Fighting With The French Resistance

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Hello, and welcome to a new series of Family Stories, the podcast written by you, our listeners.

This week's Family Stories takes us on a wild ride, beginning with an unexpected discovery in a pair of old flying boots and ending with a surprise we have ways reconnection.

This week we're starting with a story from Stephen Bennett.

Stephen writes, here is a family story with a difference, as it's about someone else's family.

The subject is Flight Sergeant W-O-P-A-G

Thomas Henry Shirt, known as Harry.

It all started years ago when I bought a pair of flying boots for my collection on a well-known auction site.

The boots had belonged to Captain Johnny Aishford RAF, and in one of the boots was a poignant letter from a Mrs.

Hilda Schirt thanking Johnny and the crew for looking after her son Harry after he'd been mortally wounded on their mission.

This started a 20-year quest to find out what had happened to Harry on that last fateful mission.

I wrote to the RAF but as I was not a family member they wouldn't help and having no experience with these searches I got nowhere.

Until it was the 100th anniversary of the First World War and my wife Sally and I were at a First World War battlefield visitor center in Belgium.

There were terminals allowing visitors to look up military records.

I put in Harry's name and there it was.

The record on the screen showed everything I'd been looking for including his place of birth.

We tried to track down family members but the trail went cold once again.

It remained that way until COVID hit.

Locked down and bored I decided to have a look at Dove Holes in Derbyshire, Harry's hometown.

I went on Google Maps Street View and went for a walk around.

To my surprise I found a war memorial with Harry's name on it.

My wife Sally then went on Facebook and found a Dove Holes community page where she posted our search.

We received a reply putting us in touch with Katie Tanfield, who was Harry's great niece.

It turned out that Katie had only recently found out about her great uncle and had been researching the family.

As soon as restrictions were lifted, Sally and I packed our bags and headed for Derbyshire.

We visited the war memorial, saw Harry's house and the family stone in the graveyard where he's remembered.

We met up with Katie and gave her the letter, and in return, she showed us a book about dove holes in which Harry's story is recorded.

It showed pictures of his funeral and gave an account of his death.

This account turned out to be incorrect, but more of this later.

We thought that this was the end of our journey with Harry and then went home.

But the following year Mark Smith of Antiques Roadshow fame was to give a talk to a local society on Armistice Day.

I was asked by the organiser to provide some military props for the stage.

Mark started his talk by explaining how reading his father's flying logs as a boy got him interested in militaria.

I approached Mark at the end of the talk and mentioned that I had a poignant letter from Hilda Schirt about her son.

Mark stepped back as if hit by a cattle prod, looked at me and said, not Harry Schirt from Dove Holes.

I of course said yes and asked how he knew the name.

Mark said that if not for Harry, he wouldn't be here.

and then relayed the following story.

Harry Schirt and Les Smith, Mark's dad, were best mates and served on the same crew in 240 Squadron assigned to a Catalina flying boat under Johnny Aceford.

Their missions often involved dropping agents behind the Japanese lines and it was this mission that they were supposed to fly that night.

However, another crew took the spy and they were tasked with a diversionary flight to drop propaganda leaflets over enemy-held territory.

Mark's father wrote an account of their mission in his diary, in which he recalls, I had dropped five bundles of leaflets on their targets and was about to drop another when Harry tapped me on the shoulder and said it was his turn to have some fun.

We swapped places and I went back to radio duties.

Harry dropped bundles six to ten and a just release dropped number eleven as we flew over a Japanese Navy base and all hell broke loose.

What happened over the next few minutes was mayhem.

A round from the ground fire initially aimed at the white mass of leaflets coming from the starboard blister hit Harry and mortally wounded him.

The plane took evasive action but was hit by dozens of rounds coming up from the ground.

Two other crew members, Vic Crawford and Ray Reid, were hit but not seriously wounded, and the plane was riddled with holes.

Mark's dad got onto the radio and called for help, eventually raising a US base at Kyokpiu, who agreed to let them land there and would arrange medical aid.

He then went back and held Harry's hand and was talking to him when he died.

As Mark said, had they not swapped places, he would never have been born.

I now had the full story and could relay it to Katie.

However, there's just one more twist.

In June 2023, I saw the Antiques Roadshow was coming to Swanage, Swanage, Dorset, near my home.

I applied to go on the show and took the flying boots.

Mark and I did a piece to camera during which I told Harry's story and he told his dad's.

At the end of filming, I handed Mark the boots as he knew Johnny H Ford as a friend of his father's and I said I thought he should keep them.

