Dem
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GOP
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Today, we hear from T.W. in Norfolk, England, UK:
I would like to submit some of my father's story for posterity, should anyone be interested in someone from the U.K.
My father, John, was an absolute polymath; there was nothing he couldn't do or learn if he put his mind to it. He was the first of four kids, born in the early 1920s to a working class family living on the edge of London's very poor East End. Grandfather was a locksmith (apparently famed for breaking into the Bank of England—at their request, when they'd lost their keys!) while grandmother stayed home. Lacking money and luxuries, the children made their entertainment from found and secondhand items, and my father developed an interest in electronics and cycling (he once cycled all the way from London to Cambridge (62mi/100km) as a young man—I don't know why!). All the children were gifted with intelligence, although my grandfather certainly did not permit my aunt to go to university, which she was more than capable of doing. Rather, all were required to go out to work at the first opportunity.
As the 1930s wore on and events in Europe became increasingly concerning and the ultimate outcome was obvious to all, even without the benefit of a crystal ball, my father decided to join the military rather than wait to be conscripted. He chose the Royal Air Force because he didn't want to be an infantryman (as my grandfather had long suffered from the aftereffects of being gassed in the trenches in World War I) and the Navy just felt too claustrophobic for him. So join the RAF he did, and after training at St. Andrews RAF base in Scotland, he rose through the ranks to become a Flight Sergeant and became a pilot flying Fairey Battle bombers.
This was NOT a good airplane. It was commonly said by my father and his compatriots that it was slow and cumbersome, was provided with inadequate defenses and shielding, and could be shot down with a pea-shooter. In fact they were already obsolete in 1937, but in the early part of World War II, Britain had to use whatever it could get its hands on. My father said that for every sortie—either for bombing runs or photographic reconnaissance purposes—the number of crews returning would decrease every time. He truly believed each flight was going to be the one where his number was called. He had been offered a commissioned rank—a promotion to captain—but my grandfather forbade him accepting it, saying it was not suitable for a family of their background to rise above their station. Plus, my Dad was also put off by the costs involved. To this date, my aunt is still indignant about my grandfather's attitude.
Thankfully, as the squadron dwindled towards nothing, the higher-ups in the RAF realized that my father was excellent with electronics, and he was transferred into research and development, where he stayed for the rest of the war. He was put to work developing the RADAR systems which ultimately proved so crucial to turning the tide of destruction that the Luftwaffe was intent on raining down on Britain. I remember him telling me a story of an incident whereby an experimental mobile RADAR unit he had been building at RAF Cranwell was taken out for testing, mounted upon a military car. The aerials were required to be erected and then dropped before moving around and on one occasion they set off with the aerials extended, drove under and brought down some power lines ,and promptly plunged an entire region into darkness. The crew were unharmed—rubber wheels, Faraday cages and all that—but they quickly scampered back to base without ever admitting their responsibility.
On another occasion, towards the end of their service, a colleague had taken the opportunity to "liberate" useful supplies that were going to be thrown out, and had filled up a car with the relevant contraband, only to discover that these supplies were not in fact surplus and were urgently needed. All hands were required to hide the car and recover the supplies back to a secure compound at the base while the guards were otherwise occupied (or in on it, I can't quite remember!). While my father wasn't involved in the "liberation," he certainly sorted out the "repatriation" to the rightful locations.
It is a comfort to me, and I related this in the eulogy at his funeral, that to the extent that dad helped build what was then cutting-edge technology aimed at detecting the enemy, it was done in order to prevent them bombing and killing innocent civilians. So, he almost certainly helped save far more lives than were ever lost on his bombing raids when he was a pilot. Not that he would have borne any responsibility for those lives, of course, but there are certainly many many people alive today who would not have been, had he not been transferred to RADAR research at the point when he was one or two sorties away from near-certain death. This is the thing that I am most proud of about my dad.
In post-war life my father worked with Professor Joe Rotblat (of early Manhattan Project and conscientious objection fame) and apparently turned up on one of the KGB's lists of useful people they might have wanted to recruit, although I have no evidence they ever approached him. He was apparently even offered a role at either Los Alamos or an associated academic institution, but turned it down. But for him disliking the New Mexico climate I might have been an American! He was a lifelong member of Labour Party (to the horror—somewhat confusing, considering their background—of my grandparents) and would have detested the current U.S. president with every fiber of his being. Thankfully, he didn't live long enough to see the first term, and thus was spared that particular frustration.
Dad lectured in physics and microelectronics at a British University, despite never having formally obtained a degree of his own. Oh, and while also finding time to climb multiple Alps, be on the reserve list for the first successful Everest expedition, be a Fellow of the Royal Photographic Society, a builder of linear accelerators used in research for cancer treatments, entering ballroom dancing competitions and being a Ham Radio enthusiast (call sign G4FQS I think) he also ran multiple Jazz Big Bands over the years: you could stick him in front of any instrument and he would be proficient at it in no time. Sadly I did not inherit that tendency.
Although he was rarely present in my childhood, being busy beyond belief in a way that upset my very easily frustrated mother, as an adult I could talk to him on any subject and come out better informed, and I've missed him every day of my life since he passed away at 92 in 2013. Even in his hospital bed, he was making plans for the next things he could achieve. Although he definitely wasn't ready to go, his was a life well-lived and full, and I'm pretty sure heaven has better RADAR now.
Thanks, T.W. (Z)