I'm a man, yes, I am... war hardened skeptic

 

This is the last entry I have transcribed from my father's wartime journal that has a definite date. There are some scraps of paper in between the pages that I will endeavour to decipher too...

Entry 10 - February 18th

Four and a half years ago when I first learnt that I was about to join White's, that career was shrouded in absolute mystery. Around it I wove a veil of romance. Three days in the drawing room office shattered the romance and broke my illusions, but, reviewing, in retrospect, those three and a half years once more I can feel the deeper feeling of respect for those traditions and institutions which have their basis in the office.

I can still remember that first whiff, a turgid, musty smell of old plans and papers along with unchanged air that came insidiously up the strongroom stairs as I watched Ginger, on my first morning there, open up the vault. I recall vividly the cricket and darts in the strongroom. The battles with paper pellets; being browned; holiday anticipation. All those things, which, at the time, seemed small and absurd but now contain, for me, a deeper meaning.

Personalities, too, return. The dominant, to us, tyrannous, Mr. Parker. The way he stalked in at 8:20am breaking up the happy era of mutual conversation with a brisk 'Good morning'. The way he turned round, resting on one elbow, to glare at some offender too long away from his board. Bill going in imperturbably, conscious, perhaps, only of his house, wide, garden and motorbike. Edgar: completely subservient to and docile under the pressing influence of the job in hand. The meticulous care of John Beasley, who talked French to me. Those fellows who worked because they were interested and keen and those who worked because it was the easiest solution of an unconquerable difficulty.

The atmosphere. The difference in the medium of the upper and lower offices. The sun and glazed cloth; drawn blinds and the upsetting of inkwells. The 'bog' with its pungent arcid aroma of stale tobacco pervading all other, probably more obnoxious, smells.

All these impressions and many more, too intangible and indefinite to be committed to paper, flash across my mind when I, in a new sphere, climb into flying clothes and parachute harness. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to the Drawing Office, the men and boys there for turning me from a callow youth into manhood. Now alienated from its environment I can judge its true merits with the ability that only complete detachment can competently give it.

It is indeed strange that two out of the triumvirate that held the lowest positions in the office in Aug '36 should have been failures, Ginger and myself (I wonder what happened to Ginger?). However, if I have failed Whites, Whites has not failed me for which I am grateful. It was inevitable I neither had the hereditary nor the environment which would have allowed me to be a success. Initially I was an outsider and an outsider I would have remained.

It has been indeed fortunate that I held no illusions concerning the Air Force. I never held any brief for the Services and never shall, but I firmly believe that while Whites made a man of me all the Services could add was the hardening, servility and scepticism necessary to face any eventuality the future might hold.

I value all those past associations with the whole office which now forms such lucrative food for thought.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Index to the journal:

• January 7th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day one
• January 8th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day two
• January 9th 1941 - Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• January 10th 1941 - Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books
• January 12th 1941 - ww2 training 1941 - what is the meaning of life?
• January 13th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day six
• January 20th 1941 - ww2 Aircrew training - the eternal questions
• February 2nd 1941 - World War 2 aircrew training - ideas and ideals
• February 9th 1941 - From J Samuel White's to Wellington Bomber...
• October 10th 1941 - Wellington Bomber raid October 1941
• November 11th 1941 - Armistice Day reflection - to end all wars

From J Samuel White's to Wellington Bomber...

Picture from Bartie's Postcards

In this entry in my father's wartime journal dad remembers the start of his working day and some of the personnel at J. Samuel White & Co, shipbuilders on the Isle of Wight.

