It is the last of these that touches me most. An excerpt from my mother's mémoire, about my father:
While the Cornish winter was much more agreeable than that I’d been used to, that January brought sea fog rolling in like a blanket, strangely coinciding with a Night-Flying Exercise which was scheduled for the Squadron. On the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings Ron reported for duty only to be told that the Exercise was “scrubbed” due to the fog. Conditions were even worse on Thursday and again it was cancelled. As we partook of our evening meal on Friday Ron decided to ring the Duty Officer, certain that with the fog thicker than ever, reporting for duty would prove a fruitless journey. When he re-joined me he was still confident that cancellation was bound to be forthcoming when he would take me to a movie. I couldn’t believe it when he rang from Camp to tell me that the Exercise was “on” due no doubt, to the insistence of a Wing Commander who was more concerned with rigid records accountability than with the safety of a fleet of Lancaster bombers and their crew personnel. Alone I stood by our Lounge window—unable to even distinguish the wrought-iron verandah a few feet beyond—and despite the muffling effect of the impenetrable fog, I listened to the heavy drone of aero engines as wave after wave passed from Newquay out over the ocean. I fell asleep eventually—then suddenly awoke with a start to find Ron, his face ashen, leaning over me. I thought I was dreaming. His ’phone call had warned me that IF they actually did take off they’d never be able to land again, in such conditions, at St. Mawgan—and it could be days before he returned, were he to divert to the likes of Kinloss or Ballykelly. It was 5 a.m. when I realised he was back—and learned that he had returned to the sister Station of St. Eval (only a few miles away from St. Mawgan) which had the facility of radar and he had been “talked down” by St. Eval A.T.C. However, while you trust in their directions, they cannot “land” you, but leave you to your own decisions for the last, crucial 50 feet of descent. It is a miracle that no Lancs. were written off that dreadful night—Ron managed his ’plane on to the ground, but to taxi was out of the question, nor could the dispersal lorries, sent out to collect personnel, find them—more by accident than design in the end. It had been quite an experience and happily was the last night-flight Ron ever was called upon to do.
Chas I, the first(?) Christian Monarch regicide, coming from Enlightenment (?) reasoning. Thank you and Blessings for a good new year!
It is the last of these that touches me most. An excerpt from my mother's mémoire, about my father:
While the Cornish winter was much more agreeable than that I’d been used to, that January brought sea fog rolling in like a blanket, strangely coinciding with a Night-Flying Exercise which was scheduled for the Squadron. On the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings Ron reported for duty only to be told that the Exercise was “scrubbed” due to the fog. Conditions were even worse on Thursday and again it was cancelled. As we partook of our evening meal on Friday Ron decided to ring the Duty Officer, certain that with the fog thicker than ever, reporting for duty would prove a fruitless journey. When he re-joined me he was still confident that cancellation was bound to be forthcoming when he would take me to a movie. I couldn’t believe it when he rang from Camp to tell me that the Exercise was “on” due no doubt, to the insistence of a Wing Commander who was more concerned with rigid records accountability than with the safety of a fleet of Lancaster bombers and their crew personnel. Alone I stood by our Lounge window—unable to even distinguish the wrought-iron verandah a few feet beyond—and despite the muffling effect of the impenetrable fog, I listened to the heavy drone of aero engines as wave after wave passed from Newquay out over the ocean. I fell asleep eventually—then suddenly awoke with a start to find Ron, his face ashen, leaning over me. I thought I was dreaming. His ’phone call had warned me that IF they actually did take off they’d never be able to land again, in such conditions, at St. Mawgan—and it could be days before he returned, were he to divert to the likes of Kinloss or Ballykelly. It was 5 a.m. when I realised he was back—and learned that he had returned to the sister Station of St. Eval (only a few miles away from St. Mawgan) which had the facility of radar and he had been “talked down” by St. Eval A.T.C. However, while you trust in their directions, they cannot “land” you, but leave you to your own decisions for the last, crucial 50 feet of descent. It is a miracle that no Lancs. were written off that dreadful night—Ron managed his ’plane on to the ground, but to taxi was out of the question, nor could the dispersal lorries, sent out to collect personnel, find them—more by accident than design in the end. It had been quite an experience and happily was the last night-flight Ron ever was called upon to do.
Wow, thank you for sharing this.
You can read more of my mum's story on my own blog, but it's behind a paywall for now. Thank you for your kind response.