UK & Commonwealth Remembrance Day - 11/11

[tac]

As many of you know, I live in the East of England - the bit that sticks out in a large lump, tantalisingly close to mainland Europe. This proximity worked in two ways - the mighty Luftwaffe could use their bases in occupied Europe to fly over and bomb us, but we, in turn, could use the wide open spaces of East Anglia to build literally dozens of airfields for our heavy bombers, Commonwealth and American. I live a couple of miles away from one such airfield, formerly a flying base, RAF Alconbury, home of just one of the many US 8th Army Airforce bombardment squadrons.

The UK and Commonwealth bombed mostly by night, while our American allies by day - a relentless pounding down of a Germany that had 'sown the wind', and was now 'reaping the whirlwind'. So much of the flying training took place at night, and it was one such training flight on the night of 26th March 1942 that ended in tragedy. The four young men died instantly when their Handley-Page Hampden medium bomber came to earth about three miles from my house.

Please take a moment out of your busy schedule to watch this little movie I made yesterday...

This left-hand photo shows three of the four - the middle airman is Flight Sergeant Doug Lindsey, whose niece came over to visit with us a few years back, at this time of year. His sister, very aged, remembers his 'bonny blue' eyes vividly...the missing airman is standing beside Doug in the other photo.


This is where they are buried - the churchyard of Old St Swithun's church, Old Weston, Huntingdonshire, deep in the rural landscape.

and here they are...oddly enough, Doug's mom came from Battle creek, Michigan. Probably yet another American/Canadian who wanted to do his bit, like so many others had done before him.

...and here we were, Doug's niece is in the front middle, with me and Mrs tac on each side of her...others are members of the Old Weston Historical Society and the local parish council.

The older gentleman with the stick was six years old at the time of the crash, and remembered it well - the flames, he said, were over a hundred feet high in the night sky.

The RAF suffered horrendous casualties between September 1939 and the end of hostilities in Europe in May of 1945, but it was Bomber Command that suffered most of all. Over fifty-five thousand young men from UK and the Dominions died, and over eleven thousand of them were Canadians.

Here are just four of them.

They had their tomorrows taken away by a cruel fate, so that we could have our todays.

Remember them.

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[tac]

And Americans, too............

It's that time of year to remember another Foley - 2nd Lt Thomas J Foley of 785th Bombardment Squadron and his crew, headed up by 2nd Lt Theodore Kolaya.





They headed out from RAF Attlebridge in Norfolk early one morning on 23rd February 1945, and fifteen minutes later they were dying in the 5 degree waters of the North Sea. There were only four survivors from the B24 'Chris' crate, and he was not among them.

I usually go to the American Military cemetery at Madingley, just outside Cambridge, but this year we are not going anywhere. His name is among the thirty thousand or so missing.







The other Foley there has a grave, Corporal John D Foley Jnr, who died in 1944.

 

[tac]

In case anybody is wondering why I'm concentrating on Foleys, it's MY name.

 

[RicInOR]

I visited my uncle today. He is at Bushnell National Cemetery.

bushnell national cemetery fl at DuckDuckGo

DuckDuckGo. Privacy, Simplified.

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As he was born during WWI, when the winds of world war 2 were on the horizon, he joined up. Promised if he did his duty, he would then then train the recruits if war broke out, and be done. Well, the Army changed its mind, and sent him to London for the Blitz.


He survived and lived until 2001.
About 12 rows up in this photo.

CPL - Corporal, in the MPs.




My dad will be added to the veterans here in a few days.

 

[tac]

My Grandfather, D/9947 Pte William Victor Collins 6th Dragoon Guards [Carabiniers] is in the centre row directly at the far ent. That's Row B, plot 1. Right up close to him in Plot 2 is his buddy, D/616 Pte Edward McDonald of the same regiment, with whom he died in a night barrage at Guillemont Farm on the Somme, on 21.22 June 1917.

Here is their registration notice -



When we last went there, I left him a set of my crown and star and a solid silver collar dog.

 

[tac]

Back in 1998, when I was still serving in the Army, we all joined in our tri-service officers' mess to commemorate Battle of Britain Night, when the RAF and their brave young men from all over the Free world, including the USA [pretending to be Canadians], caused Hitler's luftwaffe to have a radical rethink and began their inevitable slide into oblivion. The luftwaffe never truly recovered from their horrendous losses, and although their light often shone brightly on occasions, particularly on the Eastern Front, it was never on for very long thereafter.

As a person with a reputation as a seanocheadh - story teller - I was often given the job of writing some kind of memorial for a well-regarded person posted away to other jobs, and their subsequent dining-out of the mess was an evening to be remembered, mostly.

Battle of Britain Night, however, was a time to not only recollect and ponder just how much of a close-run thing it had really been, but to recall those who had died during its two-month long course.

This is just one of about six or seven little poems I wrote for the occasion. It portrays the letter written by a RAF Squadron Leader to the mother of one of his 'blokes', who had gone up of his own free will to fight the would-be invaders, but had not returned the same way...

Dear Mrs Brown…

Dear Mrs Brown, your son is dead,
I didn't know him well.
I only saw him once or twice,
Before he fell.

At breakfast, just like all the lads,
He scoffed his jam-smeared bread.
"Just like mum's!" he joked to me,
And now he's dead.

I didn't see him hit at first –
Just a hint of fire.
Then suddenly, without a sound,
The flame became a pyre.

There was nothing we could do,
Two others went the same way too.
A silent crash, that noiseless flash.
Young Brown, went down.

So, Mrs Brown, this dreadful letter,
I really wish I'd known him better
But half a day's no time at all,
A good lad, so sad.

I'll miss him, just like all the others.
I'm going to write to all their mothers,
Until one day, just wait and see,
Some friend will do the same for me.

Tac Foley 1998Copyrighted