Entry 9 - February 9th

Today we have been flying. As I pulled on my flying boots and Mae West through my mind flew retrospective thoughts of home. I imagined myself back at work. Nine o'clock a busier hum would settle over the office. The late arrivals, drawing off their coats, would break into spasmodic chatter with their bench mates, leavened with chaff. Then Mr Parker arrives, briskly throwing out 'good mornings' on either side. Les and I would break up our huddle and with a sigh return to the common basis of work. Others, watching the censorious glance of Mr Parker, would carefully fold their 'Telegraphs' or 'Mirrors', according to age or taste, and emerge from their day dreams, dropping their castellated visions to grapple once more with reality. By the time Mr Brading arrives another day has begun.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Index to the journal:

• January 7th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day one
• January 8th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day two
• January 9th 1941 - Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• January 10th 1941 - Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books
• January 12th 1941 - ww2 training 1941 - what is the meaning of life?
• January 13th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day six
• January 20th 1941 - ww2 Aircrew training - the eternal questions
• February 2nd 1941 - World War 2 aircrew training - ideas and ideals
• October 10th 1941 - Wellington Bomber raid October 1941
• November 11th 1941 - Armistice Day reflection - to end all wars

Armistice Day reflection - to end all wars...

Written November 11th 1941

Twenty three years ago today an armistice was signed terminating the war to end wars. This wearying battle had, during its four years course, drawn in practically the whole globe, each nation state sending the best of their youths to die an ignoble and ignominious death. Today we normally hold a commemoration service for those “glorious” dead. But now, for the last twenty six months, the whole of Europe has been struggling in sordid strife once more to end wars for ever. Today the flower of our youth is again expiating the follies of age by their blood and their lives.

It behoves us to examine the positives. Whereas in 1918 we had won the war, today we are faced with the far greater part of our struggle before us. Yet, perhaps looking, we are potentially in a better situation. In 1918 having won the war we finally lost the peace by inaction, our lack of foresight and our unwillingness to cope with reality. Briefly the results of the overwhelming fatigue which follow the strenuous activity of the war. Then we settled down to enjoy a millennium, an everlasting peace which, as day succeeded day month following, gradually seemed to fade until perhaps some 15 years (on) we slowly realised that the dawning of the long looked for day had yet again receded into the dim and distant future.

Today, however, we must realise that without action, without our own individual effort, that peace will never come. The position we found ourselves in 1938 was not due to any economical principles, it was not the result of our Labour governments, the General Strike, or the (banking) collapse in 1931, or disarmament or the Versailles Treaty. No, it was a result of our own “laissez faire” policy with regard to our individual effort. However small our intellectual stature may be, we are fundamentally the basis by which not only the domestic policy but the foreign policy of our government is determined. Many people infer that policies do not include them, they leave such things to parliament, forgetting that they control the mandate which determines the future outlook of all parliaments.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

World War 2 aircrew training - ideas and ideals

• January 7th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day one
• January 8th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day two
• January 9th 1941 - Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• January 10th 1941 - Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books
• January 12th 1941 - ww2 training 1941 - what is the meaning of life?
• January 13th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day six
• January 20th 1941 - ww2 Aircrew training - the eternal questions
• October 10th 1941 - Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 8 - February 2nd

It is a pity that man should be born containing the essence of genius and yet be inarticulate. Cannot we find means of expression to convey our ideas and ideals, our visions and our dreams to the rest of the community? Within the soul of every man are conceptions of beauty and vivid ideals and yet, for the greater part, we fail to set them forth to the world in all their glory. This failure leads to the suppression of our better instincts and our outward actions, frustrated and repressed, bear hatred, recrimination and evil. Thus, although my literacy limits the horizon of my intelligence I have endeavoured to reveal, perhaps haltingly and ineffectually, those ideas and ideals emanating from the soul that God gave me.

Consideration must be given to the fact that the spiritual and material sides of man dovetail together and co-mingle. It is a fact that we must recognise. God must be given His place in our material sphere as well as in the abstract. Contentment and happiness for all must be aimed at, since it is only in obtaining this materially that we shall be able to provide the basis of a spiritual unity.

God's place in the war is marked and a definite one. The war, ostentatiously, is one between nation states as such and yet, beneath the surface, on closer examination, it bears the marks of a new and international campaign for freedom of body, mind and spirit. The struggle for the survival of Christianity. In the light of this it behoves us to take stock of our own position and see where we stand. Essentially we all must have some spiritual conception of its outcome.