It made several of the online papers.

I do hope that you find the time to include this on the pod and look forward to seeing you at We Have Ways Festival.

Well, we have and we look forward to seeing you too, Stephen, so thank you for that.

And that was from Stephen Bennett.

Next up is a story from John Wilcher.

Hello James and Al.

Greetings from Australia.

I've only discovered your excellent podcast a week ago.

Thank goodness for summer holidays giving me the chance to binge and catch up.

Quite a lot of catching up actually.

I'm really enjoying it.

I've just listened to episode 23 where you mentioned Douglas Barder and Adolph Galland, so here's a little war story for you.

My father was a veteran of the Second World War having served with the 7th Division Cavalry in North Africa, Cyprus and the Pacific.

He had joined the militia Army Reserve in 1935 and was already a WO2 by 1939.

incidentally travelling to the Middle East in the final voyage of the Queen Mary before refit, with stewards still on board to run him a bath.

Dad rejoined the reserves when they reformed in 1947 to 48 and finished his army career in the early 70s as a lieutenant colonel.

In his civilian life Dad was an engineer.

In the 1970s he was working with another engineer who was German and had been a Luftwaffe pilot and was a test pilot on the ME-262.

This gentleman still carried his Luftwaffe ID card and pilot's license in his wallet.

One day the two of them were out for a work appointment.

When they returned to the office the receptionist said that another gentleman with a German accent had dropped in unannounced in the hope of catching up.

He had left his business card, Adolf Galand.

That one was from John Wilcher.

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The next story is from Alan King.

I'm a new listener to your podcast, so a lot of catching up to do.

Well, keep going, Alan.

My family story is about my uncle, Frederick James King, more commonly known as John King.

He joined the Royal Navy in April 1941, training as an anti-aircraft gunner and was assigned HMS Eskimo in the Chatham Destroyer Fleet on convoy duty.

With the terrible losses on the convoys, he was very concerned about his future.

So one time on ashore leave, he decided to consult a fortune-teller.

Reading his palm, the fortune-teller told him he had a long lifeline, would survive the war and live to the ripe old age of 67.

He found this very reassuring and carried on.

During the war, he served on the Russian convoys, Operation Pedestal to Malta, HMS Lightning for three days before it was torpedoed, and then returned to Eskimo for it to be hit by dive bombers right by his gun station, before moving on to Corvettes on the African convoys.

After the war, he returned to life as a butcher in a local supermarket.

However, as he got older, he became increasingly worried about what the fortune teller had said.

After his 66th birthday, he was very worried indeed, waiting for the approach of the Grim Reaper.

Thankfully, though, the Grim Reaper did not materialise, and John kept going, frequently attending reunions of the Arctic Convoy Association, and he was also invited to Malta by the Maltese government for the Operation Pedestal 60th anniversary before finally crossing the bar in his early 90s.

And I was there at that 60th anniversary and I probably met him.

Anyway, that was from Alan King.

The next story comes from Ryan Alder.

Below is my great-grandfather's story.

Thanks for doing this sort of thing.

It allows the stories to be shared once again and so they are not forgotten.

My great-grandfather was a man named Ralph Burrell.

He was born in 1913 in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire.

Ralph enlisted in Edinburgh in July 1940 and served with the 16th Battalion Durham Light Infantry.

Ralph became a prisoner of war when he was captured in Tunisia, North Africa during the Battle of Sejanane.

As a prisoner of war, Ralph was transported to Italy and spent time in the prisoner of war camp Campo 66 at Naples.

Following the Italian surrender, Ralph was one of the thousands of men that escaped during the mass breakout of prisoners of war in Italy.

This was before the Germans took over the administration of the camps.

The family story goes that Ralph and another prisoner of war were on the run together.

Along the way, Ralph and the other escaped prisoner acquired a piece of ham.

They would offer some of the ham to Italian civilians in exchange for shelter and for the civilians to cook the ham.

They were recaptured after six weeks by the Germans.

After Ralph's recapture, he was sent on to various prisoner of war camps, including Stalag 7A at Moosburg, before ending up at Stalag 344 near the village of Lamstorf in Poland.

He was a surface labourer at work camp E758.

In January, it is believed Ralph endured the long march in which thousands of POWs marched west.

After the war, Ralph became a pub landlord in the village of Gringley-on-the-Hill, Nottinghamshire.

He died in 1988 in his bungalow in Scrooby, Nottinghamshire.

