregnant, I would give birth to a child. I was classed as 'having a breakdown'. Doctors sadly shook their heads. Pills were the only answer ... for depression, to help me cope and accept my situation. But then, I knew what I had seen. It wasn't a dream. And there had been a witness. My husband. He felt me waken in the night, saw me sit up suddenly, reaching out with both arms. He couldn't see who I was talking to, but he heard the words ... and he couldn't explain. We talked about it, kept a diary, and now, determined to prove the doctors wrong, I set out to find a picture which mirrored the image I had seen at the side of my bed. In time, yes, I discovered a painting of a girl on the stairs, which I bought to hang on the wall. Hope! The hospital meanwhile, needed me to come to terms with the fact I would never be a mother and gave me a graph to complete each morning. However, the graph didn't go as expected, but produced such surprising results that I was given a pregnancy test. It proved positive! Against all odds, the impossible was suddenly possible ... I was going to become a mother.

It's the reason I still today call Jo, my only daughter, a miracle ... and yes, she does have auburn hair!!

Blessings have continued to come over the years, usually when I am at my lowest ebb. 

It was in a serious breakdown, after my husband unexpectedly left last year, that I was wandering the streets feeling so broken, abandoned, rejected, betrayed, lost and alone, I couldn't go on any longer. Suddenly, a light flooded my path. It came from an open doorway as if inviting me to enter. I was drawn by the music, the sound of happy voices clapping and singing, filling the air around me, bringing a blanket of warmth and love. Inside, without knowing anything about me, I was welcomed. Someone sat with me after. I returned the following Sunday, drawn by the fellowship received. Months of Sundays later, I was still the 'teardrop' leaking through the door, spilling my grief, yet held and supported in love. It was faith, the power of prayer, and this Family of God which saved my life ... as well as the many gifts, cards and letters I continue to receive from kindred spirits of RAF 100 Group Association. This was the path which led me to the point at which I began to prepare to give something back in becoming an Adherent.

Sunday 20th November 2016 dawned ... a day like no other. It was different from the start. On waking, I prayed for this day to go right, for God to speak His words through me. One of my favourite 'Ministers' was leading the service, Jeff (seen above in the picture). Who could have hoped for a better day! I had no qualms about what this day meant. My worries were little things ... managing the few steps up to the pulpit without wavering or going dizzy, or worse tripping, as I can so easily do; signing the Certificate with painful arthritis in my hands which struggled to hold a pen. This was a service totally given over to dedication and commitment, with so many beautiful hymns, lots of choruses, people clapping, smiling, laughing joyfully, a wonderful atmosphere to be part of.

Suddenly, Jeff's wife, Glenda, rose from the seat just behind me to join her husband in the pulpit. This was it, my cue! I listened to her introducing the theme of Adherency before looking in my direction, inviting me to join her on the platform.  So there I was, walking in the footsteps of so many who had gone before, feeling very small and inadequate ... was I truly worthy? At that point in time, with everything that had happened in my life, especially recently; I couldn't think of a less worthy person. But God was my judge. It was He who had brought me here and Now.

I stood beside Glenda, her hand finding mine to offer a squeeze of reassurance, arms wrapping round me in an embrace. I knew then I was in the place I needed to be. And in speaking to the congregation, a sea of faces in front of us, I heard her say how much she had actually learned from me and our sharing times together ... Wow! That gave me a jolt. Me? Really?!? Little old me? Someone pressed the 'Pause' button. Time stopped. I stood, quietly looking round at everyone, her words sucking into my heart, cuddling in like a warm cosy cushion, blocking out my fears, holding in the love.

I signed the Certificate while Glenda held out for me a small badge in the palm of her hand. Like a nugget of gold, I knew I would wear it with pride: 'Adherent, Filey Salvation Army'. Now everyone was still. Waiting. It had come my time to speak ... and as I once more asked God to speak for me, out of my mouth came these words, more or less:

'Faith has always been the strongest part of me. At the age of nine years old, my father entered the Ministry, and was given the cross I wear today (I held up the large Celtic cross for all to see which I'd chosen to wear specially for the occasion). When I became a Lay Preacher in the 1990s, Dad passed on this cross to me. However, Faith for me isn't just about knowing about God, being taught His Ways ... it has to become a personal relationship with Him. This is how it is for me, and I know this to be true through the many Happenstances and Blessings He has brought into my life, usually in my darkest days. It is one such Blessing which led me to the doors of this Church ... and into the Family I found within. Thank you for your welcome, your love ... and for accepting me just as I am.'

