Today marks the 70th anniversary of the Blitz. Naturally, and quite rightly, the Beeb has been mentioning it at every available opportunity. I'm actually really glad they have, because - thanks to the oh-so-reliable One Show - I have learnt something. Apparently, there is no official memorial to the brave men of Bomber Command.
Just think about that for a teeny, tiny second, please. These young men, over half of whom never returned home, were flying deep into enemy territory and, although we can look back with the luxury of the distance of years and some safety and shudder at the terrible bombings of Dresden, Berlin and the rest, they were only following orders. Just because Churchill himself distanced himself from his own commands at the end of the war (kinda ruins the 'saint Winston' image otherwise), the memories of the fallen shouldn't have to suffer; nor should the quiet heroism of the survivors be allowed to slide into obscurity. Apparently, a memorial to the dead of Bomber Command has been given the go-ahead this year - at long last. So as we look back at the heroism and stoicism of the British people during the Blitz - not just in London but all over the country - and at the daring-do of the pilots of the Battle of Britain, let's not forget the quiet men, the forgotten heroes. Their bravery and sacrifice must not be allowed to be swept under the carpet any more. Let us shout from the very rooftops of St Paul's - this was their finest hour, so here's to the Boys of Bomber Command!!
And of course whenever I think about the RAF and the Second World War, there are two family stories that always spring to mind. The first is that of my beloved Great-Auntie Rose, who tragically passed away last year. I loved my Auntie Rosie; she had an absolutely shocking life until she met my Great-Uncle Ron and the rest of his family, but it never made her bitter or resentful. She really was one of life's truly sweet and gentle people and I completely adored her. That said, we did always have a giggle over some of her exploits - her sense of humour was legendary within the family, and she once joked that she was going to get a motorbility scooter "so she could come down and see us". The thought of her bombing down the M25 on her scooter simultaneously made me shriek with laughter and want to warn the traffic police! During the war, while my Uncle Ronnie was was away fighting, Auntie Rosie worked in a factory making Spitfires, and the family always joked that it was amazing we managed to win the Battle of Britain with Rosie making the planes!!
The second family story is the one that makes me fiercely proud of my ancestors, and also goes someway perhaps to explaining my own personality. According to the story, my great-grandmother was walking home one day when one of the Luftwaffe's finest Doodlebug's flew overhead. Never one to back down from a challenge, Great Granny brandished her umbrella in a particularly menacing manner, shook it in her clenched fist at the departing German drone and shouted, "come on then, you buggers!!!" Great Granny versus the Luftwaffe? Please, no contest. If Churchill had sent some of the women of my family in to Germany, Hitler would have whimpered and rolled over within a matter of weeks. You don't mess with my bloodline...
That said, I now need to go in search of a Galadriel dress. My beloved Baby Forumbat and adopted daughter Gemma turns 18 in November, and is having a fancy dress party to celebrate. We all have to go dressed as something beginning with G. Owen is going as Gimli, from Lord of the Rings, and Ryan is going as Gandalf. When I heard that, I immediately dismissed all thoughts of 'gerbils' and 'gooseberries' from my mind and announced I would go as Galadriel. Cue much excitement from the others, and much scratching of my own fair head as to how and where I can transform myself into the luminous Cate Blanchett in two months.
Maybe I should go as a germ after all...
Just think about that for a teeny, tiny second, please. These young men, over half of whom never returned home, were flying deep into enemy territory and, although we can look back with the luxury of the distance of years and some safety and shudder at the terrible bombings of Dresden, Berlin and the rest, they were only following orders. Just because Churchill himself distanced himself from his own commands at the end of the war (kinda ruins the 'saint Winston' image otherwise), the memories of the fallen shouldn't have to suffer; nor should the quiet heroism of the survivors be allowed to slide into obscurity. Apparently, a memorial to the dead of Bomber Command has been given the go-ahead this year - at long last. So as we look back at the heroism and stoicism of the British people during the Blitz - not just in London but all over the country - and at the daring-do of the pilots of the Battle of Britain, let's not forget the quiet men, the forgotten heroes. Their bravery and sacrifice must not be allowed to be swept under the carpet any more. Let us shout from the very rooftops of St Paul's - this was their finest hour, so here's to the Boys of Bomber Command!!
And of course whenever I think about the RAF and the Second World War, there are two family stories that always spring to mind. The first is that of my beloved Great-Auntie Rose, who tragically passed away last year. I loved my Auntie Rosie; she had an absolutely shocking life until she met my Great-Uncle Ron and the rest of his family, but it never made her bitter or resentful. She really was one of life's truly sweet and gentle people and I completely adored her. That said, we did always have a giggle over some of her exploits - her sense of humour was legendary within the family, and she once joked that she was going to get a motorbility scooter "so she could come down and see us". The thought of her bombing down the M25 on her scooter simultaneously made me shriek with laughter and want to warn the traffic police! During the war, while my Uncle Ronnie was was away fighting, Auntie Rosie worked in a factory making Spitfires, and the family always joked that it was amazing we managed to win the Battle of Britain with Rosie making the planes!!
The second family story is the one that makes me fiercely proud of my ancestors, and also goes someway perhaps to explaining my own personality. According to the story, my great-grandmother was walking home one day when one of the Luftwaffe's finest Doodlebug's flew overhead. Never one to back down from a challenge, Great Granny brandished her umbrella in a particularly menacing manner, shook it in her clenched fist at the departing German drone and shouted, "come on then, you buggers!!!" Great Granny versus the Luftwaffe? Please, no contest. If Churchill had sent some of the women of my family in to Germany, Hitler would have whimpered and rolled over within a matter of weeks. You don't mess with my bloodline...
That said, I now need to go in search of a Galadriel dress. My beloved Baby Forumbat and adopted daughter Gemma turns 18 in November, and is having a fancy dress party to celebrate. We all have to go dressed as something beginning with G. Owen is going as Gimli, from Lord of the Rings, and Ryan is going as Gandalf. When I heard that, I immediately dismissed all thoughts of 'gerbils' and 'gooseberries' from my mind and announced I would go as Galadriel. Cue much excitement from the others, and much scratching of my own fair head as to how and where I can transform myself into the luminous Cate Blanchett in two months.
Maybe I should go as a germ after all...
1 comment:
While I disagree with some of the decisions and some bombings are borderline war crimes. These pilots and crews were working there arses off and providing a role which the war required and though some orders were stupid - how much does firebombing civilians really gain? - the crews did there job great and without them the war may have been different.
Next time you're up this way we'll take you to pathfinder house where a lot of the bombing runs were planned. It's not much to look at but the role in the war was vital.
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