Brim Raymond - Pathfinder Pioneer: the Memoir of a Lead Bomber Pilot in World War II

PATHFINDER PIONEER

The Memoir of a Lead Bomber Pilot in World War II

Colonel Raymond E. Brim, USAF (Ret.)

Published in the United States of America and Great Britain in 2016 by

CASEMATE PUBLISHERS

1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083, USA

and

10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford OX1 2EW, UK

Copyright 2016 Raymond E. Brim

Hardcover Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-352-8

Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-353-5

Mobi Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-353-5

Cataloging-in publication data is available from the Library of Congress and the British Library.

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To my beloved wife, Patricia, who made me who I am today with her love, her inspirational courage, and her intellectual curiosity. During the 33 years of our Air Force career she was a devoted and tireless wife and companion, tolerating countless reassignments. With each move she not only created a warm secure home for our family but also enriched our lives, from so many military installations in the U.S., to Japan, to Washington D.C., to Germany, and for decades after we retired. While Pat passed away in 2007 her love and guidance continues to be with me every moment of every day.

A British Perspective

At 4pm on a foggy December day in 1944, an English farmer stood aghast as an American bomber, returning home from a mission, plummeted to the ground in flames before him. All nine airmen on board were killed in the resulting crash and explosion. One of the nine had not seen his family for two years. He would not return to his grieving mother who never recovered from his death. He would not see his 23rd birthday on Christmas Day, nor would he ever meet his son, born a month later to an English girl named Doris. This man was my grandfather, Staff Sergeant Robert (Bob) Lennes Burry from Detroit, and until I was 19, I had never even heard his name.

When my father was two years old, Doris married Alex Searle, my grandfather, who subsequently adopted my father. The past was buried away, silenced, and their lives moved on together as a new family. Doris never once spoke to my father about his American parentage; it must have been easier for her that way. It wasnt until my father was 10 years old, while building a chicken coop in the garden with Alex that he learned the truth.

You know Im not your real father, dont you?

An awkward, one-line revelation from Alex, a responding nod from my father, and the matter was settled and never raised again. There had been clues, enough to raise a young lads suspicions: gifts from a Mrs. Amalia Burry, from America, who had once visited, and monthly insurance cheques from the American Embassy. Doris kept Amalia, Bobs mother in Detroit, updated on my father as he grew, sending letters and photos; but contact gradually became less frequent, until after Doris death at the age of 45, it stopped entirely.

On my fathers 50th birthday, when I was 19, everything I thought I knew about my father and my family history changed forever. I had always been interested in learning about the past, bugging family for stories and information. I knew that on my fathers side, we were a typical local family; ties with the small town in Cambridgeshire in which we still live stretching back through the generations. Back in the 1990s, before the town grew, everybody knew everyone else; who was related to whom, and all their business besides. It came as a massive shock then, as we raised our glasses for a birthday toast, to hear our father reveal the secret hed kept from my siblings and myself our whole lives. It came as an even bigger shock when the realisation dawned that everyone else in the family already knew the secret and had been complicit in the duplicity. Now though, after over 20 years, my father had finally found his American family and it was time for us to learn the truth.

I will never forget the first time I visited my grandfathers grave at the American Cemetery in Cambridge, less than an hour from home. It was the absolute silence which made the biggest impression. My grandfather is buried right at the back of the cemetery; in the most tranquil spot, overlooking the woods and fields below. As I knelt by the marble cross, the empty space I felt inside and the unanswerable questions gnawed at me. On that day, I began my journey on a path to find my grandfather, the person behind the face in the black and white photographs. Initially, there was very little available information, but piece by piece, gradually at first then slowly gaining momentum, I moved towards knowing my grandfather. Each discovery added more colour to those black and white images and helped me to see beneath the picture to my lost grandfather beneath.

Bob and Doris met and fell in love while he was stationed at RAF Alconbury, in Cambridgeshire. Despite the distance of 30 miles from his base to Doris home, they tried to do all the things usual for courting couples: visits to relatives, the cinema and the local photographers. Bob came to spend most of his furloughs in our rural little market town of March. He became a regular visitor at Doris parents riverside home, in one of the narrowest and oldest streets in town. I often wonder what the boy from the bustling metropolis thought to such a peaceful old fashioned place and I like to think that it provided him with a welcome refuge and escape from war. Doris brother, John, who was a radar man with the RAF, told me about the Bowie knife Bob fashioned at their bungalow from one of two swords Doris mother bought at a local sale. When reading the inventory of the items returned home to his mother after his death, it is the poignant entry of: Bowie knife therefore, which imparts the sweetest recognition. In time, Bob wrote home to tell his family he had met a girl and they were going to be married. Doris also discovered she was pregnant. After reluctant agreement from her parents, it was decided they would marry after his last mission in December. Bob and his crew had recently transferred to another unit in the hope of finishing up their missions more quickly and were now stationed much further away in Northamptonshire. Doris, eight months pregnant, was now faced with the prospect of infrequent visits; left counting down the days until his missions were over and she could be sure she would see him again. I know Hershels wife received a visit at work from two officers, informing her of Hershels death. However, as they werent yet married, I dont know if Doris was afforded the same consideration. Bob had only been with his new outfit two weeks. I have no idea how much his new commanding officers knew about my grandmother and their future plans. I dont know how long my grandmother waited before she discovered it was in vain, that she would never see Bob again. The sadness of that desperate hope before learning the inevitable and horrific truth, haunted me; fueling my hunger to seek out more of my grandfathers story.