Duty with Honour: the Story of a Young Canadian with Bomber Command in the Second World War: The Story of a Young Canadian with Bomber Command in the Second World War

By Elizabeth A. Reynolds

The role of Bomber Command in World War II has been hotly debated over the years. Whatever one may think about the effectiveness and morality of the overall strategy, it is difficult to question the commitment of the individual airmen. Bomber Command suffered the greatest loss per capita of all the Allied forces, experiencing a 63 per cent casualty rate. At one point during the war a navigator could expect to survive fewer than 12 bombing operations.
Duty With Honour is the story of one young navigator who served in the Royal Canadian Air Force, from 1940-1945. Flight Lieutenant Lindsay Reynolds completed a tour of operations in the Middle East and returned home in 1943 to instruct in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan in Canada. This is the story of the impact of his experiences in a time of war, on the life he lived when World War II was over. It is a story of one mans commitment to duty with honour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453563823

Elizabeth A. Reynolds

Elizabeth Reynolds is an amateur historian of the First and Second World Wars. She loves to read biographies and memoirs of the men who did the fighting, and tramping through the old battlefields of France and Belgium. She came by her love of history through the influence of her father, Lindsay Reynolds, who was also an amateur historian.

Book preview

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FORWARD

EARLY YEARS

CANADA ON THE EVE OF WAR

A PERSONAL DECISION TO ENLIST

THE MAKING OF AN AIRMAN

THE MAKING OF AN OBSERVER

OVERSEAS

OPERATIONS

BACK TO SCHOOL

GETTING ON WITH LIFE

APPENDIX A

NOTES ON CHAPTERS

__________________________________

Where can I go from your Spirit?

         Where can I flee from your

                presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are

              there;

if I make my bed in the depths

           you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

        if I settle on the far side of the

           Sea,

even there your hand will guide

            me,

Your right hand will hold me

               fast.

Psalm 139:7-10

__________________________________

To Sarah, Matthew, Naomi, Jonathan,

Joshua, Nathan, Rebecca, and Jennifer

Your grandfather embodied the principle

of duty with honour in his time.

May his example inspire the principles

by which you live—in your time

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, my gratitude goes to my father, the late Herbert Lindsay Cochrane Reynolds, whose life, and courage in sharing his memories, some of them painful, inspired and made this book possible. Writing about this man that I knew simply as Dad has been a labour of love for me.

Many thanks to my friend Howard Holloway: a D-Day veteran who served with the First Canadian Parachute Battalion in World War II. His presence and his story continue to foster a living connection to the men who took on that Great Challenge, and continue to take on the challenges of painful memories and failing health. Howard is a very welcome reminder to me that theirs are the stories of men and of human emotions, and not just of strategies and of battles.

I am grateful to Scott Knight, a pilot with Jazz airlines, who helped me understand the technical aspects of my father’s first operation. What I know about flying can be found in the Online Mall magazine found in the cabin of most commercial aircraft. Without his assistance I would not have been able to describe that first flight adequately. If the reader can understand that dramatic night, I owe it all to Scott. If not, I take full responsibility.

Good friends Marie and Orville Cook graciously took on the task of reading and editing much of the first half of the manuscript before a serious accident and the recovery process demanded their energies. Their comments and questions helped me to see the material through the eyes of someone who was unfamiliar with most of its content. I am grateful for the way in which they encouraged me to tackle this project, and persevere along the way. They have been such an encouragement with so many of my projects, and I am very blessed by their friendship. My life-long friend Carol Arkell Rourke read and read and read again the several drafts, correcting sentence structure and typographical errors. Our parents were the best of friends from the time Dad returned from overseas in 1943 and throughout their lives. We six girls grew up together, and she knew Dad as Uncle Lindsay. Her interest in the material, and her support and encouragement along the way has meant so much to me. These dear friends of mine, none of whom have my obsession with history, encouraged me to believe that this bit of history was worth the read. Only good friends would agree to such an undertaking without hope of compensation.