Christianity teaches us the brotherhood of man. This brotherhood, or fraternity, must; when we have defeated the narrow nationalistic outlooks of Nazism and Fascism and these tendencies within our own country; be extended to all irrespective of their previous tenets or beliefs. Although this war was thrust on us by Nazism and Fascism thwarting our vested interests we must remember that those very interests originally supported and encouraged these ideologies which now wish to destroy them. Thus it would seem that even within this state there are some that will wish to maintain the original structure of society and (the original) national sovereignty. We have to struggle within the state for recognition and acceptance of these views which, I believe, are in accordance with Christ. In that will lie our victory. “Forbearing one another, forgiving one another”. We shall achieve peace at heart and a unity not only of the nation but of all the forces that are struggling with us at the present moment and a unity with all those who, all over the world, have faith in freedom, liberalism and God.

This policy entails the acceptance of Germans as our brothers and equals. Although this war was originally directed against the “Nazi Government” many have lost sight of this including, perhaps, our present government and bear an active, living hatred for the German individual. Whatever happens this will not do as it is a direct denial of all Christian thought. It is futile to imagine that we can partially accept so much of the faith as suits our purpose. We must be wholeheartedly for or against. If we are against Christianity we may as well cease fighting, for true liberty and true freedom will never be obtained without a living conception of Christ. The German Nazi must be treated as suffering from a delusion and this delusion rendered harmless.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

ww2 Aircrew training - the eternal questions

The seventh entry in my father's wartime journal which suggests we need to put hope in God for answers to recover from the desperate situation of being at war. Previous posts include:

• January 7th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day one
• January 8th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day two
• January 9th 1941 - Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• January 10th 1941 - Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books
• January 12th 1941 - ww2 training 1941 - what is the meaning of life?
• January 13th 1941 - World War Two aircrew training day six
• October 10th 1941 - Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 7 - January 20th

Living as we do, in these difficult times from day to day, it is exceedingly difficult to express concisely our more intimate thoughts on divine relations. There is also the feeling that our true spiritual development has been rudely interrupted by the shattering of our former environment. Nevertheless, in this undeveloped state we seem to be in closer contact with spiritual affairs.

Hitherto life in this emergency has been devoid of meaning and completely empty. Our spirit confined to the narrow realms of our body has no real outlet for expression. We all have high ideals, great ambitions, cherish beauty and dream of love, but our ideals are dissipated, our ambitions broken, beauty banished and dreams fade at dawn. This world is corrupt and lecherous, it destroys the most humble of our hopes and leaves us with nothing save the ashes of despair.

Thus frustrated, humiliated and disillusioned there is one only to whom we can turn and He is God. Perhaps man has flattered himself by imagining that he was made after God's own image. I have neither the desire or the requisite knowledge to even express an opinion, but I know that I have within me something that is immortal and gives me, as it does to everyone, my own individuality.

I hold no brief for any established form or creed of religion. Cant, hypocrisy and symbolism have destroyed the fundamental true beliefs and today there exists but an empty, hollow mockery of worship, the blind leading the blind. We need no advocate to plead our cause, we need no mediator to approach God for our very life, our existence is a living prayer and suppliant for help, guidance and assistance.

To those who may survive there is only one course open to them. That is, to supercede our present system by a scheme of things that will provide posterity, not only with material freedom and expression but spiritual expression as well. We are no longer fighting for our King, our country, our Empire or our capitalists, but we are fighting for a people, we are fighting for humanity. We are striving for spiritual expression. It is a fight to establish a basis for a new renaissance, a creation of an island of sanity, a rock on which we may build a new living edifice to honour God.

For us, however, there is nothing left to live for. We have given up our jobs, our homes, our freedom and now we are prepared to sacrifice even our lives in the sacred cause of humanity. So today I can view the machinations of my body with complete detachment. I can achieve nothing. Collectively and individually we are failures but there is still hope!