There was a hush as an almost tangible warm and vibrating love circulated in and around and through people sitting there, including Jeff, Glenda and myself up on the platform. We hugged as I thanked her personally for all her patience and sharing over past weeks, before the first chords came of my chosen hymn: 'O Jesus, I have promised to serve thee to the end; be Thou for ever near me, my Master and my Friend ...'  I had specifically asked for the Twentieth Century music to go with it, and Martin at the keyboard, with a huge smile, nodded at me descending the steps, bringing my wish to fruition.

Our voices raised the rooftop. Oh, it was really something! Then after the service, I gathered with Jeff and Glenda for photographs ... which even that evening had hit Facebook, and are on their way, together with my words shared, to the main Salvation Army magazine.

My goodness ... I found everyone was moved to tears, it wasn't just me!!

When Malcolm came to collect me for evening worship, which I attend regularly; he asked if I felt different since becoming an Adherent. On the way, the question caught me by surprise. I needed time to think. After all, God has always been at the centre of my life. But then, on the journey home, yes, I declared; I do feel different. I'm now very much an included part of the Corps Family in Filey. I have a place in that Family. And what means more than anything else is that I am accepted 'just the way I am'. I don't have to be or to do anything more.

It is through pain, I learned compassion. Through suffering, the peace which follows means so much more. Out of every negative has come a positive ... the greater the negative, the more that positive has been. I can look back on my life and realise the strength of my conviction and belief, the guidance and support of His Hands holding me, and those places on my journey where I have faltered and there are only one set of footprints as He carried me through.

Yes, without a shadow of a doubt, I BELIEVE! How could I not, when through my life, from birth to present day, I have shared a very special personal relationship with God.

The Salvation Army, Filey

'If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, 
even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast'
Psalm 139: 9-10

 

KINDRED SPIRITS

Squadron Leader David Butler, with cameraman Martin

Courtesy: Stuart Borlase, Living History Film Productions

It's an incredible feeling and special when someone chooses to share a personal experience. All the more so when that person is sharing for the first time ... unsure, wondering what kind of reception it might receive. People today tend to hold back, afraid of getting too close or involved, creating their own personal space, resentful if someone steps in. But then again, it has always been my way to reach out, drawing people in. How else can we know and truly understand what is going on around us? There is a vital human need to re-establish personal contact ... otherwise we become part of the problem of loneliness, especially where people feel broken, at odds with the world. I will openly admit I'm a 'huggy'. Nothing wrong in that! It comes from having lived past broken experiences in isolation, having no-one to share or ease the pain. I know how that feels, and if I can help and support someone through their own situation then I will. Listening and learning alongside them is the key. In turn, because it happens so seldom, it's become cause for celebration when people actually do come together to talk, to share, to build on what has happened to them in the past, especially during the bad times. Sadly, we don't live in a world where we receive a hug back very often, at least in my experience. People today are too quick to judge without understanding the situation. It's enough when asked 'Good Morning, how are you?' to proffer the conventional response 'I'm fine, thank you' before quickly walking away.

It has therefore proved an incredible journey these past two weeks as I joined a film crew in the process of creating a documentary, visiting and recording wartime veterans of RAF 100 Group. Having been in contact with this secret Group for the past twenty or so years, it was a thrilling prospect to finally meet for the first time many of those I have been writing to and talking with on the phone. I remain passionate about preserving their history and stories, and became a prime mover in pushing for this project to go ahead, providing material and contacts. To be actively involved was all the more special because it came at a time when I was feeling particularly low, having had my confidence and self-esteem knocked out of me by recent events, leaving me in the throes of another breakdown. Meeting at least some of my worldwide Family of Kindred Spirits was the best tonic in the world and certainly boosted my spirits, lifting me up out of a dark place. The greatest challenge was to come out of my comfort zone to live out a suitcase for two weeks, letting someone else plan the day ahead without any real knowledge about where we were going or who we might see.

In truth, I was a country bumpkin coming to town! It had been a long while since I had seen over yon hill in the village where I live. Since my husband left last year, and no longer having transport, my world diminished, now revolving around a few small streets leading down to the sea. It sounds idyllic, yes, but it can become a tad lonely, and especially in winter feel very isolated and insecure, especially when pain kicks in making it difficult to move.

So ... I was up for a bit of adventure in my life. However, little did I know then that this was to become a life-changing event ... the kind of journey which only comes once in a lifetime, twice if you're very very lucky!