My family has helped in the writing of this book in several ways. I am grateful to my late uncle, Arnold Reynolds, who preserved his brother’s letters for sixty-five years. Until the discovery of my father’s letters to my mother, my uncle’s letters were all that we had in Dad’s own words. They were a large part of the impetus for the writing of his story. Judy Gooch Reynolds inspired me to write my father’s story through her own unpublished work on the family heritage of Arnold and Lindsay Reynolds. When Arnold Reynolds, her father-in-law and my uncle passed away in 2004 she took on the overwhelming task of sifting through sixty-five years of letters and papers, and the family tree that had been prepared by my father. From that came an insightful narrative of the Reynolds family. The strength of her work is in the telling of the individual stories. Hers is a truly outstanding gift to our family. I am grateful to her for all she has done, and continues to do in archiving family papers. My sisters Roberta, Margaret, and Barbara have encouraged me to record my memories, and provided their own memories of Dad’s stories. Margaret read my very first attempt at putting something on paper and offered constructive suggestions.

Finally, I offer my heart-felt gratitude to my mother Jean Patricia Hull Reynolds who not only read the draft of this book, offering her memories and suggestions, but who also faithfully keeps my fathers memory alive. Mum and Dad played together as young children and forged a life together as adults. She was a most faithful source of support and encouragement to him throughout the war, providing a secure attachment to life and relationships at home. When he returned from overseas in 1943 they began a journey together that would last for sixty-two years. Since his passing in 2005, she has amazed me by modelling for all who know her that as we become more physically frail, we can continue to grow in gentleness and strength, in faith and grace, and in joy and contentment. Thank you Mum for your encouragement and example.

FORWARD

It is very fitting that those who rest in nameless graves should be remembered in this place. For it was in these fields of Runnymede seven centuries ago that our forefathers first planted a seed of liberty which helped to spread across the earth the conviction that man should be free and not enslaved. And when the life of this belief was threatened by the iron hand of tyranny, their successors came forward without hesitation to fight and, if it was demanded of them, to die for its salvation . . . As only free men can, they knew the value of that for which they fought, and that the price was worth paying.

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, at the dedication of

The Air Forces Memorial at Runnymede, October 17, 1953

One of my earliest memories is of an old black trunk downstairs behind the furnace, next to my father’s work bench. To me, the trunk was a mystery. I had never seen its contents, nor had they been described to me, and yet I knew that they had significance to my dad. On one occasion I asked him about it, and was simply told that it was of no interest to me. One day after school I remember trying to open the trunk and discovering that it was locked. This only served to heighten a curiosity in me that was gradually satisfied over a period of decades.

In 1966 the family moved a second time from Montreal to Toronto, and the old trunk moved with us. It was again placed downstairs by Dad’s work bench. Sometime between the move and Halloween of that year, after much urging on my part, the trunk was opened in my presence, and this time, Dad took out a couple of the contents and allowed me to examine them. I held in my hands an old, yellowed, musty smelling gas mask and an equally old and smelly water canteen or flask, as he called it. He put the gas mask on me and explained how it worked. He told me that these things were some of his gear during the war. At the time, he was in his mid forties, a strong and capable man, but still in his forties. It was hard for me as a child to think of him as a young airman making history, but his gear sure helped. I felt a great deal of admiration for him in that moment. I was also conscious for the first time that I didn’t know everything there was to know about my dad, that there was some mystery about him. Later I asked if I might use the gas mask as part of my Halloween costume. After much begging, pleading, and promises on my part, and strict instructions on his, he agreed to allow me to wear it out trick-or-treating. The moment I arrived back home with my candy, the old gas mask was retrieved and immediately returned to the trunk, where it was locked away for another long period of time.