The reason I mentioned the story of Ralph escaping with another POW is because amongst Ralph's wartime belongings is a photograph of prisoners of war.

But Ralph is not in this photograph.

It has stamped on the back 6726 G.

Simpson, Stalag 21D.

G.

Simpson was with the Gordon Highlanders and was also a POW.

He was born in 1918 in Ellen, Aberdeenshire.

As a family, we are uncertain as to why Ralph hung on to this photo all his life.

The only theory we have is that Ralph escaped with G.

Simpson in Italy, hence why he kept the photograph.

I am currently in the process of trying to find a living relative to G.

Simpson.

If the escape story rings any bells for the listeners, please do get in touch.

That story was from Ryan Alder.

Our next story is from Daniel Koefler.

Daniel writes, I almost dropped my tools during work today whilst listening to your episode one about Auschwitz when you mentioned the family name of a classmate of mine.

It wasn't new to me that his grandfather was in a concentration camp during the war, but being a teenager at the time, I didn't ask any further when I first heard the story.

So the few sentences you mentioned about him already opened a door to my curiosity.

I've never met the man, but I'm still very close to his grandson, Daniel Langbein, an Austrian actor.

Apart from the hare, he and his grandfather are doppelgangers, really.

What a courageous and upright man his grandfather was.

I'm obviously planning to read all his books.

Not Like Sheep to the Shambles, Slaughterhouse, is quite an impressive title, really.

Anyway, keep up the amazing work.

And a fun fact, when the inmates suddenly got fed sweet potatoes day in and day out, they thought this had to be a new clever cruel joke by the Germans to make them suffer.

Only after the war, Herman learned it was simply very cheap to produce them.

Needless to say, it's not a vegetable very cherished in their family, even today.

And that story was from Daniel Koefler.

Our next story comes from Ian Davis.

My grandfather, Samuel Thomas Warren, was called up in the Second World War and served in the 8th Army in North Africa, Sicily and Italy.

He was a driver, spanning everything from staff cars to tank transports, but said he spent much of his time driving three-ton trucks.

He spoke very little about any fighting, a rare exception being to describe what what he claimed was his nearest brush with death.

It occurred somewhere in Italy after his unit had pushed north from the landings at Anzio.

He found himself driving a three-tonne Bedford, fully loaded with ammunition, up a steep single-track road cut into a near-vertical cliff face, when a lone Stuka spotted him and attempted to strafe him.

With nowhere to go and no hope of cover, all he could do was keep driving as fast as he could and hope it missed.

When he was called up, my mother had just started school alongside her sister.

It was three years before he got home leave, which meant he was on leave two weeks after D-Day.

Walking around Hartford, his hometown, on his first day home, he finally got fed up with folk calling him a D-Day Dodger and flawed the next man who said it.

He thus spent his second night home in a police cell before he was released with a caution.

He was bitter about the D-Day Dodger slur when applied to his comrades who'd fought through North Africa and Italy until his death in the 1980s.

That story was from Ian Davis.

The next story comes from Rory Stark.

In the spirit of stories of wartime daring do, I thought I'd share a story from my great-uncle squadron leader Lawrence Pinky Stark, DFC, always known to everyone as Pinky, who was a prominent Typhoon ace during the war, primarily with 609 Squadron, with whom he served as CO by the end of the war.

Well, I've got to say, Rory, I know all about Pinky Stark.

I'm a big fan of 609 Squadron.

They're probably my favourite squadron really.

Anyway, this story relates to his escape from France following the downing of his typhoon in late July 1944 and his escape aided by members of the French Resistance.

On the 31st of July 1944, he was flying a ramrod raid with 263 Squadron to attack the power station at the Gerledan Dam in Brittany, when on the return flight he was struck by flak, leading to catastrophic engine damage resulting in a forced bail near Kerpert in Brittany.

I will let Pinky take the story from here, as after he died, we found a self-penned recollection of the event.

So Pinky writes, On Monday, the 31st of July, 1944, I first set foot on French soil for a short but most interesting visit.

For this 10-day holiday, I have to thank an unknown German anti-aircraft gunner, who, for once in his life, managed to shoot straight with devastating effect on the engine of the plane I was piloting.

Thus, at 20 minutes to three on that Monday afternoon, I found myself standing in the center of a plowed field, entangled in the shroud lines of a parachute.

I was covered in mud with a large rip in my my right trouser leg, missing my right shoe.

Having managed to free myself from the silk cords of the chute, I was able to look around and take stock of the situation.

A couple of the boys were still circling overhead, presumably waiting to see if I'd survived the jump.