 RAF 100 Group Crest

Courtesy: MOD

I have spoken before about RAF 100 Group. Under Bomber Command, during WWII, they were based on secret airfields in Norfolk, made up of fifteen Squadrons, with hundreds of men, women and aircraft. Brought together at the end of 1943, their primary role was to identify and jam enemy Radar using experimental specialist secret equipment with strange-sounding names such as Mandrel, ABC Cigar, OBOE, Window, etc. Until this Group came into being, we were in danger of losing the war with out-dated aircraft and equipment. Our one chance for victory meant bringing together everyone related in any way to the field of Radar, including Bletchley Park and the Y-Service, to harness ideas and produce new innovative ways of working for the future. RAF 100 Group were at the forefront of this vision, and became involved in a myriad of tasks, including 'Spoof' raids, misdirecting the enemy to believe the main thrust of an attack would come from a completely different direction, leading them on a wild goose chase; while the main bombing force took advantage and homed in on the real target. German-speaking individuals, such as Gerhard Heilig, a German Jewish man who escaped to England with his father and joined up with the RAF, to serve at RAF Oulton in 214 Squadron; used the language of the enemy to confuse German Controllers, intercepting their radio frequencies, to issue conflicting commands to pilots of enemy aircraft. Agents were also dropped and collected in occupied territory, working with the Resistance. RAF 100 Group did so much during 1944 and 1945 in living up to their motto: 'Confound & Destroy' they actually brought the war to an early conclusion, yet received neither recognition nor reward. It is as if they have been airbrushed out of history. Today, they consider themselves 'the forgotten heroes', too many taking their stories with them to the grave.

Since I first began working with them, becoming a part of their network, accepted as their worldwide Secretary of the RAF 100 Group Association and Editor of our quarterly 'Confound & Destroy' magazine; I have been passionate about preserving their history and wartime experiences so that these wonderful people be remembered for the future. It should also be said that, having signed the Official Secrets Act as they were recruited into RAF 100 Group, most have never spoken of the vital work in which they were involved, or the Group of which they were proud to be a part. Not even the main RAF today are aware they ever existed at all. And perhaps more importantly, neither do their loved ones. It is only in memorabilia left behind in attics, gathering dust, that family members come to realise there is a part of their history they don't yet know, asking questions, beginning to uncover secrets and truths.

It is for these reasons I made a promise to them to bring their history and stories together under the one cover just as they were in wartime under Bomber Command. It took many years to complete, but finally came to fruition in the publication which Austin Macauley brought out on 15 December 2015 entitled: RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits.

As a Wordsmith and trusted member of the Association, through the years I have been sent a wealth of material written by veterans, together with photographs and other forms of memorabilia, sharing their wartime experiences before it was too late. The book is a weighty volume ... but it represents a promise fulfilled. Just as they were in wartime, within its pages they are once more brought together under each of the Norfolk airfields they called 'home', and through these personal accounts we can learn so much more about the war and what it meant for those who took part and whose role fell under this secret Group. It also enables us to remember those who did not return, and the true cost of human life.

Richard, myself and Janice, Woodman's Farm

Courtesy: Living History Film Production

My incredible journey began in the north of England where I live, travelling by train to Norfolk where I met up with my good friend Stuart, Director of Living History Film Productions to settle in a wonderful B&B hosted by Janice and Richard, above. We received a warm welcome from our hosts, both lovely people who have become firm friends. We knew them well, having stayed there a couple of weeks earlier this year, following the annual RAF 100 Group Association Reunion in May. But it still felt strange those first few days, stepping outside my comfort zone, waking in a different room, walking through to breakfast, meeting guests, sharing and talking to strangers who quickly became friends. Soon, joined by camera crew, we were on the road, driving first around Norfolk, before reaching further afield, taking in a whole host of different sights and sounds, people, places and experiences. It became a pleasure to leave behind technology for the duration, and an absolute delight to finally meet in person those I had been in almost daily contact with for so many many years.


Sgt Barbara Bradshaw

As a WAAF, a young Barbara Bradshaw

As Barbara and I finally met, hugged, drank tea, nibbled biscuits and shortbread her daughter had made, talking, laughing, sharing; pictures of the past rolled into the room, drawing us in. This slip of a girl, initially in charge of the Officers' Mess at Blickling Hall, went on to become a WAAF Sgt with responsibility for the Sergeants' Mess ... a place brought alive by the antics of airmen, while Barbara maintained decorum as best she could, together with discipline of staff catering to airmen needs ... ensuring cook and cleaners knew their timetables, when to prepare meals, clean up after, serve drinks ... taking care of upset WAAFs dating those who did not return.

She was right there for the filming of The Wicked Lady starring Margaret Lockwood and Patricia Roc, responsible for the actresses as ogling airmen vied for their attention in the Mess. Many airmen became 'extras' in the film, and she can be seen in the picture below, peeking over the right shoulder of Margaret Lockwood.

