Big Brother

Big Brother

Ron was a tease. Before he went in the RAF we shared a bedroom. I was usually asleep when he came to bed — or pretended to be. I would peep over the bedclothes as he leapt into bed, clad only in a short vest, and giggle on seeing his bare bum disappearing beneath the sheets. If I was awake, he would chat briefly to his seven year old kid brother. One line he sometimes used was, ‘Watch out our kid, there’s a Gerry under the bed.’ I would tremble for a while thinking a German was about to stick me with his bayonet, until he said, ‘It’s your potty, you daft thing.’
Summer of 1941 we had a weeks holiday in Blackpool. At two o’clock on the last Saturday, Ron met us on the promenade, face aglow and a beaming smile as he leaned on the handlebars of his bike.
“So Mr Arthur let you off early then son?” My dad asked.
“Yes, he said I could go at five to twelve.”
Dad looked at his watch. “Crikey. You’ve cycled the fifty two miles from Manchester in just over two hours.”

September saw him setting off for Padgate to start his basic training for the RAF. He was nineteen, and eager to do his bit for his country.

All of the next two years I eagerly looked forward to the infrequent ‘leaves’ of my big brother. One of the most exciting was when he came home with his flying kit. He staggered home carrying a heavy kitbag on each shoulder and a knapsack on his back.
That weekend, I had a rare old time trying on his helmet and goggles, trying to stomp around in his thick fleece lined boots, and being fascinated by three pairs of gloves.
“Why do you have to wear three pairs of gloves Ron?”
“Your fingers would freeze and drop off if you didn’t wear them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Listen our kid. If you touched any metal part of the plane with your bare hand when flying at 20 000 feet, you’re skin would stick to the metal.” He grinned as my jaw dropped open. “This fine silk inner pair is the first layer of insulation, then these warm woolly ones come next, and finally the leather gauntlets.”
I snuggled my small hands into the luxurious warmth of the beautiful gauntlets
and imagined myself holding the four Browning guns in his rear turret.

Sometimes his ‘leaves’ would coincide with his mates, and evenings at home would be full of laughter and tall stories from their respective barracks.
One 36 hour pass he brought home Gerald, the mid upper gunner from his crew. I was entranced listening to his soft Cornish accent as he told stories from home.
Ronald was on leave for my sister’s seventeenth birthday. He surprised her, and all of us by turning up with a lovely silver ladies racing bike.
Apart from cycling, his other passion was stamp collecting. I recall him spending much of one wet weekend meticulously sorting a set of British Empire commemoratives into a new album. He’d purchased both from J E Lea’s in Manchester.
He was not allowed to see me during one leave. I was incarcerated in my parent’s bedroom being nursed with Scarlet fever. A sheet soaked in disinfectant hung over the door, and only my mam was allowed in. We did manage a shouted conversation through the door.

While he was training for flying duties, he was billeted in the cottage of a farm labourer in the tiny village of North Crawley. My mam and me were invited to spend a week with them in the summer of 1942. I was fascinated by the long train journey from Manchester to Bedford. Nearing that town I saw a forest of tall chimneys in the distance.
“What are all those chimney’s for mam?”
“Oh, that’s where they make bricks.”A mine of information was my mam.
A twelve mile bus ride brought us to Cranfield, where Ronald met us on his bike. The next part of the journey was the most novel I’ve ever had. Around the corner, waiting for us was a pony and trap. Joe, the driver, courteously helped mam into the bench seat behind his. I barely managed to suppress a giggle on hearing him speak. I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was saying. Ron rode by the side for the first three miles, then suddenly he was away, shouting as he waved back,
“I’ll tell Mr and Mrs Stanton you’re nearly here.”
Their welcome was almost overwhelming.
“You’m must be tired poor dears. You’re bed’s made up ready and warmed with the warming pan. The kettle’s on and we’ll soon have a cup of tea. I’ve made e some nice ham sandwiches. My Will’s cut em nice and thin from the leg in the larder.

On a couple of occasions, mam and me accompanied Ronald to the station to catch his train back to camp. The first time we travelled into town with him to Central Station. The second time, he wouldn’t allow us to go further than our local Crumpsall Station. Station Road runs parallel with the cutting by the station. He didn’t want us to come onto the platform, so our goodbye’s were said at the station entrance. We waited by the wooden railings at a point overlooking the platform. We couldn’t see him get on the train, because the train came in at the opposite platform. My vision, was of him waving to us through the window as the train pulled out.
I linked mam’s arm as we strode up Station Road on our way to visit Gran and Grandad in Cheetam Hill. I sensed a tension in her as she gripped my arm fiercely.
“We’ll never see him again.” She said tersely.
I was puzzled.
“Course we will mam. He said he’ll have a 48 hour pass in a month’s time.”

The morning of the 21’st June, mam looked upset. After breakfast, I pretended to be engrossed in my ‘Adventure’ comic, but listened in some alarm as mam talked to dad.
“I had such a dreadful dream last night Tom. I saw Ronald. He was trapped in his gun turret, and the plane was burning.”
Though the rest of that day was a blur, young lad’s just get on with life. It was a glorious spring day, and mates to impress.
At the end of the week a smartly uniformed teenager knocked on our door.
“There’s a telegram for Mr and Mrs Bradshaw. Will you sign please?”
I didn’t find this out till I arrived home from school. Mam was white faced and tight lipped, not my usual smiling welcoming mother. The telegram said Ronald’s aircraft had not returned from an air raid on Coblenz on the night of 20th to 21st June, and he was ‘missing’.
“Don’t worry mam. Our Ron’s tough. He’ll work his way back to England, and he’ll be home soon.”
A week later another telegram arrived. ‘We regret…your son Sergeant Ronald Bradshaw has not returned from a mission over enemy territory, and is missing presumed killed. His personal effects will be returned as soon as possible.’
It had an immediate effect on my mother. That gentle soft voiced lady became a wailing banshee. I couldn’t understand it. The effect on me was to giggle. My brother wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be. Dad made me go to my room.
A month later, I accepted the inevitable. I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed my heart out. My hero brother wasn’t coming home after thirteen missions. 1943 was not a good year.

After the war, dad used to take to Manchester Wheelers to see the track racing cyclists. Reg Harris was my hero. I sometimes wonder if it might have been Ron Bradshaw.

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