Wow, what a story. (Terribly sad he should have been lost in 1943, just after the battle of the Atlantic had pretty much been won, Costal Command were unsung heroes in my book.)
My aunt - she was my mother's oldest sibling - (my mother was the youngest in a large, comfortably off, family - she was away at her posh boarding school during the war and for a few years afterwards when all this took place and only heard about all these things later) outlived her second husband by two decades, dying at an advanced age in early 2000, so I did get the chance to talk to her a bit.
She was very bright and exceptionally attractive, and, after the death of her first husband, as a WAAF officer, had a very interesting war, travelling with the Allies - immediately behind the front lines, up through Italy and into Austria, with the task of arranging and organising officer accommodation in some of the places that had just fallen to the Allies.
Anyway, she told me that training flights were every bit as dangerous - if not more so - as ops, operational flights, (something I have since learned was true) and I seem to remember that she told me that the flight her husband - who was very experienced, and who had been flying for years as a pilot by then, and who had recently been promoted to Flight Lieutenant - was killed on, was a training flight which crashed not far from their base.
One evening (at my request), she took me through her photo album from the war; the handsome husband (whom she loved, and who clearly adored her) frequently featured, (in one photograph, a shot of him and his crew, his eyes are shut - photographers will recognise this with frustration - and he had written on the back, in fountain pen, in a gloriously legible copper-plate hand, (and the smile with which he must have written those words comes across clearly, decades - almost a century - later,) "Always thinking of thee, apparently. The camera does not lie, you know. Anyway, it is a nice shot of the crate", and it was, the four engined plane framing the background of the photograph).
She went through that album, with a brisk, but brittle, humour, shadowed by an under-lying sadness, offering comments on some of those images of RAF officers, taken from decades earlier, captured by the camera eternally young in the black and white image glued onto the pages of the album: "Oh, he also proposed to me, no, I'm not sorry I turned him down", "oh, gosh, that chap was killed...", "this chap went on to an excellent career with BOAC after the war", "gosh, he also died during the war", "I liked him, lovely chap, but he was killed'....
I've inherited her photograph album, her writing desk, her husband's 'wings', his pencil case, and his ring, (an elegant, but plain yet solid gold band) which she wore until her own death, and which I wear now, in memory of them both.
Also really eloquently put about about the regrets of not talking properly to that generation.
When I was in my late teens / early twenties I used to know an old boy via a club we were both in who was a bit bad tempered and could be a bit short with people. I sort of got on with him quite well and used to share the odd pint together. As I got to know him better it gradually dawned on me that he'd been a prisoner of the Japanese. Looking back at our pub drinks it was obvious he wanted to talk (he lived on his own) but I was young and stupid (probably still am a bit) and missed the chance.
Ouch.
That is a terrible pity, and I do understand the regrets.
Being young (and stupid), and sometimes, cocky (if you were bright), and, perhaps, a bit arrogant.
Sigh. Yes, been a bit guilty of that, m'lud, at times. Wince.
But, sometimes, it wasn't just obliviousness, or self-obsessed stupidity (and yes, youngsters can fall prey to this), sometimes, it was a lack of knowledge (some of this stuff was classified for years, and the treasure troves of archives had to be visited in person), and sometimes, it was confidence - you are a kid, and facing you is this formidable individual, with an extraordinary war record, but who is also a reserved, composed, and sometimes, quite a prominent and respected professional person; daring to even question them takes confidence and knowledge.
What I have noticed is that some of that generation wouldn't talk to their immediate family, but would (sometimes) open up to someone who was a bit more distant, someone to whom they were not especially close - perhaps a friend of a grandson or granddaughter (as happened to me with a Frenchman who had had an extraordinary career, - I knew his grandchildren) - and only when they themselves were elderly and felt able to put things into perspective, a perspective afforded by the distance of time and with the insight and understanding that comes with age and maturity.
For years, I would imagine that they simply wished to put the war (and its memories) behind them, and get on with living a life that had been denied to so many of their friends and colleagues.
Only in old age - or, late middle age - would they be able to fully face - think through, and perhaps, even wish to talk about, and share - what they had experienced, preferably distanced in time and place from their normal environment and from where these events had taken place.
Often, the best tales get told away from where they normally live, abroad, for example, on a holiday, or, when working abroad, or, a place where they can relax and let their guard down, the dinner table - dinners in France are long and lingering, - or, yes, most certainly, the pub.
Anyway, I was fortunate to some extent in that friends brought me home explaining that I was (and still am) passionate about history; sometimes chaps (and women) opened up to an interested (young) enthusiastic and captive audience (me), their families (occasionally) letting me know subsequently that that had been the first time that they had heard those stories.
But, while I now think that while I may have been the immediate catalyst for the telling of these tales, - and it was always an incredible honour and privilege to have been present - I also think that the story tellers - from that legendary generation (and others, younger, also with amazing stories to tell) - had arrived at a time and place in their minds where they were now prepared to offer their stories, my presence merely facilitated this, and their families needed to hear it, which meant that the time had become right to talk.
I think it was the late 90's when I went and you're right it was even then still all bit hush hush, as you say amazing how many of them took their secrets to the grave. Can't imagine people doing that now.
Anyway do go, you'll love it...
"Hush-hush", yes, that was the expression they used, wasn't it? I seem to remember that Bletchley Park uncle - the only time the topic ever came up - very briefly, in conversation - remarking, calmly, "it was all a bit hush-hush".