Barbara seen peeking over right shoulder of Margaret Lockwood

 WAAF Winifred Seeley (nee Tomlinson)

Actress Patricia Roc with WAAFs, including Winifred Seeley (nee Tomlinson)

Win was also around for the filming of The Wicked Lady starring Patricia Roc (as seen above). As a young girl, Win started her wartime career as a Balloon Operator before becoming an MT Driver, responsible for driving crews to their aircraft before an operation.

 

214 Squadron, MT Section, Blickling Hall, Oulton, Norfolk

Back Row: ?, ?, ?, ?, ?, Walter (Curly) Houghton from Scunthorpe; ?, Corporal Barlow, 'Sparks' ?, ?, ?, ?, ?, Corporal Sidery; Doreen Roebotham
Next Row of 2: ?, Corporal Scholes
Middle Row: Corporal Dorothy (Dot) Butler; Hazel Robbins (m Southgate); Connie from Fakenham, Corporal Somerset; 'Paddy' Stevenson from Ballymena (m Smith, London); Nan or Nen Mainwaring; Winifred Elizabeth Tomlinson (m Seeley); Olga Miller; Elsie Shultz; Janet Hodges (m Moyse); ?
Front Row: Sergeant: Warrant Officer; Flying Officer Salew; Sergeant ('Snitch'); Sergeant;

Courtesy: Win Seeley

A vibrant lady with such a warm and loving personality, I quickly nicknamed her: 'Margaret Lockwood' much to her amusement. She had been shy of the camera and attention, yet had so many wartime experiences to share. We had come to the home of her daughter, Anne ... and even as I write this now, the telephone rings and it is dear Win wanting a chat, thanking me for the gift of my 'Nina & Vic' book I sent her. I know she will love it, and identify with so much of what it says. Our conversation is easy now we know one another more. She's a lovely person, and her call has truly made my day! Thanks Win xx Talking with her brings back treasured memories of precious time spent in one another's company. It makes all the difference in the world coming to know each of these wonderful people in person. So much better than carrying an image of what I believe they look like if I don't have a photograph to go by. I always said that, if ever I come into a large amount of money, I would do whatever it takes to bring RAF 100 Group together again, under the one roof, for a weekend of memories, stories shared, merriment, and anything else we can dream up along the way!!

Stuart with cameraman James, while Win nervously waits in the spotlight

Nervous at first about being filmed, Win soon relaxed into the role as I reminded her to think of Margaret Lockwood and to simply be herself. Afterwards, it felt as if we had known one another all our lives ... kindred spirits through and through xx

Thanks Anne for all your help and support, and Win, I hope I hear from you again very very soon. You truly are a valued and much loved soulmate.

Janine with dear friend Win

Leading Aircraftsman Joe Sayers

A young Joe Sayers seen back row, third from left

Joe is a gentle young soul who, still today, speaks humbly of his wartime experiences. He worked at Foulsham, in a Special Operations Group, responsible for installing and positioning aerials and linking them to specialised equipment inside aircraft. Joe and his wife are lovely people and made us so welcome. We left with warm memories of time well spent in the company of kindred spirits. I hope we will have the opportunity to meet again soon.

Janine, Joe & Mary Sayers

WAAF Margaret 'Peggy' Pollard

Peggy preparing for filming, watched by son Geoff

Peggy is another lovely lady, a true kindred spirit, who found it hard to believe she could have anything to say which would be of interest all these years after the war. And yet it is because her stories have not been recorded, there is a very real danger they will be lost without the sharing of them which only she can do. It was after a hesitant start therefore, and a lot of encouragement and loving support, that she began to talk about her life as a WAAF based at the Headquarters of RAF 100 Group: Bylaugh Hall, Norfolk, where she was a Clerk GD Shorthand Typist to Group Captain Porte. She was doing the same work as my mother, a WAAF to Group Captain Brownie at RAF Wheaton Aston, and it was intriguing to hear stories of what went on behind the scenes. Amidst much laughter, she recounted the arrival of the U.S. Eighth Air Force whose U.S. 36th Bomb Squadron flew in partnership with RAF 100 Group in wartime, involved in the same kind of secret work. Their GIs dated many of the WAAFs and local girls, and always, there were eyes turned towards the skies, counting the aircraft as they returned. She still keeps in touch and visits today a few who married and went to live in the States.

Thanks Peggy and Geoff for making us so welcome, and for spending time sharing memories.

