My uncle was a top turret gunner gunner in various B-17's during the second great war. He flew out of an airfield on the outskirts of Polebrook north of London. This is a story, part of which was previously in the form of a letter that I wrote him a few years before he died, about my trips to that airfield while on a business trip to England.
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| The Lock |
The British trains are new and much quieter than the the ones that you traveled on from King’s Cross to Peterborough decades ago. But the countryside is much the same and it passes by, the power poles zipping past at a blurring retina detaching pace, the same as they did then. I am seeing years past in your eyes as you described this so long ago. The wooden seats are no more and the noisy rattle of the ancient passenger cars are gone. The loneliness of that trip is no less; the boisterous chatter and raucous laughter of comrades-in-arms are not there anymore but it is just as lonely nonetheless.
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| The Alton to Waterloo train |
Peterborough has grown since the war although, as you mentioned before, nothing really changes very much in England. The trains stop just as they did during the war, but now they haul goods and cargo; they haul tourists and travelers. Not so long ago the noisy cattle cars with wooden seats delivered boys to man the air fields commanded by Americans and Englishmen across the English countryside from Weymouth to just past Norwich.
I had intended to travel to Polebrook from Peterborough, but you can’t get there from Peterborough, not by train anyway.
My trip began this morning in Alton; destination Polebrook. The ticket agent behind the thick glass window with the little hole for speaking searched the computer database for Polebrook but came up dry. “Peterborough is the closest you can get by train.” She assured me in her thick Irish-English matter-of-fact tone.
When I walked from the Grange Hotel to the Alton train station that morning I was certain that I would begin by taking the train from Alton.
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| Train station at Alton |
My first hint that things can go awry is the ticket agent’s further assurance that my first leg of the trip, from Alton to Aldershot will be by bus.
Although I had taken the train to Waterloo Station just three weeks before, today it was not to be. Today crews are making repairs to the section of the track somewhere between Alton and Aldershot so there will be no trains from Alton to Aldershot today.
My first hint that the average Englishman is shorter that the average American tourist comes when my scalp scrapes across the ceiling of the bus. I take my seat where my knees come in rude contact with the back of the seat in front of me. It is then that I spy the stairwell to the upper level of the bus. My scalp scrapes to the first step.
The average American tourist I guess, is expected to sit in the upper level, where the ceiling and seats are more accommodating. But this is England, where remnants of courtesy and tradition still exist. The driver did not demand that I “get in the top of the bus.”
Arriving at the Aldershot station I disembark from the bus and board the train. At Waterloo Station I exit the train and make my way to the entrance to the underground. There a sign and red plastic ribbon inform me that this particular entrance is closed for repairs.
I ask several fellow travelers and persons with official-looking clip-on badges and identification and I get several different opinions as to how one might enter the underground from Waterloo Station. One of these opinions involves exiting the station by way of a bridge that crosses a very busy street. Halfway across the bridge I miss a micro-sign that would have directed me down stairs that would take me to the sidewalk. Finding nothing promising at the end of the bridge I double back and spot the sign. At the street level I find an entry to the underground behind the stairs. It is obvious that British officials took an American tactic and hid the damned thing for security reasons.
Once I am in the underground I figure out from the maps on the wall that by taking the North Line to Oxford Circus, where I board the Victoria Line I can reach King’s Cross. A short walk from the Kings Cross underground exit takes me to the King’s Cross train station, where the next train to Peterborough is boarding.
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| Railway station at King's Cross |
During the war there were 126 US Army Air Force airfields and 11 command headquarters scattered across England. There was one that interested me, the one at Polebrook.
Outside the Peterborough train station I discover that there is no bus to Polebrook.
There were plenty of buses during the war. Olive drab buses positioned themselves at the curb to disperse members of the 351st Airborne to those bases that can be reached most efficiently from Peterborough. But these buses are doing other things now. They have been dispersed and cannibalized to be the steel that are now ships, cars, antique metal toys and long buried staples and razor blades.
Today I will go to Polebrook in a hire car driven by a young Englishman of Pakistani decent. He tells me that he can take me there for about 20 pounds. The taxi, classically British, even though new, looks, well, British. I find myself wondering as I admire it if any of the steel from those buses that carried members of the 351st Airborne is part of this taxi. It is in this vehicle that I leave the busy world that is strung along the line from Alton, Waterloo Station, King’s Cross and Peterborough.
“Polebrook?” the driver asked in that undulating British-Pakistani accent.
