through, freezing cold, both in agonizing pain, both probably destined to die had we been forced to spend any more time out there in the open.
Once we were ashore we were taken to separate hospitals and we lost contact with each other. So, in June 1941, a few weeks after the raid on Hamburg, I was recovering on a verandah overlooking a vegetable garden, contemplating my past.
On the morning after the navy man had told me about the fall of Crete I went for an unaccompanied walk around the hospital grounds. This was not as strenuous as it might sound, because we weren’t allowed to go far. Patients were confined to the narrow strips of lawn and the path that surrounded the vegetable patch, a tiny orchard beyond and some further paths that led around the outside of the house. However, I enjoyed the brief solitude, walking slowly through shrubbery that was still sparking with droplets after an early shower, looking back at the impressively gabled house and wondering what it had been used for before the war, what great events it might have seen.
Returning to the convalescent wing, I clambered up the steps to the verandah, squeezed past the other patients and headed for my room.
Three people were waiting for me in one of the downstairs lounges: the matron of the hospital was there with two men, one a civilian, the other an RAF Group Captain. The matron called me in as I hobbled slowly along the corridor. The moment I saw the officer I stiffened and tried to salute, an action made more clumsy by the fact that my stick was in my right hand, taking my weight. The officer responded to my salute but seemed amused by my appearance. I was wearing my hospital dressing-gown over a pair of old trousers.
‘This is Flight Lieutenant Sawyer,’ the matron said.
‘Good to meet you, Sawyer,’ the Group said. ‘148 Squadron, I believe. Wellingtons.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Had a bit of a prang over Hamburg, I hear. Well, that can’t be helped. You seem to be walking again.’
‘It gets better every day, sir.’
‘Good. Then we would like you to come with us. No formalities are necessary’
‘Am I going back on ops, sir?’
‘Not exactly. Not straight away, at least.’
Half an hour later I was dressed and ready to leave. I found a crisp new RAF officer’s uniform hanging in my room, a perfect fit. It bore the insignia of a Group Captain. I supposed that some kind of administrative error had been made: if not, I had been kicked up three levels at once when I had no reason to expect any promotion at all. I was too bemused by the swift change in my circumstances to ask about it, knowing that the RAF would straighten everything out soon enough. When the nurse had seated me comfortably in the back of the Air Ministry staff car, we drove slowly out of the hospital grounds and turned on to the main road outside.
The civilian’s name was Gilbert Strathy, he told me, without describing his position in the Air Ministry. Strathy was a middle-aged man with a cherubic face and a shining bald head. He wore a pin-striped suit, immaculately pressed. He was extremely cordial and concerned about my well-being, but gave nothing away about why I had been collected from the hospital. The officer was Group Captain Thomas Dodman, DSO DFC, attached to Bomber Command staff, but again he passed on no more information than that.
I stared away from the two men, out through the window on my side of the car, watching the summery banks and hedgerows slipping past. The roads were deserted, of course, since petrol was more or less unobtainable for most people. The fine weather helped disguise a drabness that had settled over the whole country since the autumn of 1939. At midday the WAAF driver made a halt in Stow-on-the-Wold and we ate lunch in the hotel on the town’s main square. The bill was settled by Mr Strathy signing a chit. The hotel proprietor treated us with extraordinary civility. After lunch we continued our journey, slipping through
Once we were ashore we were taken to separate hospitals and we lost contact with each other. So, in June 1941, a few weeks after the raid on Hamburg, I was recovering on a verandah overlooking a vegetable garden, contemplating my past.
On the morning after the navy man had told me about the fall of Crete I went for an unaccompanied walk around the hospital grounds. This was not as strenuous as it might sound, because we weren’t allowed to go far. Patients were confined to the narrow strips of lawn and the path that surrounded the vegetable patch, a tiny orchard beyond and some further paths that led around the outside of the house. However, I enjoyed the brief solitude, walking slowly through shrubbery that was still sparking with droplets after an early shower, looking back at the impressively gabled house and wondering what it had been used for before the war, what great events it might have seen.
Returning to the convalescent wing, I clambered up the steps to the verandah, squeezed past the other patients and headed for my room.
Three people were waiting for me in one of the downstairs lounges: the matron of the hospital was there with two men, one a civilian, the other an RAF Group Captain. The matron called me in as I hobbled slowly along the corridor. The moment I saw the officer I stiffened and tried to salute, an action made more clumsy by the fact that my stick was in my right hand, taking my weight. The officer responded to my salute but seemed amused by my appearance. I was wearing my hospital dressing-gown over a pair of old trousers.
‘This is Flight Lieutenant Sawyer,’ the matron said.
‘Good to meet you, Sawyer,’ the Group said. ‘148 Squadron, I believe. Wellingtons.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Had a bit of a prang over Hamburg, I hear. Well, that can’t be helped. You seem to be walking again.’
‘It gets better every day, sir.’
‘Good. Then we would like you to come with us. No formalities are necessary’
‘Am I going back on ops, sir?’
‘Not exactly. Not straight away, at least.’
Half an hour later I was dressed and ready to leave. I found a crisp new RAF officer’s uniform hanging in my room, a perfect fit. It bore the insignia of a Group Captain. I supposed that some kind of administrative error had been made: if not, I had been kicked up three levels at once when I had no reason to expect any promotion at all. I was too bemused by the swift change in my circumstances to ask about it, knowing that the RAF would straighten everything out soon enough. When the nurse had seated me comfortably in the back of the Air Ministry staff car, we drove slowly out of the hospital grounds and turned on to the main road outside.
The civilian’s name was Gilbert Strathy, he told me, without describing his position in the Air Ministry. Strathy was a middle-aged man with a cherubic face and a shining bald head. He wore a pin-striped suit, immaculately pressed. He was extremely cordial and concerned about my well-being, but gave nothing away about why I had been collected from the hospital. The officer was Group Captain Thomas Dodman, DSO DFC, attached to Bomber Command staff, but again he passed on no more information than that.
I stared away from the two men, out through the window on my side of the car, watching the summery banks and hedgerows slipping past. The roads were deserted, of course, since petrol was more or less unobtainable for most people. The fine weather helped disguise a drabness that had settled over the whole country since the autumn of 1939. At midday the WAAF driver made a halt in Stow-on-the-Wold and we ate lunch in the hotel on the town’s main square. The bill was settled by Mr Strathy signing a chit. The hotel proprietor treated us with extraordinary civility. After lunch we continued our journey, slipping through
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