Peggy & Janine ... kindred spirits

 WOP/AG Peter Woodard

Peter Woodard, right, with Stuart and Cameraman Martin

Peter is a quiet, gentle man, and again, I found myself wondering how, as a young man, he could fly as a WOP/Air Gunner ... a dangerous job, amidst a sky filled with enemy fighters trying to bring them down. Quietly spoken, it was difficult for his wife Irene and I to hear much of what was going on, confined to the next room because of space. But seeing some of the footage after, I know the filming went well.

Peter served in the lead 192 Squadron under RAF 100 Group, which flew day and night operations, no matter what the weather, and had a greater role to play, linking direct with Bletchley Park. He completed and survived 30 operations in total with Squadron Leader B. M. Fawkes in A Flight as his Skipper, and again, I can only admire his diligence and courage. His experience no doubt shaped and defined his character as well as his future life, and it was lovely to spend quality time with two such caring, loving people.

Showing off their collection of teddies with over 100 in total!

Thank you both for your time, hospitality and love.

 

Squadron Leader David Butler

Lancaster 12 Sqdn Ops Unit, RAF Wickenby 1943/44

David Butler serving in 171 Squadron, RAF North Creake

David has been a dear and valued friend for many years. It was an absolute delight to finally meet him and his lovely wife Edna, and share wartime memories. He first served in 12 Squadron on Lancasters at RAF Wickenby, before being transferred to RAF North Creake, Norfolk, under RAF 100 Group; involved in a total of 30 jamming and bombing operations. His numerous medals prove his tenacity, strength and courage, and as we sat down to tea and cake together, it was surreal having shared his wartime experiences. I found it incredibly difficult to imagine this lovely gentle man as one of a crew in an aircraft, caught up in dogfights amidst swirling cloud, fighting the enemy in the skies, watching friends shot down in flames, surviving a war. Since those years, in the true spirit of reconciliation, David has even attended a Luftwaffe Night Fighters event at Frankfurt, Germany.

David at Luftwaffe Night Fighters Event, Germany

As I said at the beginning, this was an incredible journey for me ... in body, mind and spirit. It is impossible to walk away from any one of these veterans without being affected by all I saw and heard, more so when we were meeting for the first time in twenty years of being in contact. But then, that's how it should be in sharing. It is only through sharing experiences that we come to learn more about one another and establish and maintain the connectivity between us.

To share with someone is a gift of self.

Each of the people we met on this incredible journey was an ordinary person who had done extraordinary things in their lifetime ... and survived despite the odds stacked against them. In passing them on the street you would know nothing at all about their lives. Only through taking that leap of faith, accepting people just the way they are, prepared to simply listen as they share, can we hope to learn who they really are, and how their life has been to bring them to this moment in time.

The words of their sharing sucked me in. It was impossible to walk away unaffected. But more than anything else, it was the warmth, the love, the compassion and connectivity we felt like a living, breathing entity in the room; that became a comfort blanket wrapped around us, binding us together, leaving us with the most incredible sense of peace and love. I don't know anyone within RAF 100 Group Association who harbours bad feeling, or thinks badly about the war. They had a job to do, which they accomplished to the best of their ability, knowing that freedom was at stake. The enemy needed to be pushed back to its own shores before they could go home and somehow pick up again the threads of family life. Then again, not everyone made it home. Bomber Command took the highest number of casualties, and within RAF 100 Group, it was 192 Squadron which had the highest fatalities as the lead Squadron. War does terrible things. A terrible price is paid. Everyone is affected. No-one remains the same after.

Every one of these people had had a vital role in RAF 100 Group during the Second World War ... their work so secret that, for over seventy years, they have kept their experiences silent, even from husbands or wives and family. Yet every one of these veterans has a story to tell, one small piece of a trillion-piece puzzle making up the reality of what otherwise remains a mystery of the Second World War.

It seems incredible that the wider world still has no idea about this Group, including the main RAF today. It is my mother's wartime story which continues to inspire me to campaign on their behalf, engaged as she was to Flt/Lt Special Operator Henry Victor 'Vic' Vinnell who served under the lead 192 Squadron. It is these veterans today who drive my passion to preserve both their history and wartime experiences, and let their voices be heard. Too many secrets have already been taken to the grave, lost forever. Through writings and film lies the chance to set them free. People otherwise will never know the high price paid for the freedom we take so much for granted in this country today. Besides, there are still the many friends and colleagues who did not return home, who we need to continue to remember.

I feel very privileged and honoured to be a part of this Group in peacetime, and to bring them together for annual Reunions each May in Norfolk, their wartime home, keeping in almost daily contact, involved in one another's everyday lives. At the heart of our worldwide Association today are the veterans, these wonderful people, some of whom I have now had the pleasure to meet, to talk with, to share. Membership is also open to their families and friends and anyone interested in wanting to know more about them, their wartime experiences, and all that they achieved. Every single one of our members is valued as an equal part of the whole.