“That’s the one.” I responded
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| My first ride to Polebrook |
Polebrook is nothing less than a community with character and tradition. Before I could appreciate it, it was behind us and we were again on a quiet lonely road somewhere in the English countryside. I did not count the twists and turns on this narrow little road in the woods, but on the last one we came upon an intersection and a signpost with several wings, one of which announced a memorial to the 351st Airborne of the 8th Air Force 1 kilometer to the right.
The hush that hung over this sign was as thick as a morning mist and the taxi coasted to a slow halt in the secluded parking lot. The driver waited while I got out of the car and walked to the lonely granite monument that sat next to the tree line at the end of a field of freshly mown hay. As I stood there seeing that polished granite stone with a profiled B-17 bomber at its base, I was certain that I stood with ghosts. I’ve no doubt that they were the ghosts of those who had died on one of the 311 missions that were flown over Germany from 1943 to 1945 when that silent hayfield launched those 311 missions but received only those who returned. Some lived to fly again, some survived the long trip back only to die in an unsuccessful landing attempt.
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| Road Sign leading to the Memorial |
The hush that hung over this sign was as thick as a morning mist and the taxi coasted to a slow halt in the secluded parking lot. The driver waited while I got out of the car and walked to the lonely granite monument that sat next to the tree line at the end of a field of freshly mown hay. As I stood there seeing that polished granite stone with a profiled B-17 bomber at its base, I was certain that I stood with ghosts. I’ve no doubt that they were the ghosts of those who had died on one of the 311 missions that were flown over Germany from 1943 to 1945 when that silent hayfield launched those 311 missions but received only those who returned. Some lived to fly again, some survived the long trip back only to die in an unsuccessful landing attempt.
I took pictures of the hayfield, imagining the pockmarks of failed landings amid the hay bale stacks.
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| Part of the memorial |
Something in me wanted to walk that abandoned field and stand where my uncle had stood back in 1943, but the meter was running and the driver looked as though it was time to go. Maybe it was appropriate that I leave, for maybe it was right that only hay farmers and those who had experienced that place in time be allowed to walk that ground.
(That was my thinking the first time I went. The next time was a month and a half later, and this time I drove the car, but that is a story for later.)
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| A montage of the memorial at the end of the former runway. The aerodrome is the blip on the horizon at the far right. |
When we arrived in Polebrook he stopped beside a building and asked me if I was returning to Peterborough. I told him I was and he asked me how I would be getting back. I said that I would get a cab later that day and he told me that I would not be getting a cab there because there were none. Looking around at the place I surmised that he was most likely correct in his comment. He asked how long I planned to stay. Realizing where this conversation was going I said that I probably would be no more than 30 minutes. He replied, “look, I’ll turn off the meter for now. When you are finished, I’ll drive you back.”
I offered to buy him a beer and he countered with the offer to buy me one instead. I suggested that he was the one with the idle meter so I would buy it. He asked a passerby where he might find a pub and we were directed to the Kings Arms just around the corner.
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| Sign marking the King's Arms |
I went over and introduced myself and told them why I was there. He said he remembered all right. He said that he could remember the B-17’s taking off and flying around the field till they formed up their group and then they flew off in the direction of Germany. He said they did that until they were all gone. He told me that later they came back and that sometimes he would hear a boom and see smoke from when one crashed. He said that after the war the land was reclaimed and turned into farm land. He said the Perimeter road still had right angle turns where it had gone around the edge of the old air field. He added that since the monument had been installed that it had become a kind of Mecca until recently. He said that caravans of men, some with arms and legs chopped off brought their families to the monument to show them where it all happened. He also told me that there is a memorial at the church in Polebrook and that it honors the Englishmen who died during that war. He commented that it was not much of a monument, not very big at all. He sat quietly for a moment before adding that it is just a cross.
After thanking him for his time and his story I got that overwhelming feeling one gets when he suspects that he has been someplace too long. I told the cab driver that I wanted to take a few pictures and that after that we needed to get his meter started again so that he could make some money. I went outside and took a series of pictures that I could tack together to make a panoramic montage. Then I met the driver at the cab and we drove back to Peterborough.
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| Montage of The King's Arms Tavern in the village of Polebrook. |
If I had a sensation of being connected in some way to that time during the war, the reality of modern day Peterborough certainly brought me back. Looking at the young people walking about in that city it occurred to me that the experience that I had just had over the past two hours would be completely alien to them. It also occurred to me that their attitudes toward WWII was probably the same as mine toward WWI.
