Gliders Over Normandy Series Box Set Read online

  The path of his smoke twisted in the air and twirling, rose up, glided in the air for a moment, before dissipating into nothing.

  We sat in silence, broken up only by Dad taking a short, sharp breath in, as if he was going to speak. Each time it came to nothing. Eventually, Dad finished his cigarette, before he grunted himself out of his chair and hobbled his way up the stairs.

  3

  The slow whooshing of wind passing over the wings continued incessantly as I began desperately throwing my head round in all directions, trying to spot our target. The wind was beginning to annoy me now, even though it was the very thing that was keeping us in the air at this moment, it was starting to distract me. I needed to be able to see our target and soon. I was growing increasingly impatient with everything that was out of my personal control.

  We had to be perfect, there was no margin for error, we must land within a few hundred metres of our target. Anything more than that and we would render every man in the back of my craft completely useless.

  They might as well be killed. The heavy burden that felt like it had been placed solely on my shoulders, was growing heavier and heavier by the second, dragging the Horsa closer and closer to the ground. My brain began to feel like it was pumping against the walls of my skull, as if it had replaced the role of my heart in pumping blood around my body.

  I heard the heavy, wooden and uncooperative door behind me, slide open as the men cooped up behind, took a look at the ground below. I hoped that they would give us a hand in spotting our objective but knew that until we hit the ground, everything was down to me and my co-pilot. After all, they weren’t the ones who had been given endless lessons on how to spot your landing site from this high up in a midnight sky. They were merely passengers in a very heavy object, gracefully falling to the ground.

  Some of the boys were expecting children. Some were due quite soon whereas others had found out a few days before leaving. They had been overjoyed.

  One by one they had received letters, insisted we should all head out, the pilots included, for a big booze up to celebrate. It would have been rude to say no, not to mention detrimental to their morale.

  I wondered if they would ever see their children, some of them, I prayed earnestly, would get to see them grow up, but others, I was not a naïve person, would never see their home again, let alone their child.

  I was not normally as negative as this, but the overwhelming tide of pessimism that drowned me was having a dangerous effect on me, it was like an Albatross around my neck, a millstone, that was slowly dragging me to the darkest depths of my own mind. I tried my best to flick my mind back to the task at hand. If I could help them land safely, and in the correct place, then maybe they would have a better chance at survival and getting back to their loved ones.

  We knew the boys in our kite very well. We, like them, were new to gliders and so the majority of our training was carried out together. It was easy for us all to get along, we had all had our lives turned upside down by this war, and we were all determined to make the best of the situation that Herr Hitler had forced us all into. In some ways, we had become more like brothers since we had started training together, we had formed bonds that even some blood relatives would find it difficult to match. We knew each other’s likes and dislikes, what wound them up and what their weaknesses were. But we also knew each other’s strengths, what they would be best at when we were down on the ground and most importantly of all, that we could trust each other.

  I’d watched with pride as the boys slowly gained more confidence in the glider, to the point where they could smoke, chat and sing. The silence that now engulfed them, and us, was harrowing. It was slowly becoming like the oxygen available in the Horsa was going scarce, the few mutterings that had been winding their way around the cabin, slowly drifting out into a nothingness, as the breathing inside became more laboured, more intense.

  A few splutters from the men and the occasional creak as they shifted around was the only noise that emanated from behind me now. I began to feel tense for them, every muscle in my body cramping up slightly at the thought that within a few minutes, these boys would be in the deadly throes of combat, the slightest squeeze of a trigger all it would take for their lives to be stopped dead. I felt even worse when I suddenly remembered that I would be there with them.

  What struck me was that I hadn’t heard a single man vomit. On training, every one of them had vomited at some point or another, right up until our last training flight when the Captain regurgitated his breakfast for us all to inspect. The liquid, often watery and unsubstantial, would slosh its way over the deck of the aircraft, boots becoming soaked in the fluid, much to the disgust and annoyance of every trooper that would have to clean his boots as a consequence.

  It was as if the fear, and the feeling of looking death straight in the face, had calmed them somehow. It was a notion that was advocated by many other, more experienced NCOs, particularly one Company Sergeant-Major who had taken it upon himself to give me a pep talk a few days before we left. It was of little use to me. For me, the anticipation of combat was rather overwhelming, something that I both wanted to get stuck in to and feared.

  I thought of my father, of all those men sat in that church. They had done what was needed of them in their day, now it was time for me to do the same. I tried to conjure up some thought of what they might have said to themselves shortly before going over the top, or before they began digging out one of their mates from yet another collapsed trench tunnel, but I found it impossible. I only hoped that I would be able to summon up just enough inner strength to see me through, when the time came.

