Blitz Kids (30 page)

They flew on in the direction of Lübeck until they could circle the target and return to release the bombs. As John later admitted: ‘Later on in my flying career I’d have never thought of doing this – I would have just released the bombs anywhere. Although we were alone, nothing happened to us and we were able to drop on target.’ In the week that followed, John and his crew returned to bomb Hamburg on two further occasions.

In November 1943, John Cotter was commissioned. He went on to bomb Berlin, Frankfurt and Peenemünde, where the Germans were developing V1 rockets. He flew thirty-four operations and on 22 April 1944 he completed his ‘tour’, even volunteering to carry out a second tour, a request that was declined. He was pleased that his final operation was to Düsseldorf. He felt it appropriate to finish on a German target. He later noted that he was extremely lucky to survive. During those operations twenty non-regular crew members had joined him on operational flights. Only seven of those men completed their
tours, seven were later killed in action and three became prisoners of war. In September 1944, just after his twenty-first birthday, he was called to Holyrood House in Edinburgh where he received the Distinguished Flying Cross from King George VI.

Whilst John Cotter had a successful, and lucky, RAF career his younger brother was not so fortunate. Paul Cotter, who had volunteered for the RAF aged just fifteen, tragically never completed his training. Their mother had always been concerned about John but not about Paul. He died in a training accident at Boundary Bay in Canada in 1944.

For John Osborne, the war was relatively unexciting. Having been transferred to ‘Motor Transport’ he spent much of his time driving officers around. At one point he found himself driving for Group Captain Percy Pickard. This was a surprise for John: back in 1941 it had been Pickard who had starred as the pilot in
Target for Tonight
, the film that had inspired the sixteen year old to volunteer for the RAF. However, John couldn’t bring himself to tell the officer the effect his role had on him: ‘I was still a youngster, and I was so in awe of him. I didn’t have the courage to tell him.’

In early 1944 the truth about John Osborne’s age was finally revealed. Now nineteen years old, he had asked his girlfriend Gina to marry him and she had accepted. However, he now needed to apply for a marriage licence and a married man’s allowance. Having filled in all the necessary forms, he was called to the adjutant’s office: ‘Your two sets of papers don’t seem to tally – there is a discrepancy in your ages.’ The youngster explained the truth: that he added fifteen months to his age when he volunteered and that no one had asked to see his papers. Whenever he had been told to produce his National Insurance card he simply claimed he had misplaced it and would bring it at a later date. The officer accepted his story, telling him: ‘I suppose it’s a bit late to do anything about it now.’

Although the need for qualifications meant that fewer youngsters were able to find their way into the Air Force than into the Army or Navy, some did manage it. One eager youngster was Ted Wright from Winnipeg in Canada. Born in November 1928, he had added three years to his age when he volunteered for the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1943, just days after his fifteenth birthday. Upon completion of his
training, he was posted to England as an air-gunner. Arriving in July 1944, he was sent to ‘26 Operational Training Unit’, where he flew in Wellington bombers. During this period the fifteen year old flew on a number of operations over Germany. He was later transferred to 428 Squadron, where he became the tail-gunner in a Lancaster bomber. On 30 April 1945, less than one week before the end of the war in Europe, Ted Wright was killed when his plane crashed on a routine training flight over Staffordshire. It was only when the Commonwealth War Graves Commission contacted his parents about the inscription for his grave that the truth of his age was revealed.

For those boys who volunteered in the early years of the war, there were few chances to strike back at the Germans. If their units did not get drafted overseas then they had to wait in the UK, training, mounting guards, drilling, scrubbing barrack-room floors and trying to enjoy life on a pitiful wage. Even if their battalion was sent overseas, in the early years of the war anyone under the age of nineteen was forbidden from going with it. Instead they were transferred elsewhere and told to wait until they were old enough. In many cases, boys who volunteered in 1940 waited until 1944 to see action.

For some young volunteers, this was not enough. They had joined the Army for action and were keen to see it. For these boys there was one thing to do: volunteer for the commandos. When the commandos were first formed in 1940, they accepted only the fittest, keenest, most able soldiers. The physical training was intense, meaning only those able to complete the most rigorous feats of endurance were deemed suitable. Endless route marches in appalling weather; long cross-country runs; live firing exercises; obstacle courses; swimming tests; little food; little rest: these were the hurdles ahead of all potential commandos.