This journey has meant so much to me, more than words can ever say. It serves to remind me the reason I first began writing, and just how vital it is to share personal experiences with the wider world. Only by doing so can we come to accept one another just the way we are, defined by all we have lived through. Regardless of whether we come from the same family, whatever our creed or colour, ethnicity or religion, or the place we hold in society; people need to share experiences with one another, to let their voice be heard, to be accepted, and at the same time, be assured that through that sharing we are slowly but surely laying a path which leads to trust, to compassion, to love, to peace ... and a better brighter world.

In the spirit of a quotation I have long lived by:

'To deny one's experience

is to deny one's self' 

Erica Jong 

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM!

To Dream the Impossible Dream!

Painted by Janine Harrington

 'It doesn't matter about being born in a duck yard,

as long as you are hatched from a swan's egg.'

The Ugly Duckling, by Hans Christian Anderson

'The Ugly Duckling' was always my favourite story as a child. There were so many reasons why. I identified with the 'duck' who felt so jaded, so different, unable to find those who would accept him just the way he was. I knew how it felt to feel 'less-than', that that was all I was worth. Such emotions run deep. Hans Christian Anderson did well to channel his feelings into writings, using them to create powerful and evocative images in a style easy for children (and adults) to relate to and understand. Mum would get so frustrated and angry whenever I called myself 'the ugly duckling'. This wasn't me feeling sorry for myself, or doing the 'poor mes'. It was something I genuinely felt. And always I'd hope that, by listening to the story, I would somehow make sense of my own life, find a formula to change things for the better, hoping for that 'happy-ever-after' ending. Mum didn't understand why I was the ugly duckling. Not then. While I couldn't find the words to explain. We saw the world through different eyes. As a young child, I knew I was different from the start. With a pair of heavy cumbersome calipers on my legs and regular three-times-a-week visits to the hospital a bus ride away, how could I not know! It was the right formula for low self-esteem, walking in the shadows just like the ugly duckling, trying to hide what he wished others couldn't see. As a loving mother, of course Mum could only see potential that lay in a place I didn't yet know, especially as I began to write stories, drawing on my own limited experiences of life.

The story of 'The Ugly Duckling' followed me through life. As I tried to evade bullies waiting at the school gates, taunting chants about 'the cripple', I identified even more, especially when years later I unexpectedly discovered that the author, Hans Christian Anderson, was shaped by his own early experiences which mirrored mine. Born in Denmark, Hans would have been nineteen years old when my great great grandfather Johanne Kromann was born in Dragos, a small village in that same country. I like to think that as a child, Johanne might have heard Hans sharing his stories in some public place in Copenhagen, and felt inspired to discover his own potential, removing any boundaries placed around his dreams ... reaching confidently, with promise and hope, for the stars as he went on to become a Linguist on board passenger liners bound for distant shores. Hans Christian Anderson and my great great grandfather, it seems, both dared to dream the impossible dream.

British Victorian poet, Robert Browning wrote a poem, suggesting that, to achieve anything worthwhile, a person should attempt even those things that may turn out to be impossible ...

'A man's reach should exceed his grasp

else what's a heaven for.'

As a child, I could so easily have accepted my limitations. It was difficult being born at all after spending over twenty minutes in the birth canal. Following a period spent in an oxygen tent, my disabilities were discovered. I couldn't play like other children. Sleep-overs as they call them now, were a 'no-no' given the boots I had to wear to bed, binding my feet together with a steel bar between the two. I was warned in later life not to expect too much - driving a car, walking any great distance, finding a position at work, even having, holding and hugging my own child. It would have been so easy with the mentality of 'the ugly duckling' to remain in the shadows, to do what was expected, to follow the path laid before me and never dream for more.

But then, everyone has a gift, a talent, a skill. You might not even know at first, or feel you have anything to offer. Some discover it early in life, others later, and then again others never find it at all. When it does present itself, in those first moments it is important to uncover it as if it were a precious gift ... as indeed it is ... and then come to recognise, to own it, to know it as a friend. For there will come a time when you will need to appreciate its full potential, and thank God for the Blessing He has bestowed on you to be used wisely and well.

It isn't meant to be stored for a rainy day, or hidden from view, but rather it is something to celebrate, because in time it will define who you are, the person you were truly meant to be. It is this gift that will show you how to make your mark on the world, and prove you truly can make a difference.