Tomorrow we live. Shedding this earthly shell which has surrounded, enmeshed and frustrated us, we shall survive and emerge into a sphere of happiness having, at last, attained our full individual, spiritual expression. For God shall wipe all tears from our eyes and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor sadness, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things have passed away!

In the light of this, death can hold no terrors for us, it is our deliverance and the salvation of humanity. We know that whatever may mar our memory here it cannot sear our souls. There is no fear however much our bodies may wish to evade the issue. Tomorrow, we too, shall live.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

ww2 training 1941 - what is the meaning of life?

 

The fifth entry in my father's wartime journal which questions our very existence. Previous posts include:

• World War Two aircrew training day one
• World War Two aircrew training day two
• Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books
• World War Two aircrew training day six
• Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 5 - January 12th

After a very enjoyable weekend in Oxford we have returned to service life. A thought left undeveloped or expanded in the streets of Oxford has recurred, it is namely, what are human beings, what is the reason for their existence? What is the meaning of life?

It seems a very empty and worthless existence to plod wearily through this scheme of things, in our allotted places, for nearly seventy years and then finish. Why should men have ambition? What is power worth? Which, when obtained, has to be left after our short course has been run. Why should we have evolved throughout aeons of time a complicated and intricate system of legislative and executive government and now arrived no nearer the seat of universal happiness?

Why do we live? If it is that we are here to prepare ourselves for an eternity with or without God, why do we trouble to procreate our species? Is there any value to life? It is an involved and colossal question. It involves, perhaps, the admission that up to the present time the whole human race can be accounted as a drastic and unfortunate failure and, in our past and in our future, if the present state of affairs is allowed to continue, there is not one ray of hope or illuminated feature that has, in any way, ameliorated or alleviated the race as an indivisible whole.

But, if other men have failed, why should we? Standing as we do on the brink of the dark abyss of annihilation, it is up to us to, at least, attempt to formulate some sound theory as to the purpose of live and to achieve a basis whereby we can conform to those standards of life.

It would appear, to a reasoning man, that the purpose of life would be to achieve happiness. Happiness, however, is a very loose term. Happiness, perhaps, might be found more often in a garret than in a palace and yet I doubt whether we can achieve universal happiness by getting everyone in a garret.

What, then, does happiness consist of? Man's life probably falls into three spheres: his work, his leisure and his pro-generation. Firstly, therefore, man must be allowed full expression of his genius, or talents, in whatever direction his genius, or talent, tends to take. Secondly his leisure, or recreation, must be considered; artistically, spiritually and physically. He must be allowed sufficient time to devote to his leisure and given the capability for full, fundamental enjoyment. Thirdly comes his family responsibilities, to which, naturally enough, a certain amount of time has to be devoted.

Superficially it might appear that these spheres are, largely and to a greater extent, dovetailed together. Nowadays, or even in the past, it would appear that a young man's leisure is almost wholeheartedly taken up in the process of biological selection. Admittedly it is so but only from a sense of frustration and the attempt to kill two birds with one stone.

I prefer to face facts and from them I draw these inexorable conclusions which are: that man's life today has to be fundamentally re-organised and subdivided so that the full amount of true happiness can be obtained, symbolical to Adam Smith's avocation of the division of labour being the means of obtaining wealth.

Thus having shaped in our mind the purpose of life and generalised on the means to achieve how are we to bring them into effect? And when they are brought to pass, what is the sum total of our achievement?

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Aircrew training 10th Jan 1941 - Books

Dad's bookcase and some original books in my music room

Entry number four from my father's wartime journal covering his thoughts on Bomber Command aircrew training during 1941. Dad was both very well read and a collector of books. Am pleased to say I am now custodian of the wonderful gems he discovered. Earlier posts from his journal:

• Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two
• World War Two aircrew training day one
• World War Two aircrew training day two
• World War Two aircrew training day six
• Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 4 - January 10th

The day has drawn, once more, to a close. No flying today. We managed to get to get the evening off in Didcot and arrived back rather late when we adjourned to the mess, which made us even later. I received an extremely good letter from Beryl (his younger sister) and another from Mrs Peach who is still worrying over Jack (Jack Lavers enlisted with dad and, after the war, became the family solicitor).