Volunteering for the commandos was not for the faint-hearted; as a result, large numbers of underage soldiers applied. Fred Walker made the decision to join the commandos whilst serving in the 70th (Young Soldiers) Battalion of the Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire Regiment.
His unit received a visit from Captain Peter Young, a commando officer who was formerly a member of the Beds and Herts. Young had a clear idea of the calibre of soldiers he wanted for the commandos and was certain of his ability to identify the right types. He was in no doubt youth was a determining factor: ‘Young soldiers are good. They have no wives or children. They follow you out of innocence.’
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There were plenty in the 70th Battalion of the Beds and Herts who fitted that description. Having put his name down for commando training, Fred Walker was called before Captain Young. Having just finished shovelling coal, Fred was covered in coal dust and dressed in his filthy, ill-fitting denim fatigue uniform. He hardly looked like a potential recruit for the Army’s newest, most elite unit:

Accepted for commando training, Fred was sent north to Scotland to endure what would be the most intense period of physical activity he would ever know.

The entire period of training was designed to weed out those unsuited to serving in a commando unit. Any mistake, any failure to meet the physical standards or any reticence was likely to result in being ‘Returned to Unit’ (RTU). Arriving at the station in Scotland the new recruits expected to see lorries waiting to take them to camp. Instead, they had to run. Those who could not complete the run were immediately rejected. Living conditions were tough: some lived in barrack huts but others were in tents. As Fred Walker remembered: ‘It was always wet. We were under canvas.’ Food was basic, but hot and filling. Breakfast included a dustbin full of porridge that the men dipped their mess tins into. Washing facilities were a stream; in winter they broke ice to shave in cold water.

If that was not enough, the training was enough to test even the fittest and most dedicated volunteer. They were sent on endless speed marches – carrying heavy kit, loaded with rifles and ammunition – running 200 yards, then marching for the next 200 and so on for mile
after mile. They scaled terrifying rock-faces, then abseiled down. They climbed ropes, swung across raging mountain gorges, swam rivers, crawled through mud and tackled assault courses whilst instructors fired live rounds above their heads. They learned to handle rowing boats, boxed and practised infantry drill. And always, just when they thought they could do no more, there would be more to do. Most days ended with speed marches, sometimes as far as twenty miles. Fred Walker recalled the intense sessions of pounding up and down the country lanes:

It was a life in which being cold, wet, exhausted and hungry was the norm. Despite this, enthusiastic teenagers like Fred Walker remained resilient:

For those unable to meet the required standards there was an inevitable sense of failure: ‘I saw blokes cry when they got “Returned to Unit”.’

Eventually it was all over. Those who had lasted the course were granted their coveted green beret and posted to a commando unit. Having ‘passed-out’ from the commando training centre, Fred Walker was sent to No. 3 Commando. He had just reached his eighteenth birthday when the unit was sent to the south coast of England to prepare for a raid on France. Though the commandos did not realize it at the time, the operation was to go down in history: it was Operation Jubilee, the raid on Dieppe.

Officially not yet eligible for overseas service, Fred Walker was unfazed by the thought of going into action: ‘I was up for it. I was under orders – I was young.’ Leaving by boat from Newhaven, he realized that many of the others were youngsters who had given false ages to join the Army. One of his mates, John Tupper, also a former member of the Beds and Herts regiment’s Young Soldiers training battalion, was just sixteen years old. Fred was not concerned by the stark reality: had he waited to be conscripted, he would still have been anticipating his call-up papers or undergoing basic training.

The plan was for their unit to land at Berneval near Dieppe and engage a coastal battery, preventing it from firing on the attacking landing craft. Waiting off the coast, the commandos cheered as they watched what they thought was a German fighter plane crash into the sea. Picking up the pilot from the water, they realized he was actually a Spitfire pilot. It was an ominous sign. As Fred Walker later recalled, any thoughts of a first glorious engagement against the enemy were swept away as they drew nearer the French coast:

As German fire raked their boats, casualties began to mount among the commandos. Fred Walker was given a vicious introduction to how cheap life had become:

Despite seeing his mentor and would-be protector killed in the opening minutes of the battle, Fred soon learned how combat had an immediate
effect on the psyche: ‘You think, “He’s unlucky.” But I was just glad it wasn’t me.’

Whilst some members of No. 3 Commando reached the shore and attempted to attack the German battery, Fred’s boat remained offshore. Unable to reach the coast they could not fulfil their role:

As they would later discover, the stories of the carnage were true. The scale of the tragedy only really struck Fred when he returned to England: ‘It’s sad to see who never made it. I saw the empty beds of the men who didn’t come back. That’s when it hits you: it was a disaster.’