I learned to write from an early age, my mind already brimming over with stories I wanted to tell, based on what I could see and hear around me. When I couldn't find words, I would create pictures. Yes, at first they were childlike. Simplistic. But then I discovered colour. It held a fascination, because suddenly it was possible to highlight trees and foliage, the pond, and flowers, making them so much brighter than they actually were. I had enough shadows lurking in my life, shifting and shaping into things I didn't want to know or to be a part of. What I wanted more than anything was to discover the art of teasing out that which other eyes could not see, to emphasise the miracle of life going on around us. I tried to capture special moments and freeze them in time. Like stolen memories, I needed to hold them close when my river swelled with sorrow; and blinding white curtains of mist hugged mountains of doom, a weight of fear holding me down. For me, special moments, happy moments, art moments, became my stars in a night sky which I could turn to when something bad was happening in my life.

It also presented a unique opportunity to create sequential art, made up of drawings depicting a very personal perspective of what was taking place, how that felt, what it meant to the individual concerned. Like a child's dot-to-dot drawing, it brought together an episodic scenario of captured moments, building into one complete whole.

I became caught between drawing or painting life, and writing about experiences as a flowing entity. I realised that nothing could halt time. Time was something that moved on regardless, and in doing so, altered the pictures around me according to event and mood, before I could put them on paper. So I alternated between the two according to mood and nature.

Inevitably perhaps, it reached a point when I began to question, thirsting after knowledge and truths. Where did my ability to create stories come from? Why did some people find it so hard, and there again, others couldn't do it at all? The same with art. A pen or a pencil in my left hand was like an extension of myself. But where did that gift come from? I used to watch my father with his quick deft movements sketch a scene in moments, or else paint in oils, a medium I never use. He had the gift, yes. But it was something different again.

Finally, my searching mind reached a crossroads as I adopted music as another language, discovering sound seeping through my veins, until my fingers throbbed to notate it on paper. A song was born ... words swiftly followed, or else the other way around. No matter. Suddenly, I wanted to know, to learn where all this was coming from. The pressure of creating something came at the most inconvenient moments. It was frustrating, yet powerful, as I realised the force within me wouldn't let me go. It kept pushing ... and pushing ... and pushing ... like giving birth. It refused to give up until eventually I sat to do its bidding, whether it was writing, music or art. There were days when it became scary and wouldn't stop, giving me no rest, coming from some other place, as if someone had control over my mind, my thoughts, my emotions, steering my hand in the direction it needed to follow. They were inspired moments ... moments when I truly knew something wonderful had happened.

But how? From where? Why me?

It was only in later years as I reached back into past lives that things began to make sense. Family history held the key. I discovered my grandmother had composed and played. My uncles also. Music was in my blood, in my genes maybe.

Now, in the Autumn of my years, it is even more important for me to find out where I came from, my ancestry, to know as much as I can about the lives of the people who came before. These are the kind of questions my daughter will need answers to ... and I won't be around, so I need to evidence the findings I already have. It is a quest I have been on for tens of years, researching back to the sixteen hundreds. And as anyone who has tried genealogy knows, it is addictive. The more you find, the more questions there are, the more stories you have yet to know.

My own findings touched so many lives. As soon as I knew I originated from Denmark, immediately I wanted to go and visit, to tread in my great great grandfather's footsteps, to see what he had seen in his beginnings, to follow his story through, and find others who had known him in his youth, before he began to sail on the main ships leaving Copenhagen, and became an Interpreter. Now that is something I definitely didn't inherit. I've never been good with languages ... but then my daughter is!

We are all connected. It is only by tracing our lives, reaching back in Time to those who came before, that we find answers for today. Sharing our findings is even more important as there are so many hundreds if not thousands of us on the same quest.

Recently, I posted on this blog the journey of my life reaching back in time, linking it with those who came before me. Pictures speak louder than words. Putting faces with the writing helps to make people real, holding that image in your mind as you read about them. It has proved a fascinating journey. I felt inspired by people in my past, and I would thank those who have written to ask questions, identifying with what they viewed here. It is principally to them that I say it is with great sorrow I have been forced to remove those wonderful pictures and stories of their lives from this site. I know they offered much knowledge and joy and connectivity. But I have to respect others' feelings in this. It has been my privilege to signpost people in the direction of places to find information. Every one of us has a history, a need to know where we came from, to identify those who came before us, to understand their lives and what became of them. It is a truly fascinating journey. Please don't give up on your own search. I know for me it has been a voyage of self-discovery, to reach into the past and find my roots. There have been surprises, some shocks even, but within our own personal experiences there is all the mystery, joy, fascination, puzzlement, and love we could ever hope to find in an entire library of books. We have it all right here in our own Family Tree if we dig deep enough.

We are all connected.

