Certainties – Page 53

Gordon Heselton Veteran Page

Right again. Thought I knew that. Never volunteer for anything. It’s a good idea. And you don’t. Or try not to. And you work on that for a few days but then you succumb. You’re ready to get it on. You enlisted.

It’s 1941. You don’t care. You’re living on East 21st Avenue and it’s time. If you look like a clown in a circus it doesn’t matter. There’s something important here.

427 Squadron RCAF. Of course it is. Take your pick. Emden. Hanover. Berlin. Stuttgart. The whole smozzle. Fly your kite and expect to get through. It’s 1943 and these Officer types have enlisted you. Pilot Officer. You got through.

For some reason, and for years, you yourself think about it. They Gazetted you a DFC and Christmas wasn’t even here yet. And you’re still wondering, who the heck was it? Bit of a mystery there. Bit of a genius up there in the ‘tumbling mirth’. Stupid expression. That much is obvious. They don’t hand these DFC things out on street corners. You were less than modest. You had to be drawn out.

You made it. That’s the big thing. 30 big ones and thank you very much. Combat flying. I hate that word “combat”. It was sort of like how the Americans talked. Great flyers and very brave.

Anyway, I came back home and they buried me in Burnaby with by beloved War Bride. Good place to have them do that for you. Love Burnaby. Served us well sixty-six years. Okay , maybe a few less. It’s our children. And our children’s children.

Thanks for flying Heselton bombers. We’ll get you to where you’re going and get you back. It’s what we do. We’re good and we’re lucky, but most importantly good. And lucky. We always fly high. If there’s one thing the Heselton bomber would like to do it’s fly higher!

Lets get in the clouds together!

2014 Heselton update. Veterans hospital Burnaby aetat. 94

Things were fuzzier then, but let’s not forget.

RHW Veteran Page

Raymond Hathaway Wilson. You’re 22. It’s 1974 and you’ve been dead 30 years. It’s tough. And you don’t like it. If you were alive now in 2014 you’d be 92 and that’s old, but if you’d made it it’s quite possible you could still be around because longevity runs in your family. Your dear mother lived to be 104. Even if you didn’t see it.

It’s possible, Mr Wilson, you could be creaking around even now and making a mess of things in your kindly old man way, but they’d only be small messes and no bother because you’re an old man. You’re ancient. And you were in the war. Everybody loves you because you’re so cool.

We don’t know that much about you. We know your kid brother. He’s not getting any younger, but neither are you. Both of you are from Peachland, BC. It’s a nice little town. Been there. Nice little obelisk war memorial on a nice patch of grass right in front of the lake in downtown Peachland. The Cenotaph. Your names on it, Raymond. Pounded into the white marble. I know you’re thinking, “Why would my name be there?”

They’re still making movies about your war. I know. It wasn’t your war. It was just a job you were doing. You were attached to 51 Squadron flying out of Snaith, Yorkshire. Snaith? What’s that? It was an RAF squadron, but you were in the RCAF, Hathaway. How come? You’re very good at what you do.

Handley Page Halifax Mk III. Good plane. Sturdy craft. Liked by all. Four Bristol Hercules XVIs. Lots of power. Seven guys and the plane. It’s ten after ten on a Thursday night and you’re airborne. Your mission is bombardment. The Fatherland of mirth. It’s Nuremberg, wherever that is.

As the bomb aimer you’d be up front with a fine, unobstructed view through the Perspex of all below. Except you were flying at night. How did that work, Raymond? What a job you had to do. It’s absolutely stunning. Good show.

There wasn’t much to do in Snaith. If it wasn’t for this war it’s unlikely to be a place you’d ever pass through. These days nobody can even find Yorkshire, much less Snaith. Disappeared off the map they have! Up above the hump somewhere there near the east coast and a good line east to the target. There’s always a reason. It’s the Air Force.

It’s one o’clock in the morning. Flying on and on.

“Five minutes to target, Skip.”

“Five minutes.”

Then something happened.

If none of seven guys get out obviously catastrophic things have hit. All that training. All that camaraderie. The resolve and casual, unobtrusive bravery because it’s your job. A big wipe out. The entire crew. It’s just as upsetting now as it was then.

It’s a remember moment.

November

That’s right. Just like last year. And every other year. Always the same. Always November. November had a rough childhood. That’s why she’s the way she is. Or he as the case may be. She or he, makes no difference. Kind of grumpy, dark, dangerous and irascible. But how would you feel if you were the eleventh of twelve months and all the good things have been taken? And all you’re left with is this stuff. November’s stuff.

You might feel pretty good. You might be happy with it.

It really doesn’t matter any more. November can’t roll back the clock and be some other month. You have to live up to who you are! Go for it! Be dark and so what if your siblings think you’re a disgrace? At least December has Christmas, is the logic. What’s November got? It’s hopeless.

Of course it isn’t hopeless. When November starts the days’ll keep coming and before long you’ll be looking at the end of this crappy month! Hallelujah!

But wait. November is also lovable. Sure it is. It’s a fine month and it’s there for you no matter what you’re doing. You’ll get there. Impressive rain. Wind. Fog. Mist. On and on. Cold enough to turn the temperature up. And now, at 3:20 pm, the sun. For ten seconds. So it’s lots of variety. What’s wrong with that?

Someone piloting a vehicle drives right over the sign suggesting drivers move to the right around the little traffic calming circle right down here at the intersection. Shears the steel post the sign’s on clean off. And leaves a bit of vehicle to kind of lie in state beside the massacred sign. Long gone. Dude! You forgot your fender liner!

It’s too dark! It’s only 5 o’clock in the afternoon! How do you expect me to see anything? Darn November anyway. Darktown.

4:15 pm. The day after next. It’s the hour of the fox sparrow. He or she, as the case may be, or descendants of, have shown up here on the upper deck at this time of year every year for years. A lot of years. Word gets around. Pecking around in the potted plants for the good stuff. Yum. There she is again. Or he. I better look this up. Every November it’s the same. There’s also a lot to be said for consistency.

November’s been around for a long time. It isn’t going anywhere so hop on.

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