And as I watched, one of them flew low across the field and waved.

I waved back to him, thinking that at least Joan, my wife, and the family would know that I was still alive and on my feet.

Just as they disappeared from view, I heard a new sound, different from the roar of a Napier engine.

It didn't take me long to realise that my aircraft had crashed much nearer to me than I'd thought and was now a fiercely burning mass.

Intermingled with the crackling of the fire was an occasional bang as a cannon shell exploded.

My immediate reaction to that was to get as far away from the wreckage as I could, so I legged it on one shoe and my right trouser leg flapping behind me.

No mean feet in a deeply plowed field.

As I was nearing the hedgerow I became aware of two pairs of eyes peering at me over the hedge.

They were quite still and making no attempt to join me, so I presumed they were not hostile.

I waved to them to come over, and after a brief discussion, they came through an opening in the hedge and rather hesitatingly plodded across the furrows.

It was only as they neared me that I suddenly realised there might be a problem with communication.

Although French had been my best subject at school, I hadn't used it in six years.

However, I decided to have a go and said, Vous leis vous maider.

They had a whispered conversation and several times glanced at my 0.38 pistol.

Their answer was to shake their heads vigorously and repeat, Les Boche!

Les Boche!

They were looking past me towards another field, and I thought that they might be looking at German soldiers.

When I followed their gaze, I was relieved to see that two farm workers were skirting the burning wreckage and heading towards me.

Their whole attitude was friendly, and they asked if I was wounded.

I assured them that I was quite all right, which seemed to relieve them immensely.

When I pointed to my parachute lying in the field and made signs that I wanted it buried, the one with the spade under his arm put up his thumb, and I was now quite certain that I was in friendly hands.

The few words that they had exchanged with me had been in French, but they suddenly lapsed into a different language that I presumed was Bretonese, not unlike some of the Gaelic speakers I had met when visiting my relatives on the Black Isle.

This exchange resulted in the boy who was wearing a scout uniform beckoning me to follow him.

Going through the high hedge brought us to a landscape that was not altogether unpleasant to view.

First there was no sign of any large towns where there might be an enemy garrison, and I recognised the forest of Malouen that I had noted on my map in the targeted area.

For as far as I could see there was no rush of grey uniforms looking to capture me.

We headed towards a small farmhouse and as we approached, the boy motioned to me to crouch down and skirt the trees surrounding a small outhouse.

He gestured to me to go into his shed.

With the words, Attende, he disappeared.

When he had gone, I buried my badges of rank beneath a pile of old sacking in a corner of the shed.

At least four hours passed before I heard voices and footsteps, and the door was carefully opened.

It was semi-dark, and I found myself being propelled towards a faint light coming from the open farmhouse door.

Once inside, there was a sudden dramatic change of the atmosphere.

One of the groups stepped from behind me and pointed a gun at my midriff.

He buckled my holster and removed my 0.38.

Despite this, I still had the feeling that I was in friendly hands.

This notion was confirmed, and after a few deft questions from the man holding the gun, I was accepted as a British pilot.

My interrogator assured me that he was a member of the maquis and that all would be well.

Then followed a lot of handshaking and offers of wine and food.

My 0.38 was returned with the announcement that tomorrow I would be escorted to a place of safety.

A young girl who I took to be the daughter of the house kept looking at my ripped trouser leg and eventually she appeared with a blanket draped over her arm and a needle and cotton in her hand.

She made signs for me to divest myself of my trousers and handed me the blanket.

This wasn't a time for false modesty, so I obliged and some time later I was handed a neatly repaired pair of battle-dressed trousers.

To complete the transformation, I was given a pair of German boots, at least two sizes too large, and an old, well-worn stained jacket.

At least I was less less conspicuous than before and with upturned thumbs I was reassured by all those present that I was okay.

With a pat on the shoulder the Mackey member told me he would return the next day and take me to one of their units.

I was almost used to walking in boots way too large for me when he returned and we headed northwards to the forest.

Several hundred yards in on a circuitous path we reached the Mackey unit.

It turned out to be a large arms depot with two guards.

With sign language and poor attempts at a French conversation, I finally understood that I was to take my turn on guard duty.

Not a lot was spoken, as the other two guards spoke only in Bretonese, and I was relieved two days later to hear the sound of voices coming towards us.

There was no attempt at concealment of their presence, as they were singing and laughing as they entered the dump.

One of the leading figures approached me and asked my rank.

When I responded flight lieutenant, he threw his arms round me and exclaimed, Ah, mon capitaine.