Once you discover your roots and where you come from, never forget who you are. Always look up at the stars, as a good friend repeatedly tells me. Each of us is so much more than just one dot in the Universe. Believe! Remember your talents, your gifts. Learn where they came from and explore your past ... because you are a part of it, part of something you cannot yet know until you put yourself on this journey. History in the making! One day in the future, someone else is going to realise their own potential, their gift, their talent, their dream, and be curious about where it came from. Their journey in seeking the answer to that question will ultimately lead back ... back in time ... back to You.

The story of the ugly duckling is a simple one, and yet came from the feelings of the author at that time and what was going on in his own life. It therefore offers lessons for us today.

ECLIPSE

Copyright: Janine Harrington

Have you ever had something happen and you're left feeling completely overwhelmed and confused, not just about the 'Happening', but the effect it has on someone's feelings towards you?

I guess it doesn't have to necessarily be one particular set of circumstances, but could cover a range of different scenarios when, for no apparent reason everything suddenly turns your world upside down, inside out and ... you're left dangling, wondering what the hell just took place.

Now I'm not even going to describe the experience as it happened to me because, well, to be honest, I still don't understand it myself much less am I able to describe it coherently to someone else. All I know is that it started out as a good day. Positive things were happening. That's what made it all so much worse. It was evening. Sitting down relaxing.

Then it came. No warning. Leaving behind after-quakes and tremors as if a very violent storm had happened, or the unexpected eruption of a volcano which had lain dormant for any number of years.

From out of nowhere it happened and changed my world forever.

I don't even know the trigger, what caused it ... words are locked in a place somewhere deep in my mind, and there's no key to unlock the mystery behind what followed.

I know I went to bed, turning my back on an otherwise perfect day which, as if the sun was suddenly hiding behind the darkest black cloud; flipped into some other worldly shape I didn't understand. But next morning, there it is, a total eclipse ... my world as I knew it lost forever.

I have no idea at all how to bring it back ... IF I can ever bring it back. It's never happened before.

Is this making any sense?

Does anyone share the experience of this happening in their life, no matter what the circumstances?

People you knew and trust, even love, now turn their backs, treating you like a pariah. Why? Words are spoken, yet make no sense, because you have no answers. You can't explain what happened, even to yourself, because you just don't know. You were there, yes, but otherwise, truths are hidden from you. It can happen that way. Your mind blocks out happenings to protect you. It's how we survive trauma. Besides, everyone has their own perspective. Like being interviewed after something awful has taken place, every witness will say something different, depending on their viewpoint, where they were standing at the time. What they saw and heard can differ radically from another. What they saw and did is not the same as you saw and felt happen, that's for sure. They believe what they think they saw, arriving at their own conclusions based on what they believe, what they have experienced, and the way they live their lives. That's all that matters, it seems, and is enough for them to make a judgement call.

It can happen when people quarrel or row. When people don't listen with their hearts, and show compassion just when it's needed most as the other person gets more and more distressed. But in this instance, there was no argument as far as I'm aware. I don't remember. That's all I can say. And that's the truth. Yet to the other person, suddenly, it's appearing more and more as if I'm wriggling out of my responsibility somehow just by saying that, even though I do recall begging them to stop and respect my wishes before it went too far. Words clogging the brain, coming at me, going round and round in a whirlpool of confusion and self-doubt. How could I NOT know or remember?!?

Easily done!

However, it's the repercussions of this event which are most disturbing. The person walks away, and you don't hear from them for a long time ... a VERY long time. Which is worrying, given they used to be in contact almost every day and you thought you were close. This was the least likely person for this to happen with. Which begs the question: what did I do that was so wrong? If I did this dreadful deed, why don't I remember? I feel guilty as hell ... as well as disgustingly sick, depressed, ill, my self-esteem blown apart, my confidence shattered ... too many emotions to be labelled by words. I try to write my thoughts and send them out into the ether. Nothing comes back. So ... what's to be done? Nothing, I guess. But the situation only grows worse ... growing out of all proportion, even though I'm doing nothing at all. Nobody is talking about it much less sharing ... at least to me. Now it's far too painful, the repercussions of this event too far-reaching for me to even want to try to talk about it, or discuss what happened. I'm the one this happened to. I'm the victim here ... I think. Or is something else more sinister going on beneath the surface, something I'm not even aware? A misunderstanding perhaps?

I don't know.

Meanwhile, days ... weeks ... months pass. My world is hurtling off course. It affects every waking, every dreaming moment. Nightmares return from childhood. I can't breathe. Panic attacks take over. It's having a psychological effect. And all because of these few moments in time ... moments which remain unknown, like some unseen hand has covered the scene with darkness, drawing a veil around truths which can neither be seen or heard.