This evening my thoughts, prompted from some unknown source, made me think of my collection of books at home. The main theme was actually concentrated on what should become of them in the event of my death. It seems such a pity that so many volumes collected with unwonted pains and energy should now be of no use to anyone.

With books I have spent so much of my time that my soul is held between their musty leaves. To me, perhaps, in some frustrated way they have been the outlet for unbounded love on my part. I lived with them and now the mere sight of them fills me with pleasant memories of more happier times when I was free to browse, at my leisure, on the intellectual fare provided.

I have heard Robespierre proclaim his fiery, wonderful exposition of liberty, equality and fraternity in the French Revolution. Seen his proscriptions and the tumbrils full of condemned men and women the next day. I have been at the side of Napoleon in his campaign in Northern Italy and marched with Wellington in the Peninsula. Macaulay, Allison, Adam Smith Gibson, Shakespeare have all provided me with their philosophy and works and added to works of countless modern authors have given me spiritual meat and drink for the past five years. What will happen to them when they no longer have one beside them who cherishes them as though they were his betrothed? Perhaps my people will realise what they have meant to me and say of those faded and stained books,'there lies his soul, his mind, all of him that was best and that which we counted most dear'.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Isle of Wight - seeking sanctuary World War Two

The next episode from my father's wartime journal covering his thoughts on Bomber Command aircrew training during 1941. This day he reminisces about his home, the Isle of Wight, with vivid, literary images of vantage points that I can readily place as I, too, explored the same places of my birthplace just over a decade later. Previous posts from the journal:

• World War Two aircrew training day one
• World War Two aircrew training day two
• World War Two aircrew training day six
• Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 3 - January 9th

At the moment I am about to go up on my first night flight. Today has been very fine, for January, and the night augurs well for the trip as the moon is already up delineated against the clear, cloudless, frosty sky. We went up this morning, as well, for a 3 hour cross country so today I shall feel I'm a real airman.

The long sojourns in the crew room today were broken up by thinking of the Isle of Wight. The saying that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' is all too true as far as I am concerned with the Island. For too long I had been abusing it, disdaining it, now, at last, the memory of the home town recurs to me like a vision of paradise (Dad lived in Lake, a village between Sandown and Shanklin).

So vivid are these impressions, culled from the all too short periods of leave, that by now I can smell the tang of the salt laden, sea-weedy air that impinges on the back of the nostrils and permeates the system like a draught of nectar. I can feel the ridges on my arm as I lean over the guard wires on the cliff and stare happily at the slight, oily swell and the tumbling frothy tide breaking spasmodically on the brown sands below.

Away on the left is the symmetrical curved hump of Culver Cliffs, its regularity broken only by the outline of the fort and the wireless station with its aerial and obelisk. It sweeps up and over and ends in the sheer white cliffs which tumble into the sea. The white cliffs end suddenly and emerge as another strata of red sandstone which throws the whole setting into a remarkable relief. Just below us stands the pier with its pathetic broken back, the remnants of which are revealed by the ebbing tide. The whole scene is remarkable by its throbbing quiet broken only by the screech of a seagull or the shuffling gait of an aged couple taking a constitution which has become a ritual to them.

Yet again, superimposed on that vision, I find myself spirited away to the opposite end of the Bay where, sitting on the handrails of the steps on the cliff, I pause to stare at the wrinkled face of Dunnose Head. This old, red-brown cliff has its upper face worn and lined with the marks of denudation its lower part is worn smooth by the erosion of the sea. It stands impassively, brooding, looking out at the ocean, the changeless, yet changing, face of nature. Tufts of grass and clumps of gorse have precariously established themselves, where possible, on the cliff and give a personality unique to itself. A sea breeze ruffles the foliage of the trees beyond it and as I feel its chilling effect I shiver and learn how puny man is when faced with nature. How the grandeur of nature makes man's foolish plans and schemes pall into appalling insignificance?

