John Martin - A Raid Over Berlin

Now the war was over in Europe and the Far East, life in the RAF was quite different. The terrific pressures that had been imposed upon all the military leaders to bring victory were now over, but our civil leaders had to face the problem of getting the millions of people who had either been conscripted into service or had volunteered to join the armed forces, back to what they had been fighting for◦– a normal peaceful civilian life. For many reasons this had to be a slow and carefully controlled process, known as demobilisation, and everyone other than the regulars were given a demobilisation group number. Age and length of service was considered to determine this. The lower the number the sooner release was granted. I was twenty-three and had joined up in September 1941, so I was allocated group 44. The slow pace of demobilisation caused discontent for those wanting to get back to civilian life, and this must have created a bad atmosphere for the regulars, who formed only a slim minority, wanting to get on with their chosen career.

I was content to stay at Cranwell for the time being. The living accommodation that we were lucky enough to acquire proved to be very satisfactory. Adelaide got on very well with our landlady and found plenty to do while I was on duty. Weekends were always duty free, so we could visit her parents if we wished or could visit Lincoln, Newark or Sleaford. Not on a spending spree as there was nothing to buy.

There did come a temptation to give up this comfortable life when it appeared on Daily Routine Orders that experienced aircrew were required as volunteers to take part in what came to be known as the Berlin Airlift. Some of the now redundant heavy bombers were having to be used to take vital supplies to the British Sector of Berlin, all land access being denied by the Russians. There was a good bounty payable, but it also entailed a three-year engagement. This and the appreciation of how comfortable my life was at Cranwell◦– I certainly would not be able to come home to my wife every evening◦– easily outweighed my desire to get back to flying duties.

The full wisdom of my decision was not revealed until years later, when the number of aircrew who lost their lives while carrying out that long operation was revealed; it was considerable but seemed to get little official recognition. It appeared I had, once again, made the right decision.

I was demobbed in December 1946. My RAF training had taken over two-and-a-half years, had involved hundreds of hours of tuition and Britain’s resources, but had ended abruptly, on only my third flight in anger. But I had completed the task for which I had been trained.

As air crews we were all too aware of the time ratio between training and operational flights. We used to say, ‘The Air Ministry say that all the training given to air crew was worth it◦– even if you only managed to drop just one load of bombs on Germany.’

They never mentioned about getting us back home afterwards though.

As for my time behind the wire, I suppose you can benefit from anything life throws at you; the experience. The comradeships were a big positive from my time in the POW camps; when it was all over, of course, while there, you hated every day of it. But when you come back, you think of the people you knew there, what characters they were.

It’s always been on my mind, how lucky I was to have been blown clear of that aeroplane when I was just twenty-one years old and all set to die. I often used to wake up in the night thinking about it all but I’m a very positive person; others didn’t fare so well afterwards. But a lot of them went through far worse than I did.

As well as my demob suit, I came out of the war with some recognition for risking life and limb as my time in Bomber Command earned me the 1939-45 Star. I also became a life member of the Caterpillar Club, which has only one criterion for membership◦– that you must have saved your life by the use of a parachute.

My crew are always on my mind. I especially think of them on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, but I also think of them all the time. I have remembered them all my life and I will never forget them.

I once went to St Clement Danes Church in London, which is a memorial church to all those who have lost their lives serving in the RAF, and there’s a great big book of remembrance there; each day they open it to a different page. Quite by coincidence, when I visited it was open on a page containing the names of some of my crew. It really got to me; it made me really cry.

For the record the names of my fallen friends found in that book are:

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