The easiest way to get to the older part of Peterborough was to go through the new mall that separated it from the train station. Circumventing the department stores I found myself next to a cathedral that dated back to the 1400’s. I took a few pictures and walked a few blocks before coming upon another cathedral. I suspect that these two structures were probably the only things that had not changed since my uncle had been there.
After about an hour of this I went back to the train station and caught the next train back to King’s Cross in London.
My return to Alton was uneventful with the minor exception of a side trip at Oxford Circus. For a couple pounds I was able to escape the underground and walk around for a few minutes. I found the Palladium where Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has been playing for over 10 years. Nothing else really caught my eye so I went back to the underground entrance to Oxford Circus Station and made my way back to Waterloo Station where I caught the next train to Aldershot. There I would catch the bus back to Alton.
PART II
I made that return trip to Polebrook the end of July.
People I dealt with at the office seemed to expect me to drive myself to work and about. The tell-tale sign I guess was when they issued me the car. For nearly two weeks after that I had driven dutifully between the hotel and the office six miles away, and occasionally to one of the local pubs scattered about the countryside.
I bade them, Polebrook and the airfield of the American 351st goodbye returned to alton.
Now if I had not absorbed enough of the war time aura by now, the Watercress Line was holding their annual observance of VE and VJ Day with their “War on The Line” theme. I decided that this might be an interesting thing to do so I made a note to go down to the train station the next day.
PART II
For whatever reason, my first visit to Polebrook and what is left of the airfield that contributed to the demolition of the Third Reich wasn't totally satisfying. I was obsessed with the place. I could not get enough of it. Even the excellent food in the many pubs that are scattered about could not take the edge off of this overwhelming need to return there.
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| Sign at the Golden Pot tavern |
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| The (haunted)Crown Hotel and Tavern |
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| The Queen's Head tavern |
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| White Hart tavern |
I made that return trip to Polebrook the end of July.
People I dealt with at the office seemed to expect me to drive myself to work and about. The tell-tale sign I guess was when they issued me the car. For nearly two weeks after that I had driven dutifully between the hotel and the office six miles away, and occasionally to one of the local pubs scattered about the countryside.
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| The bar at the Grange Inn |
Last Friday night the bartender at the hotel pulled out a UK road atlas to show me the way to one of the local pubs that serves pretty good evening meals. I borrowed the atlas and studied the highway system around London and I decided that driving should not be too difficult outside of Alton. The second thing that I decided was that I should probably pick up my own UK road atlas.
The next day was Saturday, so after breakfast I walked downtown to the book store and purchased an atlas. About an hour later I made the decision to drive up to Polebrook using a route that I had studied pretty seriously the night before, using the one that the barkeep lent me.
Coincidentally, One of my cohorts at the place I am working introduced me to a couple at the hotel the night before and the gentleman had been involved somehow with the old WWII airfields. During our conversation he mentioned Connington field. He was involved in the re-commissioning of that field. He told a story of an American WWII pilot who came to him one day to ask about an old air field from which he had flown. He had known the field by a previous name, his description drew them both to the conclusion that it was indeed the place now known as Connington Field. He told a story in which he had landed a B-17 whose wheels were lost during a bombing run. He had to land the plane and the remainder of the landing gear had cut two serious grooves in the concrete. He assured the former war pilot that yes, he had seen those grooves and that he had spent a day and a half attempting to fill them with asphalt in order for the field to be useable.
I mentioned the field at Polebrook and I asked him if the aerodrome there was actually there when the 351st Airborne operated that field. He said that it was and that it is essentially in its original structural condition. This intrigued me and is probably the catalyst that triggered my later decision to return.
Driving in England highways is not quite as simple as the UK Road Atlas might suggest. I suppose the blight of the British highway system is the round-about. The round-about is the British version of an intersection. It consists of a circle with several roads connected to it. Once a driver is in the circle he has the right of way. There are several complications to this, however. One of these complications is the not-necessarily-anticipated lane change requirement. In some cases the innermost or right lane may remain in the circle or exit, other times only the left lane is allowed to exit. This requires one to check the exit sign, check his position and at the same time look for passing traffic. If this is not complicated enough, there is the aggressive driver entering the circle who may or may not try to beat you out. There is also the driver behind you, particularly when you are entering the round-about, who is not looking at you, but the approaching car. If he believes he can beat the oncoming car in the circle he unconsciously assumes that you are of the same mindset and unintentionally rear-ends you, inadvertently ramming you into the circle and the oncoming car, causing you to test his original theory. Although I have been warned of this by the more experienced, it has not happened.