Though his role in the action had been brief, and the assault had been costly, Fred remained proud. On leave, he could hold his head up high:

Like for so many young soldiers, the uniform seemed to give its wearers an unassailable feeling of confidence. The uniform had the ability to mask individuality, but also to act as a shield. As another youngster admitted, his uniform gave him the confidence to chat up shop girls, something he never dared as a civilian.

It was not only the elite of the British Army who were fighting back. When the Germans attacked Crete in May 1941 they were faced by one unlikely enemy: seventeen-year-old Merchant Navy cadet officer, J. H. Dobson. He was one of a group of survivors from the freighter
Dalesman
that had been sunk by German aircraft off the north coast of Crete. The survivors had been formed into anti-paratroop patrols by
the Army units on the island, using them to look out for the enemy. Following the fall of Crete, Dobson was taken prisoner but was able to escape after he snatched a machine-gun from his captors, turned it on them and ran off with a number of his shipmates. The group made their way inland, hiding in the hills, before teaming up with some New Zealand gunners. The ragged bunch eventually reached the south coast of the island, found an abandoned ship and headed out to sea. With Cadet Dobson navigating, they were eventually able to reach Egypt. Dobson, who had been on only his first voyage when the
Dalesman
had been lost, was awarded the British Empire Medal for his role in the daring escape.

Transferred to the 4th Battalion Royal West Kent Regiment in early 1942, Stan Scott remained desperate to serve overseas. Although not yet eighteen, he was no longer in a Young Soldiers battalion and his papers showed him to be nineteen; therefore, he was officially eligible to see active service. As such, he was hoping to see action. As a result, he was disappointed upon arriving at the regiment not to be asked about his military training but about whether he played football. His first orders were to be ready for a football match the next morning. The teenager immediately thought to himself: ‘What am I doing here? I didn’t sign on for this!’

His fears diminished in the following weeks as he was selected for the battalion’s ‘battle patrol’ – a quasi-commando unit that was trained to carry out reconnaissance patrols and specialist tasks. The explosives training and instruction in setting booby traps were exactly the sort of specialist training he relished. For Stan Scott, being a soldier meant being the best soldier he could be. If that meant relinquishing spare time in pubs or the NAAFI, so be it: ‘I was never a bullshit soldier, but I was never scruffy. I enjoyed it when we did fifteen-mile speed marches. I always made my kit up properly and I was always practising and learning.’

Yet for all his hard work, more disappointment was to follow. After a period of intense battle training and an inspection by the King, the unit received orders to go to North Africa. However, Stan’s name appeared on a list of men detailed as the rear party, whose role was to make sure all the unit’s spare equipment was safely returned to stores. After an unofficial stopover in London with his family and a run in with
the Military Police, a frustrated Stan found himself transferred to the 2/7th Battalion, The Queen’s Royal Regiment. He immediately felt he did not fit in and was unable to settle down. However, there was one advantage to being in a unit he disliked: he was finally sent overseas.

More frustration was to follow when he discovered they were going to be far away from the front lines, guarding oil pipelines in Iraq. The posting did offer Stan his first opportunity to use his weapons in action, firing on buildings occupied by gangs responsible for stealing from the British Army, but it was a far cry from what he had volunteered for. Eventually, the good news came that the battalion was to be sent to North Africa. However, once again Stan was called before his commanding officer who announced that his real age had been discovered and he was being sent home. During censorship of the mail between Stan and his family, his true age had been revealed. Frustrated, he was sent by train to the coast, then by ship to India. He was further frustrated to find himself in the company of servicemen far less eager than him: ‘I was cursing. I went back on a train with two RAF blokes, all they were interested in was skiving. At Basra it was all base wallahs and shit-house wallahs. People who weren’t interested.’ After a long and circuitous journey, he arrived back in England in April 1943.

Upon arriving in the UK, Stan was transferred to Maidstone, where the 13th Infantry Training Centre was based: ‘I must have been the youngest instructor in the British Army. I was eighteen years old!’ The role of the training centre was to prepare newly conscripted men for infantry service: ‘I enjoyed it. They came to us after they’d done their six weeks basic training. We taught them: skill at arms; assault courses; and fieldcraft.’ But whilst Stan was a well-trained soldier, and someone who had prided himself on learning everything he could about the weapons he had been trained to use, training others had not been his intention when he volunteered aged fifteen. After a few squads had passed through the unit, he realized he was going nowhere and began to think of ways he could see active service.