The scene is changed once again, the air persistent in its claim for recognition has been subtly infusing with its salty tang the soft, sweet fragrance of the country meadows of hay, clover, gorse and trees. The sound of the quiet has changed from the rhythmic lap-lap of the gentle waves to the whistle of the wind in the trees and the passing of a breeze over a full stocked field. I'm looking from the road over the countryside. From the road the terrain rushes precipitously away to the bottom of a valley where a small stream meanders slowly to its ultimate end. A small copse covers the stream's retreat, a bastard offspring of a large wood, distant and barely seen. Beyond, the valley undulates gently up to a height slightly less than my vantage point, diversified by little nooks and rills characterised by the rambling hedges.

The more I contemplated, the more vivid the constantly changing vista becomes. How little I realised, for two years, the true value of those things I then considered commonplace and mundane. Once again that marvellous wonder of nature, the mind, rescues us and restores that beautiful environment.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

P

Aircrew training day two - politics

 

Day two in my father's journal of his thoughts on commencing World War Two Bomber Command aircrew training. Previous posts here:

• World War Two aircrew training day one
• Wellington Bomber raid October 1941
• World War Two aircrew training day six

Entry 2 - January 8th

The snow is now being conquered by the thaw, but there is probably more on the way. Flying was cancelled today and so there were plenty of opportunities for soliloquising but I'm afraid I didn't feel up to calm deliberation. Still, as Johnny is forcing me to keep up my promise I must, at least, attempt something before he switches out the lights.

I have been arguing tonight on our new world which we are so hopefully promised by our over optimistic M.P.s after the successful conclusion of this present war. To me it seems we have yet to obtain a real grip on the problem. There will be such a vast potential of promise of better things to come that our usual vacillating policy will, in the end, achieve little, or no, good. We shall have to cast all party or sectarian principles aside and strive to obtain the best out of every one of our legislative officials. The ingrown prejudices of maturer years will have to be thrown aside and youth allowed to slip in and command.

All bias against our present enemies must be overthrown and we must co-operate wholeheartedly, both nationally and internationally, to restore and reconstruct the damage that the war has forced on the people. This revival must inevitably be essentially both of a spiritual and material nature. We must appeal to the people's better nature to allow certain powers to enable us to allow this reconstruction and, at the same time, place them in such a state of mind so that they will be able to benefit by such reforms as we will be able to give. Everything and everyone that stands in our way in our path to a fuller life must be swept aside so that nothing can impede the inevitable and irresistible path of progress.

It is also essential for us to deal with fundamental realities so that at the moment we can evolve no theory or ideal is to take its place at the head of affairs. We can work on no fixed plan but will have to deal with the situation in which we find ourselves. As soon as the war ends we can start; a co-ordinated body of youth determined, at last, to give the world a new light to guide them, not disdaining criticism, but determined that nothing can deter them from reaching their goal.

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Remove the causes, not remedy the effects...

The sixth entry in my father's WW2 journal, extraordinarily salient at this moment in national and international affairs. Previous posts from the journal:

• World War Two aircrew training day one
• Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Entry 6 - January 13th

Are we thus merely to attempt to subjugate our passions, or allow them to be mass controlled, mass produced and swayed by mass hysteria as our public opinion today is swayed by the machinations of the propagandist? Is sadness and sorrow to be removed entirely from the ken of men? Sadness and sorrow have given us many great inspirations and temporary genius. Is this new renaissance to be just another step forward in the advance of the machine age, where our emotions are laid down for us, on tap, to be utilised, as and when, our leaders think fit?

