‘Wally’
The fading words ‘PACKING MATERIAL’ , neatly printed across the lid of the cardboard box, gave no indication of its contents nor of its origins.
Hidden away, ‘out of sight and out of mind’, my mother removed this reminder of her deceased brother, and it remained inside an old bag hanging at the back of her wardrobe for the next fifty years. Box had been discovered as I cleared the final remnants from her apartment.
‘Wally’ was born on Sunday 7 November 1920. Welcomed into the world by three older sisters, I’d guess his nickname derived from his surname Wolman. Morris Louis Wolman.
His name was rarely mentioned in our home, and even my grandchildren, fascinated by old black-and-white photographs showing him smartly dressed in the Royal Air Force (RAF) uniform or flying the BT-13 basic trainer aircraft in America, never explored his history with their great grandmother. But then, neither did I.
It was my daughter who scribbled notes while chatting to her grandmother:
“Did you know about my brother?” my mother asked her. “Such a waste. Such a lovely man. But let’s not talk about sad things”.
Conscription
The call up papers arrived shortly after his twentieth birthday, and came together with the warrant for a train ticket, a four-shilling postal order — an advance on his service pay, and instructions on the small amount of kit he was permitted to take.
The RAF urgently required pilots to replace the five hundred young aviators killed during the infamous ‘Battle of Britain’ in that first summer of the war, and it was Wally’s ambition to fly.
On the 19 November 1940 he left Euston Station, and crossing to the opposite side of Eversholt Street he followed signs to Euston House where he searched for the Recruiting Centre.
That short walk began the most defining moment of his young life. The baby of his family, he was an only son about to embark on a journey that would transform him from an immature lad to a man, from innocent youth to warrior, and from a peace-loving, happy adolescent to killer.
His skilful coordination will see him master weaponry as he learns the art of releasing bombs accurately to cascade over the enemy, to strike strongholds, towns and villages filled with families just like his own. On this day, he is still a mere child, yet soon his childhood memories will blur with the blood of war.
Family tears flowed as he closed up the small bag. His father Isaac blessed him with a prayer book in hand as they bid farewell with words of “good luck, stay safe and say your prayers”, while his mother Ethel secretly slipped a strip of red ribbon into his bag [a red ribbon is a traditional type of talisman to ward off misfortune brought about by the ‘evil eye’].
Training at the Cardington Bedfordshire RAF camp
Wally’s dream came a little closer when the Selection Board recommended that he train as a pilot/observer, and next morning he boarded the Cardington, Bedfordshire train to join the No 24 (Training) Group of Technical Training Command.
The RAF camp buzzed with the excitement of young recruits keen to fly, yet there was much to learn before any one of them would even climb inside an aircraft.
After passing his physical check-up, Wally easily completed two competence tests for ‘General Intelligence and Elementary Maths’. The issue of standard RAF kit — greatcoat, uniform and boots — signalled his readiness to commence training.
‘Square Bashing’ — learning the intricacies of marching and saluting — was followed by lessons in how to fold blankets and polish boots and every single button until they reflected the sun. This “bullshit”, as Wally described it, continued for eight more weeks until his transfer to RAF Waddington in mid-January 1941.
Three years later — 19 November 1943
Lifting from a frosty airfield at 8:15pm, it was their final training mission before moving to an operational squadron. Wally and his crew flew along a predetermined flight path, continuing even after the radio stopped working some five hours later, but once the fuel supply started to run low Wally decided it was time to reduce their altitude and establish a visual position.
Now flying in low cloud with no clear visibility their Wellington aircraft struck a rocky outcrop 1,500 feet above sea level on the right-hand side of a hillside, close to the top of Moel y Croesau (Hill of Crosses) in Snowdonia, roughly six hours after they took off.
Wally was killed instantly and precisely three years from the date that he enlisted — on 20 November 1943.
.The Box
The ‘Box’ was delivered to their home by the RAF with his personal effects. A frayed leather wallet contained the two very private and personal diaries for 1941 and 1943. The first had been gifted by his close friend Charlie on the understanding that his daily activities would be meticulously recorded, and entries began on 1 January.
The tattered edges of the dark blue cover suggest it was stuffed into a pocket wherever he went — indicating a real love for the diary rather than neglect — but due to its fragile condition, I had to handle it with kid gloves.
Mindful that these diaries held very personal and private thoughts of a young man I wondered if he would be horrified to learn that I read them and was about to expose his personal scribes? Were his experiences recorded to revisit memories in later life, to get nostalgic about the conversations he had had with his diaries?
Whatever his true personal thoughts might have been — I selfishly wanted a genuine sense of his life, even though it may have been private writing never intended to be read by anyone else.
I am probably the first person in 77 years to study the diaries in detail and recognise my guilt of trespassing on private thoughts that his family were too grieved to read. But if I do not record his story then it will remain UNTOLD.
I wonder – was that my mother’s intention?
An extract from my book THE UNTOLD.