Yet.
It is hard to explain this intrigue with Polebrook. It is a place about which I have heard in general terms since my early childhood. Part of it involves my total saturation in English culture and history since I arrived here back in the middle of May. I learned about The Anglicans, the Saxons and England’s inclusion in the Roman Empire in grade schhool as I had Shelley, Byron, Austin, Shakespeare, Winston Churchill and others, but the war in England and my uncle’s being stationed there was a piece of English history to which I could relate. When I heard talk of England, the latter is the part that always came to mind first. So I have enjoyed my visits to the WWII airfield at Polebrook. It brought to life stories of heroism and valor that I heard so long ago.
The aerodrome is huge. It stands as awesome as it must have then.
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| The Aerodrome and other service buildings of the 351st Airborne near PoleBrook |
When I spoke with gentleman at the Grange tavern the evening before he commented that those structures, which once housed B-17’s are now used to store potatoes. It’s the modern version of the old adage of beating the proverbial sword into a plowshare. Huge air conditioning ducts and condensers now adorn the sides of the structure, maintaining an optimum temperature for produce.
The tribute to those valiant fighters of the 351st, that bold granite triangle that juts above the asphalt, actually sits on what used to be the end of the runway. The first time I was there, that chilly rainy day in May, a man arrived and stood silently with hands folded as he gazed upon the memorial. There is commonality among those who visit that place; conversations seemed to begin spontaneously. He initiated it by commenting on the strength exuded by the monument. He was younger than I and I asked him where his home is. He was from Poland. His forebearers had experienced a different side of the war and a different outcome than we, but he was there, reverently paying his respects to that piece of time.
The second time I was there a fellow my age with a younger wife arrived in a taxi. He owned the taxi and the hire car agency that was painted on the side. He and his wife spent a significant part of their free time visiting the many airfields on the English countryside that were once the launch pads for American B-17’s. He spoke gratefully about that great effort that cost some many American men their lives, their limbs or a piece of their emotional well being. When I left, he and his wife were sitting on the bench that is part of the memorial, reading the many inserts of gratitude made by English men and women.
I bade them, Polebrook and the airfield of the American 351st goodbye returned to alton.
Now if I had not absorbed enough of the war time aura by now, the Watercress Line was holding their annual observance of VE and VJ Day with their “War on The Line” theme. I decided that this might be an interesting thing to do so I made a note to go down to the train station the next day.
“The Mid Hants Railway Watercress Line ‘War on the Line’ VE & VJ Day celebrations, to be held 11 & 12 June 2005/1945” was the billing on the program that I received, with the footnote “Long live the cause of freedom. God save the King.”
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| Welcome table Watercress Line "War on the Line" |
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| Station Master |
My ticket was a rectangular piece of cardboard about an eighth of an inch thick, not the thin piece of card with the magnetic tape that is normally swiped through a reader. It was a design that predated even the enigma machine of wartime Germany that so cleverly coded and decoded military messages. This ticket was designed to be read by human eyes and to be punched with the hand operated punch, a method that had been favored even in the days of the horse and coach.
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| Commanders' meeting |
The train finally arrived and I boarded a 1942 vintage passenger car and sat down in a four-passenger cubicle. I shared the compartment with a displaced European couple, who declared themselves to be the victims of the occupation. Across from us sat a father trying to console his son who was bitching because his new Nikes were hurting his feet. The first stop after Alton was Meadstead. I was in time to witness an historic gathering of European commanders who met with none other than Sir Winston Churchill himself.
I spent the rest of the afternoon, or at least the better part of it riding the ancient trains, disembarking from time to time to live re-inactments of times passed. I shared the standing-only cars with displaced war time refugees and others who I believe thoroughly enjoyed their participation in this annual reenactment of this particular piece of the countries history.
During my participation in this adventure I fulfilled my intension of riding in every car pulled by every engine that The mid-Hants Railway rolled out for this event.
My final ride for the day was the passenger car in which I started that morning. I seated myself in one of the compartments, almost certain that it could well have been the very same passenger car in which Harry Potter shared chocolate frogs with his schoolmates on the Hogwarth Express. Well I rode that final train for a long time. I jotted down notes, I looked out the window, I took in the smells of burned coal smoke and spent steam, and I dozed. I don't know how long I dozed but I was awakened by the growling noise one makes when one clears his throat in a particular manner.