He explained he'd been a lieutenant in the French airborne forces.

From that moment, I resumed my officer status and was always addressed as Moncapitain.

Capitaine.

There were about ten in the group, and I was told that I was to come with them to the local Mackie HQ and meet the others.

I followed in single file through the woods until we came to their headquarters.

There was a round of applause at my arrival and a great deal of handshaking and embracing that embarrassed me at first, but it seemed to be the regular greeting among them.

The para lieutenant was a local leader of the resistance group, and he was an interesting character.

Apparently, he threw the tricolour from a long flagpole in front of his house, and despite the odd challenge from German troops, he continued this defiant practice.

Eventually, I was shown to a small tent and told that it was to be my billet.

This was as near to luxury as I had been for a few days, and the sight and sound of a small radio tuned into the BBC was a missing link to home news.

As well as a radio, there was a cutthroat razor and some Ursat soap, and I looked forward to a shave.

It was explained to me that part of my duties was to listen to the coded messages and relay them to the operational officer.

Then I was offered a proposition.

Stay with the Mackie and become an active fighter against the German occupiers, or go down the Escape's route to Britain.

The choice was simple for me.

I told them I was much more useful as a typhoon pilot, and I wanted to get back at the enemy for shooting me down.

This was accepted, and I became a temporary member of that small group of resistance fighters.

The radio had an extra bonus for me, as I was able to keep up with the news coming from the Normandy beachhead.

I felt a pang of remorse when I realised that some of my chums were in the thick of the battle, and it made me impatient to get back across the channel and resume my flying duties.

There were moments of sheer pleasure as well when the BBC relayed the Bing Bing Crosby show, even if I was the only person listening to the radio.

Unfortunately, the razor that looked so impressive proved to be blunt, and after 10 minutes scraping on the right side of my cheek, I was still feeling stubble and tenderness.

Since I'd never had a beard before, I thought this might be an opportunity to see if I looked like my grandfather.

On my third day there, one of the coded messages produced an immediate reaction from the leader.

He explained to me there was to be a drop of supplies on a nearby plateau that night, and we had to get things organised.

Half an hour later, he returned and gave me my instructions.

I had to go to the nearby convent to escort some nuns along with their pupils who wanted to witness the drop.

At first I thought that it might be a joke but his insistence and his detail of where and when I had to become involved soon made it clear that this was part of the exercise.

I followed the route he'd given me and soon found the convent.

Standing on the steps were three nuns and five excited children pointing at me and the word Englais could be heard from time to time.

I gave them a wave and that was the signal for them to rush towards me, chattering unfamiliar greetings.

The three nuns came down the stairs in a more dignified way, and proffered their hands in friendship.

Louis, the para lieutenant, had drawn a rough map to direct me to the dropping area, and with a quick glance at the route we set off.

There didn't seem to be any difficulties in the gradual walk uphill to the flat piece of ground selected for the drop.

The children were about fifty yards ahead of their mentors and me, when they stopped at the top of a slight rise in the ground.

When they sat down and started to take off their shoes and socks, I knew something was wrong.

The other side of the hillock revealed the reason for the children's actions.

There, running fairly rapidly, was a river.

This was absent on Louis's map, but was obviously going to be no problem to the kids.

As I started to take off my boots, it occurred to me that the nuns might have a little difficulty in making the crossing.

Their long, heavy black dresses would become a ton weight if they got soaked, and by this time they were showing no signs of even divesting their shoes and thick black stockings.

The solution came into my mind very quickly, but but how could I tell them that I would give them a piggyback?

The word conchon came from memory, but I quickly discarded it in case they thought I was insulting them, so I knelt down and demonstrated with one of the children how I would take them over the river.

The expression on their faces made it obvious that I was going to have a special place on their rosaries.

The expression on my face was suggesting that this was a damned funny war.

It wasn't long before we reached the flat area where several of the Mackey were putting the finishing touches to the bonfires that would guide the planes delivering the drop.

Louis came over to me and out of courtesy asked my opinion of the three marking beacons forming an arrowhead.

When I checked the wind direction on some nearby poplars, it was plain that the bonfires would put the bombers on a crosswind direction for the drop and perhaps ruin the whole operation.

As soon as I suggested this to Louis, he rewarded me with a swift embrace before yelling out instructions to his comrades to replace the bonfires in the place I thought was right for the bomber pilots.

The nuns played games with the children until it became dark, when, with a shouted command from Louis, everyone became silent and listened out for the bombers.

