The Red Line: The Gripping Story of the RAF’s Bloodiest Raid on Hitler’s Germany. John Nichol
raids on cities in eastern Germany; his wish was to deliver a ‘basting [to] the Germans in their retreat’. When the Air Ministry demurred, he told them in no uncertain terms to get on with the job. ‘I asked whether Berlin, and no doubt other large cities in East Germany, should not now be considered especially attractive targets,’ he wrote. ‘I am glad this is “under examination”. Pray report to me tomorrow what is going to be done.’
Bomber Command was issued with a clear and unambiguous instruction to execute ‘one big attack on Berlin and attacks on Dresden, Leipzig, Chemnitz, or other cities where a severe blitz will not only cause confusion in the evacuation from the east but will also hamper the movement of troops from the west’.
The horrific loss of life in Dresden in particular came to epitomise the strategy, and perhaps prompted his astonishing U-turn six weeks later. ‘The destruction of Dresden remains a serious query against the conduct of Allied bombing,’ he told the Chiefs of Staff in a briefing paper, laying the blame for the death and destruction of which he was the architect squarely at the open bomb doors of Sir Arthur Harris and his ceaselessly loyal aircrews.
It remained there for many years.
No memorial was granted them; no campaign medal. But the survivors would not let their fallen comrades be exiled to the margins of history. A small but stubborn group finally determined to right this wrong. It took them five years and cost some £7 million – money raised by the men themselves, through newspaper appeals and personal donations that ranged from a few pence of a child’s pocket money to many thousands of pounds, and in one case an incredible £2 million. Alongside such luminaries as Bee Gee Robin Gibb (who sadly did not live to see the culmination of his incredible work), I joined their campaign. It was now my privilege to witness its outcome.
Just after midday, Her Majesty the Queen pulled aside the drapes to reveal Philip Jackson’s stunning sculpture, the centrepiece of architect Liam O’Connor’s beautiful Portland stone memorial. There were gasps of pleasure and admiration from the front of the crowd, and cheers from those of us further back who, for the time being, could only imagine the sight.
The bronze statues depict seven members of a bomber crew, recently returned from yet another sortie through enemy skies. Exhaustion and relief are etched on their faces. Five of the figures gaze skywards, praying for a glimpse of friends destined never to return; two stare downwards, perhaps reflecting on the ordeal they have just endured – and knowing they must do it all again before the sun rises tomorrow.
The sacrifice of thousands of young lives is woven into every fibre of the monument. A stainless steel lattice in its ceiling depicts the geometric fuselage construction of the early Wellington bombers. Aluminium from a crashed Halifax lines the roof; eight young men were killed when she was shot down over Belgium in May 1944, and three were still at their stations when she was discovered in 1997. Even the rivets connecting the pieces are scale replicas of those used in the aircraft. And as a symbol of generous reconciliation, a yew tree donated by the people of Germany grows alongside the memorial.
The verdict amongst those who shared the day was unanimous. Andy Wiseman, a Halifax bomb aimer, echoed the thoughts of many as he gazed at the bronze faces of the crew. ‘I understand just how they feel,’ he said softly. ‘This was us, every single night. My only sadness is that it took so long to get the memorial. It would have meant so much to the mothers and fathers who lost so many sons.’
The service of dedication was dignified yet simple. The Chief of the Air Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Stephen Dalton, promised the relatives of the dead that ‘they will now know that their service and raw courage has been recognised’. He spoke of the collective heroism of the men, highlighting the story of Canadian Air Gunner Charles Mynarski, who fought through the flames of his burning aircraft in an attempt to save his rear gunner. Mynarski died of the injuries he sustained during the rescue while the tail gunner survived. Mynarski was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his valour.
As the Venerable Ray Pentland, RAF Chaplain-in-Chief, began the dedication, four Tornado bombers roared overhead, to a chorus of cheers from the crowd and a wail of protest from a handful of car alarms. And then came the moment we had all been waiting for: ‘May this memorial commemorate the lives of all who have served and died in Bomber Command, as we acknowledge their sacrifice and service to others.’
As we reflected upon his words, the familiar drone of four Merlin engines filled the crowded park. And here she was, overhead: Britain’s last surviving airworthy Lancaster bomber. Many of those in wheelchairs struggled to their feet as our tear-filled eyes turned skywards and her massive bomb doors opened – to scatter thousands of blood-red poppies in a timeless Act of Remembrance.
We cheered and clapped in both celebration and sorrow, and in an instant she was gone.
‘You’ve waited a long time for it,’ the Queen had told Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Michael Beetham, himself a distinguished wartime pilot and one of the leaders of the campaign. ‘Well done.’
As the service ended, thousands queued to file through the memorial, to offer a quiet prayer or remember a fallen friend or loved one. The Royal Family wandered amongst the crowd, chatting to old and young alike; children played amidst the drifts of fallen poppies, and the bar began a roaring trade.
On stage in the entertainment area, TV presenter Carol Vorderman interviewed Rusty Waughman and his Lancaster crew about their experiences. Although more than a little uncomfortable about being singled out, Rusty was delighted with the day and its highlight: ‘Shaking hands with Prince Charles and being kissed by Carol Vorderman … twice!’
Although it was now late afternoon, bomb aimer Norman Westby had arranged a special feast at a local hotel. They were to be served bacon and eggs, the meal they had all enjoyed on the successful completion of each operation over enemy territory nearly 70 years before.
As Rusty and his crew departed for their own private Act of Remembrance, I have no doubt they reflected on the morning of 31 March 1944, when so many of their friends and fellow crew members had been absent from Bomber Command’s traditional ‘survivors’ breakfast.
JOHN NICHOL
Hertfordshire
13 January 2013
Cyril Barton
There is nothing out of the ordinary about Joyce Voysey’s semi-detached house in New Malden or the quiet suburban street on which she lives. The garden is well kept, the house immaculate and neatly furnished. Joyce and her sister, Cynthia Maidment, are two white-haired ladies with kindly faces and easy smiles, eager to welcome their visitors, especially those who have come to talk about their beloved brother, Cyril Barton.
His portrait, an oil-painted copy of his official RAF photograph, gazes from the wall of the sitting room. His broad, boyish grin is equal parts innocence and mischief and his eyes shine with pride. While Cyril looks down, his sisters serve tea in china cups and saucers on a polished mahogany table. At one end is a large scrapbook, filled with papers and cuttings, and a stack of files, all of them focused on Cyril’s service in Bomber Command. The scrapbook is well thumbed, its pages now faded and yellowing. At first glance there is nothing to suggest that they contain one of the most extraordinary stories of the Second World War.
Cynthia, Joyce and their three brothers and sisters idolised Cyril. They always looked forward to the week when he made the long journey home from his RAF base in Burn, North Yorkshire. Cyril was the oldest, wisest and most confident of the six Barton children, and life at their semi-detached Edwardian house seemed more fun whenever he was there. He was mischievous and playful but also like ‘a little father to us’,1 Cynthia remembers, who often put them to bed at night when their dad, an electrical engineer, worked