I took a moment or two to emerge from the stupor of sleep. I looked up and there stood a figure with high khaki riding pants tucked smartly into knee-length leather riding boots, and a leather jacket. Sitting atop his head was a green steel field pot with five stars mounted on it. His side piece was a pearl-handled revolver. I stared speechless at him for I was convinced that I was at this moment staring into the face of the ghost of General George Patton
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| Sir Winston |
The Watercress Line, a working railway, consists of restored vintage steam engines and rail cars of the pre-WWII and WWII era. Odd organization you say? Not really; think about it. Deep down in the hearts of almost everyone's child psyche is the desire to have his/her very own model train. Here is the ultimate, not just a model but life-sized vintage steam engines and passenger cars. What for? Just for the pure pleasure of their existence. Just imagine real, coal-fired, noisy steamy engines that puff and chug, slowly at first, and the rattling bang of the cars bumping together and then again as the couplings go taut. Then the chugging gets faster and faster until it becomes that purring sewing machine sound of a cruising steam engine. then again perhaps most are too young to remember.
Do you remember those miniature figures, some of which performed simple movements as the model train thundered past? What greater fun than to have real life size trains and, instead of a few mechanical figures, throw in a few genuine warm-blooded action figures, like crusty barking generals,
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| Reviewing the troops |
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| Troops |
and maybe an American army patrol.
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| Steamers |
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| Standing room only |
During my participation in this adventure I fulfilled my intension of riding in every car pulled by every engine that The mid-Hants Railway rolled out for this event.
My final ride for the day was the passenger car in which I started that morning. I seated myself in one of the compartments, almost certain that it could well have been the very same passenger car in which Harry Potter shared chocolate frogs with his schoolmates on the Hogwarth Express. Well I rode that final train for a long time. I jotted down notes, I looked out the window, I took in the smells of burned coal smoke and spent steam, and I dozed. I don't know how long I dozed but I was awakened by the growling noise one makes when one clears his throat in a particular manner.
I took a moment or two to emerge from the stupor of sleep. I looked up and there stood a figure with high khaki riding pants tucked smartly into knee-length leather riding boots, and a leather jacket. Sitting atop his head was a green steel field pot with five stars mounted on it. His side piece was a pearl-handled revolver. I stared speechless at him for I was convinced that I was at this moment staring into the face of the ghost of General George Patton
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| The General |
And he said……
High might.
Sigh…………..
Keen yee tile my, thease tryin’….
Ease eat gang oop een thease dyreekshewn oar ease eat gang book thot wye?
I don’t even know if I responded coherently, if at all, but I do know that I heard my neck crack ever so slightly as I was snatched back in space and time when this particular General Patton boarded that train, to the present at Ropley Station. Just before my arrival I heard George C. Scott whisper from the grave in that whiskey barrel voice, charred by Raleigh, North Carolina’s finest cut, “Hey, what was that?! That weren’t no Patton I ever heard or did! Somebody dig me up so I can slap that son-of-a-bitch!”
Together we figured out that we were headed in the direction of Alton station, where I eventually left the Watercress Line and My WWII adventure behind.
Together we figured out that we were headed in the direction of Alton station, where I eventually left the Watercress Line and My WWII adventure behind.
Well Uncle James, this has been sort of a pilgrimage for me. I wish you could have done this with me. I heard the stories from your mother and from my mother, the pride in your having gone to war in England and flown the missions over Germany, the bitterness over your having to go in the first place. When I was a kid I used to go open the cedar chest when my grandmother wasn’t in the house. I remember looking at your flight jacket and touching it, counting the insignia for each mission you flew. I read the newspaper clippings and I opened the boxes and looked at your medals. You know, whenever I smell cedar I think about that.
So I’m sharing with you what I can. I picked up the map and booklet in Peterborough along with the cathedral souvenirs. There weren’t any souvenir shops in Polebrook, at least none that I found, in fact I doubt that Polebrook has grown much at all since you were there, and that is a comforting thought.
I’m including some soil from the runway that used to be, and if I find it before I mail this package, a small chip of concrete. I chipped it from a pile of rubble that I suspect used to be the runway. I put it in a safe place, too safe apparently. I’m also including pictures of pages from the guest book that is kept at the monument site on the end of what was the runway. I just looked at the prints. I can’t read them from the printed photograph, but the pictures are on the enclosed CD. Don't worry about what pests the soil sample might contain; I nuked it in the microwave at the office.
I took several pictures of the aerodrome and other buildings that still remain from the airfield and spliced them together. They didn’t plot as well as I wanted them to but they’ll work.
I’ll never forget the experience of being there……..
Jim