  There was so much that could go wrong with our landing, I just prayed that we had released ourselves from the bomber at the correct moment. A lot hinged on that. Our training flights, often carried out under perfect conditions, were the prime examples of how something could quite easily take a turn for the worse. Not carrying out your pre-flight checks? That one had ended up with one co-pilot killed and his pilot chucked out of the army on medical grounds, after they had ended up buried in the side of a farmhouse. Miscalculating your speed? That one had caught out almost all of us, with one or two ending up with broken bones and more than a little bit of broken pride. We had to be perfect, we simply had to.

  The pilot’s briefing before take-off had not been as encouraging as I’d hoped on the brink of a big invasion. We knew it was coming, so we were all expecting a ravishingly uplifting and encouraging speech from our commanding officer about how we were all capable of heroics, in the face of the enemy, to carry out our duty and rid this small part of the world of tyranny. It was a moment that I had found myself strangely looking forward to, one that I was hoping that we would all be united in with cheers and rousing renditions of God Save the King.

  I shuffled my grip on the controls and ignored the dryness of my mouth as I thought of what we had actually received in that tent at the side of that nondescript airstrip. It was not the rousing, Shakespearean speech that I had been expecting, but a sobering, joyless lecture on a new development that we would just have to accept.

  Wooden poles, no, large wooden spikes, were being placed around our objective in an attempt to stop us from landing there.

  I let out a sigh, sickened to the very pit of my stomach as I thought about what might happen if we were unlucky enough to strike one.

  My co-pilot and I would be the first ones to be killed as the wooden shaft pierced its way through the flimsy plywood of the glider hitting the ground at speed. The entire craft would likely be split in two as it drove its way through, decimating anyone inside. I could feel myself wincing at the thought of being hit by one, the pain completely off the scale of what was imaginable to me.

  The scene of carnage would be unbearable, I almost felt sorry for the enemy soldiers who had to clean up our mess.

  Even if we didn’t take a large spike to the face, one of the others might, and the noise alone would be enough to give away our position,
and enough to raise the alarm before our slaughter. The only real option to me, to not be killed in pain by having a wooden spike buried into my skull, or being slowly tortured and killed by an enemy soldier, was to take my revolver, and press it against one of my temples, before we even landed. It was not the first time on this flight that I had entertained the thought, and it was only because of the effect upon my witnesses that I put the idea to bed.

  The holes had been dug and ready for a few weeks now, I’d seen the photographs. I just prayed again that the stakes were not in yet. I prayed that the Germans, renowned for their engineering prowess and efficiency, had been more than just a little bit lazy when it came to the installation of the anti-glider poles.

  I’d done a lot of praying in the last two hours, as if I felt closer to God being up in the sky. I wished I had listened in those church services now, maybe He would have been nicer to me if I had done.

  Oh well, there was nothing I could do about that now.

  Wiping my brow on my lower arm, I gripped the controls tighter.

  4

  The infantry had bored me, I’m ashamed to say it, but I couldn’t stand the monotony of training runs, cleaning boots and rifle drill. There was nothing exciting about it, I wanted to be part of the war. That is what I had signed up for, it’s what we all signed up for and yet, here we were, doing the same thing, day in, day out, with no real consequence. We were all itching to get stuck in, to actually apply our training to a real combat situation. We were all quite far down the naivety scale.

  I knew I was safe where I was but the confidence I had gained from the other lads had made me want to push for more. I still kept myself to myself, but at the same time, when you’re surrounded by that many, war-ready, like-minded young lads, there is no option but to come out of your shell and become just like one of them. I joined in with most of their recreational activities, but still tried to remain somewhat distant from them, and try not to damage the reputation that I had built up with my superiors.

  I was a good soldier, in fact I’d been promoted, but I was a bored one. I’d become a robot, a man with no emotions as I continuously carried out exactly what I was told to do. We were all slowly becoming bored, agitated, and it led to more than a few divisions within the regiment. I think that was part of our problem. We had all slowly become desensitised to the war, after spending hours upon hours of dreaming about it, all of us wanted to be somewhere but Britain, somewhere where there was something really kicking off, we wanted out of the monotony.

  I’d even tried to get out of it. I’d put in a transfer request out to another regiment that was in the thick of it in North Africa. I was hauled in front of the CO who practically spat at me as he portrayed how much of a traitor I was to the regiment, but more importantly to my friends, he seemed to treat me like I had just urinated on his dead mother’s grave.

  “I wouldn’t want you to be my platoon NCO in battle,” he had hissed as I solemnly trudged out of his office.

  A few months more of utter tedium and a call went up for men to join the Glider Pilot’s Regiment, it was an opportunity that I simply had to take. I reasoned with myself that the CO would be far more willing to let me go this time, if they were actively seeking out recruits to go, surely he would have no choice but to sign the paperwork and let me leave. A few of the lads stuck their names down flippantly, like they had done with so many other pieces of paper that was bashed into the regimental noticeboard, not expecting to hear back from them again.