Dad and Mum cashed in an insurance policy in 1968, and used the money to take the family on a tour of the United Kingdom. Dad spent hundreds of hours, working late at night and into the early morning hours, preparing an itinerary and guide book for our trip. He was the ultimate tour guide, succeeding in keeping five females focused on the tour and out of the shops. I remember only two exceptions when he seemed less of a guide. The first was while looking for the remains of an old airbase he was stationed at for a period of time in 1942. There was little remaining except for the overgrown runway that extended to the edge of a cliff which overlooked the English Channel.

He gave very little explanation as to what we were looking for, or at. The second incident was while visiting the Air Forces Memorial at Runnymede. It is a beautiful memorial, overlooking the Thames and the riverside meadow where Magna Carta, enshrining man’s basic freedoms under law, was sealed by King John in 1215. Engraved on its stone walls are the names of more than twenty thousand airmen of the Commonwealth who were lost in operations from bases in the United Kingdom and North Western Europe, and whose bodies were never found. On that visit, Dad became quiet and withdrawn as he walked around, mostly alone, looking up and down the walls for the names of men he had known. This mood remained with him for several hours before he was again our enthusiastic and engaged tour guide.

Every Remembrance Day at 11:00 a.m. he could be found at the Cenotaph. He never made a big deal of going, he just went. He didn’t speak about his war experiences, nor did he encourage our questions. That part of his life seemed to be off limits except for the very occasional light-hearted remark in response to being questioned about it. As my sisters and I matured we asked more questions, but essentially what I knew was that he had served in the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) as a navigator in a Wellington bomber crew, and later I learned that he had served in Europe and North Africa. In response to my excited question as to whether he had bombed Germans I got a simple yes and that was it. He had very little to say about what must have been the most exciting time of his life.

Dad loved and lived for his family. He fixed our toys and occasionally made them. He doctored our wounds and taught us about anatomy. He was glad to have me hang out with him and taught me so many things. He was the ultimate handyman and builder, and he even taught me how to mix and lay cement. He took me deep sea fishing because I wanted to go, even though it made him sick. He took me target shooting, something he no doubt preferred to deep sea fishing. He put the butterfly (bee), that I captured and brought indoors, out of its misery. Dad buried our pets and threatened us with severe consequences if we attempted to dig them up. He helped us with our homework and loved to work on our science projects with us. He was patient with our questions and impatient with our recklessness; his expectations of us were high yet he came to our rescue when we failed. He modelled forgiveness. He was pessimistic yet had a wonderful sense of humour. As children, he took us on picnics, and on recreational and educational trips and vacations. He gave himself to his family. I never doubted that we were his first priority. He was smart and humble, gentle and strong; strict yet fair in discipline, doting yet somewhat distant. He showed grace to others while finding it difficult to receive grace. His harsh words for his children were extremely rare, and I never heard him say a harsh word to my mother. He cared for his family in every way he knew how.

As the years went by there were more hints of what he had been through during the war. Suddenly a large photograph of a group of Vickers Wellingtons in flight appeared on the wall behind his desk at home. Then an old black and white photograph of someone he knew in the war found a home on his bookcase. He didn’t point them out; they were just there. Eventually, the old trunk was opened for the grandchildren, and each of his grandsons was given the opportunity to try on Grandpa’s uniform and gear. We were shown his Flying Log book and some maps printed on silk, and learned that these maps were sewn into the lining of his uniform to be used in the event that he was shot down over enemy territory. The old trunk had been set free.

After he retired from Shell Canada, Mum and I decided to surprise him with an assortment of some of his smaller war memorabilia mounted and framed. We went to the old trunk and gathered from his uniform: stripes, cap badge, and buttons. We applied to Veterans Affairs Canada for the medals he had earned, but not received. These medals, his Operational Wings and his official officer’s photograph were included. Excited and anticipating his delight, we presented the gift to him on his birthday. His response was confusing; in fact, there was no reaction, and he said little, leaving us feeling very disappointed. Later we learned that he was embarrassed and did not want to hang such a thing where others might see it. However, what had caused him the greatest consternation was that his uniform had been desecrated. We lacked the insight to realize that despite the fact that it had been locked away and he had not put it on in nearly fifty years, the uniform ought always to be revered and treated with the utmost respect. He forgave us, as he was prone to do, but he was never reconciled to what we had done to his uniform.

