After completing his A levels in September 1944, my father hoped to join the RAF and went for an interview. Unfortunately he was colour blind so didn’t make the grade. He was conscripted into the Army Infantry. Because he could differentiate between red and green he was later accepted by the RAF selection board as a second pilot in the Glider Regiment.
He received his pilot’s licence flying a Tiger Moth, a 1930’s British built biplane primarily used for this purpose. By this time it was 1945 and the war was nearing an end. He was made a Sergeant and became a flying instructor. My brother has his log book which showed him flying a number of gliders. The Horsa, which could carry 28 troops and the Hotspur, mainly used for training pilots, were among those documented. From 1946 to 1948 my father was in Germany but spoke very little about these years.
Unlike today, gliders were towed by military transport planes. Once released, they were left to land at an agreed rendezvous with, hopefully, as little damage to crew and cargo as possible. Most landing zones were less than ideal! Gliders were seen to be semi-expendable so were built with common and inexpensive materials. Glider pilots must have been very brave, helped by the fact that they were all young men, fearless and invincible!
One day my father was training a young, cocky Lieutenant from Sandhurst who thought he knew best. Not listening to instructions he performed a manoeuvre which went disastrously wrong. My father subsequently suffered back problems for the rest of his life, worsening as he got older.
On Christmas Eve, 1945, my father was guarding a number of prisoners, German officers, who were returning from working on the land. Over time my father had built up a good relationship with them. They were just the same as any young man, he’d said, with the same hopes and dreams. It was not their war! They were conscripts, just like he had been.
Walking past the officer’s mess that evening, a number of soldiers saw the prisoners being taken back to their quarters. They invited them in for a drink. At first they refused but my father encouraged them inside. The prisoners were obviously uncomfortable, standing huddled together, a distance away from the others. Pints of beer were poured but they didn’t immediately move to the bar. One of them told my father that they wanted to earn their drink and, quietly at first, they started singing ‘Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht’’. A hush fell over the room as the British soldiers stopped talking and stood, transfixed, throughout the singing of the carol.
Silence remained once the singing had stopped. The British soldiers were obviously moved, some wiping their eyes. First one and then more of them went up to the prisoners and shook their hands. The Germans drank their beers and left, as quietly as they had arrived. The frivolity in the mess remained dampened for the rest of the evening.
Once more we are approaching Remembrance Day. We need to show our gratitude to all those young men and women who selflessly were prepared to lay down their lives for their country. Our armed forces continue to protect us and the least we can do is give them our support. Please buy a poppy this year and take a few minutes out of your busy lives to think of them. Thank them all for the sacrifices they made and continue to make so that we can live in peace.
Jenny Burrell 