No, God forbid! It is our part to lay our hands on the root of this cancer, this rot which is our social disease. It is our part to remove the causes, not remedy the effects. We must aim at the creation of a world of universal contentment. We must allow all men equality of opportunity. We must study our fellows not as a herd of cattle, or of sheep, but individually so that we collectively form a race, a species to whom life has, at least, revealed some purpose Our creative, our spiritual minds must be instructed that our contentment, our happiness is dependent wholly and solely on the happiness of others and it is our individual task to further the happiness of others so that posterity, in time, will realise the full value of that gigantic creative effort which we shall have undertaken.

Then how can this be brought into effect? To whom can we look to for leadership? What practical basis have for putting our ideals, our theories to the test?

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

World War Two aircrew training day one...

 

This is the first entry in my father's journal from the 2nd World War, pictured top left above in one of the Wellington bombers he flew in. An earlier post, Wellington Bomber raid October 1941, narrates all the action pretty much in real time.

Entry 1 - January 7th HARWELL

I hope to be able, in these ensuing pages, to record a few of my impressions during the forthcoming year. Today has not been very productive in so much as we have done nothing.

My literary effort has been overcome by writing a foreword for Johnny's book, which has been bashfully completed. I should like to feel, that, if this book is to be read by any one other than myself (for whom it is primarily intended) they should tolerate it owing to the writer's complete lack of genius and to the environment in which it was conceived.

Harwell is an operational training unit where air crews are polished up for operations and many of us feel that, at the moment, we bear the mark of an early demise. If this is the case I hope that this book will be a close link between me and my closest friends and my parents.

Tonight I am feeling, as usual, fed up and we have expressed our feelings in no undisguised manner by turning our bunk into a beer garden. I have often wished to get to the bottom of the repression the RAF typically describes as 'browned' or 'cheesed'. I think it consists of many subsidiary feelings. Perhaps it is combined with a sense of homesickness and, above all, a sense of the futility of our present position.

Today, tuning the 1082 receiver I listened to a choir of German voices rendering a past song. I am no musician but to me it seemed inordinately beautiful and there swept over me a feeling which is practically impossible to describe. I was suffused by thought that all that was beautiful and worthwhile in this world was being overcome by brute force and not only that but I was subscribing my own effort to overcome them.

I feel in complete harmony with that group of German people, unknown to me, in a new spiritual sphere and the sense of futility is overwhelming. Am I still essentially the pacifist that harangued and argued in 1938? Have I not outgrown the out and out idealism? It seems these questions will probably never be answered and all that I stood for and set my heart on before the war will be wrecked. Could I but forsee the outcome of the next decade and I feel I should be able to die happily. Isn't something to be done for us who languish in despair at the probably fate of this world should we win or lose?

Douglas George Banks 1920 – 1989 written in 1941

Wellington Bomber raid October 1941

Oh God our help in ages past, Our hope - this unfinished line of the popular hymn is written in pencil in the back of my dad's journal which he kept when starting training with Bomber Command early in World War Two. Despite his deep concern about the political decisions being taken and pacifist leanings this account of one of his first ever raids, pretty much written in real time, is most revealing. I have only edited some spelling and minor grammatical errors.

Feltwell – Harwell 10-10-1941

It is just past midnight. We are droning away towards the East. Behind us, slightly to starboard, small spasmodic pin-points of light denote the bursting of flak over Heligoland. But we are not looking back, we are looking ahead. Already the front gunner has remarked on the presence of a huge red glow ahead to which we seem to get no nearer.

I return to the set (radio) and see if the generator is still charging. Then I switch the set off and, for something to do, earth the aerials. The navigator taps me on the shoulder, he jerks his thumb backwards in a suggestive manner. Automatically my left hand jerks away my helmet plug whilst my right twists off the oxygen connection and, hardly pausing, I plunge back over the navigator's back. I charge at the main spar and sweep past the 2nd pilot who's in the astrodome. At the 'K' guns, although barely 15 feet away, I am breathing heavily, owing to my exertions.