The children heard them first and made excited gestures to Louis, who cupped his hand to his ear and confirmed the approach.

It was all over very quickly.

The bombers were at low level and the released supplies were easily seen landing well within the dropping zone.

The planes were gone as quickly as they came, and everyone ran to the parachutes and helped with the untangling of the cords.

The efficiency of the whole organization was evident when we carried the supplies down the side of the hill, where three lorries had appeared from nowhere.

The goods were loaded onto the first two lorries, then everyone, including the nuns and pupils, piled into the third Renault.

As I dropped off to sleep that night, I felt that I had accomplished some little part in the fight against Nazi tyranny.

Louis appeared on the afternoon of the second routine day, and the beam on his face meant that he had something good to tell me.

Moncapitan, you are going home.

These were the words I'd been hoping to hear for the last eight days.

We, Moncapitan, the Schelburn Group is coming for you to morrow, and you do as they say, and you will soon be in England.

Sure enough, the next day as darkness fell, a middle-aged woman dressed in plain clothing was introduced to me as my guide on my first steps to freedom.

Saying goodbye to my comrades was straightforward, apart from Louis's embraces and a chorus of bonchans from the other members.

My guide hardly spoke for the first few miles, and when she did, it was to halt me and whisper, Ecoudé.

We were stand for a bit as she listened for any sign of anyone pursuing us.

After an hour, we stopped at a house where I was passed on to the next guide, who proved to be a former member of the French Navy.

He was just as taciturn as the first guide, and when he had led me along his particular part of the escape, he shook my hand and wished me good luck.

The next exchange was at a farmhouse, and I was hidden in a small room beside the cellar and told to try and sleep before my next journey that would take me to the beach.

At about noon the next day, I was summoned from my hideout and introduced to my final guide, another woman.

But this one was scarcely out of her teens.

She chatted away from the moment we left the farmhouse, and she was able to tell me that a few others and I would be collected by the Royal Navy as soon as it was dark.

We walked for about five miles before she indicated that we were at the end of her part in the escape route.

A brief goodbye, and I was ushered into a farm building and found myself in the presence of 15 other escapees, like me.

They were addressed in an assortment of clothing that allowed us to blend into the countryside background.

We chatted together, but not giving away too much information, just in case there was a traitor in our midst.

Orders came from the small boats for us to wade out to them and climb aboard.

The muffled words from the Czech pilot I assumed were oaths as the salt water reached his wounds.

Transfer to the gunboat was swift and quietly done, and a kind, able seaman handed me an old pair of black plimpsoles minus their toes.

The skipper then explained that in the events of contact with the enemy we had to lie flat on the deck as we tried to outrun them.

Since our particular craft was fitted with three engines instead of the customary two, we were unlikely to be caught.

Thankfully, the journey home was uneventful, and we crept into Devonport under cover of darkness.

Rum appeared from somewhere, and the skipper offered a tot to each of us to celebrate a safe return.

If we declined the offer, the skipper downed it himself and by the time he came to the last man he had ensured himself a pretty solid hangover.

With barely time for a shower and breakfast we were rushed to London for debriefing.

By mid-morning the three of us were waiting at R.E.F.

Kingsway in London.

I was first in saluting a wing commander from behind a battle battle dress, second-hand jacket and tolless plimp soles.

My scarred face thanks to a blunt razor didn't help.

The wing commander all public school polish and no decorations, kept interrupting my account of ten days in Brittany until I gave up and kept my answers brief.

Dismissed with a wave, I asked for a razor and a new uniform.

He laughed.

This is the Air Ministry.

We don't issue those.

Collect your pass next door.

Minutes later I stood on the pavement looking like a tramp.

Heading for a family friend nearby, I was stopped by military police, my ragged trousers marking me as a deserter.

I gave them a colourful RF explanation of my recent escape.

They then saluted, apologised, and wished me a good leave.

My father's friend was true to form, and I was supplied with a sharp bladed razor and the loan of a suit.

At Euston there was a three-hour wait for a train to Southport, but waiting was not the problem now.

I was nearly home.

That evening I told the whole story to Joan for the first and only time and she sat enthralled.

When I finished she took both of my hands in hers and said with a straight face but laughing eyes And I suppose they want you to pay for the typhoon.

I knew I was home.

And that story was from Rory Stark.

That's all for this episode.

If you've got a family story you'd like to be considered for the show, please email it to us at WehaveWays podcast at gmail.com.

Please label the email Family Stories so we don't miss it.

Goodbye for now.