In the early 1990’s I gave Dad the book: They Shall Grow Not Old: A Book of Remembrance, published by the Commonwealth Air Training Plan Museum. It contains a short account of the deaths of the more than 18,000 airmen, airwomen, and other nationals wearing the uniform of the RCAF, who lost their lives in the Second World War. I noticed how he cherished that book, writing notes in the margins and marking the names of the many men he personally knew who had given their lives in the cause of freedom. On a separate sheet of paper he started a list of some of those names, getting only as far as the letter C; already the list contained thirty-eight names. Observing his interest, I began searching out books and articles that might tell me something about Bomber Command in North Africa, and specifically his war experience.

I was shocked to learn at what cost the successes of Bomber Command were purchased. In fact, Bomber Command experienced significantly more casualties per capita than any other branch of the Allied Forces. Of the 125,000 airmen who flew with Bomber Command 55,000 were killed, 8,400 were wounded, and more than 9,800 were captured. Bomber Command experienced a 63 per cent casualty rate! The odds were heavily against an airman finishing a tour of operations. At one point during the war the life expectancy of a navigator was less than twelve bombing operations. Among the survivors was hardly a man whose plane had not been hit by enemy fire on at least one occasion.

I found that the bookshelves of libraries and retail outlets contain an adequate selection of biographies of the pilots of Bomber Command. They are truly worthy of recognition, but to my disappointment, I discovered that they tend to receive the majority of attention and glory, to the exclusion of the other brave members of the aircrew. It was therefore, a great deal more challenging to find information about the experiences of a navigator, but perseverance paid off and I was eventually rewarded. After reading a book or article I passed it on to Dad, using it to coax some memories from him. One book in particular sparked a flood of memories: In For a Penny, In For a Pound, by Howard Hewer, a wireless operator with Bomber Command. As I was reading a section of the book to Dad his bright blue eyes suddenly twinkled and he exclaimed, I was on that convoy! What a wonderful evening it was, listening to his stories.

As my knowledge and interest grew, his willingness to reminisce grew with it. Following his heart bi-pass surgery in 1996 he allowed me to probe a little deeper, and as a result I have many memories of times of sitting at his feet. Those were precious moments for me, learning about my father as a vibrant young man in the prime of life, facing fear and hardship, and growing in the midst of it. I am so grateful for those special times with him, and I cherish the memories.

I watched my father perform his sacred duty in the laying of a wreath on behalf of the World War II Canadian Forces units at the groundbreaking of the Juno Beach Centre in Courseulle-sur-Mer, France on June 6, 2002. That morning he arose early, and meticulously prepared himself for the occasion. He dressed in freshly pressed grey pants, navy blue jacket and grey-blue shirt with an RCAF tie. Proudly sewn onto his jacket was the RCAF insignia. Great effort went into arranging his air force ribbons on his jacket lapel. He insisted that they be perfectly and evenly lined up. As my eighty-two year old father marched to the podium, reverently placed the wreath, and then stood perfectly at attention I got a glimpse of the strong, young and energetic airman of sixty years earlier. I believe Ted Davies, Director of the Juno Beach Centre Project did also, as he respectfully squeezed Dad’s arm on his way back to his seat. Later in the year, I read his 2002 Remembrance Day Address given in the Scarborough senior’s complex where he lived. True to form, he was uncomfortable talking publicly about the sacrifices of his generation; that would draw attention to himself. Instead he spoke about the sacrifices of the previous generation in the First World War.

After the trip to France and Belgium in 2002 he shared experiences with me that went