I plug in and a babel of voices greets my ears. '500 yards, Starboard quarter, own level' raps out the rear gunner. 'I've got him' yells the 2nd stooge. The oxygen plug must have moved, for my fingers, gloved and clumsy, can't find it. Ah, here it is, in goes the bayonet joint and turn on the juice. I grasp the gun firmly and rest my chin on my left hand. The draught whips at my face. It is icy cold and seems to pry open my eyes as I sweep the moonlit sky.

We appear to be suspended in space, away down is a bank of clouds, above, the stars. Just behind us is a dim, unrecognisable shape, oscillating up and down and forging slowly ahead. I swing the gun onto this shape and yell 'I can see him, slightly below'. It drifts nearer and as I glimpse the shark like tail the 2nd pilot and rear gunner both yell 'it's a Wimp'... The tension is broken. Our comrade loses height and drifts away below us and is soon swallowed up in the mist.

We have crossed the coast now, I am back in the astrodome resting on the arms of the supports. The 2nd pilot is pumping oil. Behind us some searchlights are wavering over the sky. Ahead there is a gigantic fire on our port bow. Searchlights are coning and heavy flak is bursting lavishly and vehemently around the cones. The light flak coming up in a shoal of multi-coloured trace: Red, Green, Yellow, a fascinating sight.

We are turning in, running North. The fires have split into three distinct groups. The largest and most savage on the East side, two smaller but, nevertheless still very large, on the West. A heavy pall of black smoke is seeping up and drifting North East, covering the inlet. There are three cones now, one is following a kite out to the west. Heavy flak is bursting with horrible accuracy, bang in the cone. The cone gets lower. It is further away still from the target. There is a brilliant flash, a slight trail of flame. The searchlights douse suddenly, as an object, like a comet, blazes a trail to earth. The searchlights come up over the town again.

Will we never reach the target? It seems ages...

Away on the right is another cone. Going up very, very slowly is a faint red trace. It reaches the centre of the cone and bursts. Queer, fascinating. I watch it again, very, very slow – then, poof! I must tell 'Steady, Graham, running up to the target now!' There is a steady tension, the kite steadies, the throttles are cut right back, we drift in, slower still.

Momentarily there is a blinding white light inside the aircraft. 'Searchlights dead on the tail'; 'Light flak, port quarter below'; 'Searchlights on starboard beam'; 'Heavy flak just ahead'. Crump! - 'Jack, that was close!'; 'Slightly above, heavy'. Crump... Crump! The kite shudders.

I see a flah of reddish light, from which chases away pin-points of red light in all directions. 'Just above us'; 'Left, Left'. My knees are knocking together. It's strange, I can't stop them. I'm quite ok. 'Right a bit'; 'Steady, steady'; 'Bomb doors open?'; 'Bomb doors open'. Clunk – time seems to stop still. There is a jerk and a movement under my feet. 'Bombs gone!'

We jerk around in a split turn to port. Below I see a raging inferno. Yet another stick of incendiaries are growing up into an angry red bunch of flashes on the ground guns. We are bathed in brilliant light. They are coning us... Crump, Crump, Crump! The flak is coming up pretty thick. The kite goes mad. It plunges down and turns to port, it sweeps up and over to starboard with a sudden jerk. The engines cut off, we glide. Away down we go again. I seem to be suspended in air. As the nose goes up I am pressed hard down on the floor. 'There they go'. Yellow, red flashes split the ruddy glow behind, six of them, we have left our mark. We are still weaving violently, but our cone has left us. There is still plenty of scope for them over the target. Only the outlying guns are now taking sporting pots at us.

We can see the coast ahead. The whole peninsula lies behind, dull, murky, grey-green, shrouded slightly with a faint mist. The moon on our port shows up a thin silvery trace below. The canal. A bevy of searchlights below spring and waver towards us. A light flak gun opens up. His red trace, which he splashes in all directions, is well wide of us. We laugh at his impotency. We feel supreme, masters of ourselves and sole rulers of our new sphere.

The coast has been crossed. I return to the set to send 'Operation successfully completed, returning to base'

Douglas George Banks 1920-1989 (back row - left)