  I’d never flown before, but the heroics of the Spitfire pilots was well documented. I had watched in awe and amazement as newsreel after newsreel showed little specks in the sky climbing and diving, banking and rolling as they bravely hunted down the enemy planes before blasting them out of the sky. I wanted a piece of that, even if it was just a slither of the respect that those pilots got from everyone around them. I wanted those wings on my chest, that was instantly recognised by anyone in the street and that would become associated with total courage and self-sacrifice. I needed to do it.

  The feeling of floating in between the clouds, up where the sky is permanently blue, feeling the sun kiss your skin, was exactly what I wanted, what I yearned for. I wondered how similar it was to being a bird, silently floating around, seemingly with not a care in the world. I had spent hours watching the birds and marvelled at the way that they could skim through the air for a number of seconds, before having to propel themselves once again with their wings. I wondered how much like a bird a glider would be. I had no idea.

  Shortly after, I had reported for training. I had excelled at learning to fly a plane, finishing close to top while others got the dreaded ‘Return to Unit’ notice letter. I felt sick at the thought of getting that letter, I would become a social outcast, the leper of my unit. I would be hated. It was almost an equal to the ‘LMF’ letter that was used in the Air Force and used as a threat which loomed over us for the entirety of our time in the army. Lack of Moral Fibre. Not something you’d want to have to explain to your mates.

  It spurred me on further. I got on wonderfully with a plane with an engine, without an engine however, I was slightly unsure.

  I loved every minute of it in fact. That feeling as the tow rope was detached for the very first time was something that I would never forget. I had looked at my co-pilot, the fear and terror in his eyes mirrored by my own. Nevertheless, we were both elated to finally be in this position and above all else, we managed to survive that first flight.

  I was one of the first to complete my education on the training gliders and soon after, along with my co-pilot, was shipped off to an aerodrome to begin operational training.

  The first time I saw a Horsa was like the first time I kissed a girl, exhilarating, but horrifically nerve-wracking at the same time. I ogled and marvelled at it for hours before getting inside it. It was all wooden, a massive structure with the biggest flaps possible, to the point that they didn’t look like they should have been attached to the craft. The wings were huge, and they almost looked like a father who had his arms outstretched as his young child sped towards him. The proportions on it looked completely wrong and yet, it was beautiful.

  I was infatuated with the thing. The one thing I almost couldn’t bear was the fact that it would never be mine. It would belong to me momentarily as we softly descended through the sky but, after landing, it would be taken away never to be used again. In that respect, it was not like a plane at all.

  Despite that, with every craft that I clambered into, boots thumping humorously on the flimsy wooden floor, I felt an instant, and loving connection with.

  We flew countless training flights, predominantly with concrete blocks strapped to the seats that should have been occupied by soldiers. Maybe they didn’t trust us just yet. The vigorous yanking of the tow plane, before a soft detachment of the tow rope, slowly became innate in us, to the point where it was part of our lives, like going to the toilet or sitting down for a meal.

  Before long, we began to take real, living, breathing passengers. It was another one of those moments that I was slowly getting used to. I was utterly terrified, I had never been responsible for flying other people before, it was always just me and the co-pilot, but now, we were completely in control of these boys, we had their lives in our hands.

  We began to get to know people, our tug crews introduced themselves to us and we frequently went out for a drink together. We started to form real, lasting bonds with the other people that would be part of our mission, when the time came. It was crucial, we all needed to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, so that we could operate at the pinnacle of our combined abilities.

  Our boys in the back became more positive and confident with every landing, something that we were still learning. Gradually, the boys learned how to relax when they were in the back of our glider and for some, to even take it as a bit of downtime, resting their head on the man next to them and catching a few winks, or bringing a book along for the journey. Ot
hers, learned that they were able to smoke in the back of the Horsa, no matter what the official guidance had been, and on more than one occasion, someone had pulled out a mouth organ to serenade the others with, picking up a few voices along the way.

  Just as we all got used to this however, we were issued with strange, tinted goggles that we began to wear on our training landings. They turned the brilliant light of day into a strange dullness meant to be night.

  None of us dared take them off, if we were going to have to land at night, we’d need to train as close to the real thing as possible.

  Before long, we had the concrete blocks for passengers again as we came down time after time in total darkness. A potential landing at night was not something that I was comfortable with at all, how were we to get everything right if we could see next to nothing? As the weeks wore on, I felt like our officers were beginning to ask slightly too much of us.

  The training for us pilots was more rigorous than the boys in the back, I thought. We trained on our kites, in navigation, in communications and also as a light infantry soldier. None of us complained though, we had signed up for it, this is what we had wanted. Every single one of us in the GPR were driven, hardworking individuals and the intense training and fitness regimen suited us all down to the ground. We weren’t going to give this opportunity up. We had a tough time, but we were the celebrities on base.