by SandyEm

   ” On the 10thof April 1942 a massive bombing force of 254 British planes took off from various bases in the south and east of England destined for the German city of Essen in the heavily defended industrial Ruhr Valley. Just another night sortie ( the British R.A.F. version of mission !) to try and stem the ever growing tide of the Nazi menace that was engulfing the European theatre of war. At 22.50 a Wellington Mark 1c Bomber No. HB856 left Stradishall Royal Air Force base. On board was my uncle, Captain Harold Butterworth, a 20 year old from Inverness Scotland. A Royal Artillery regiment officer he was now attached to the R.A.F. as a rear air turret gunner and observer. Intelligence had predicted clear weather over the whole bombing run and as with the 3 previous night sorties that week the planes of his 214 Squadron should return in the early hours of the next morning. A complete radio silence would be maintained throughout the flight as was normal procedure, the only exception was in case of a mayday call for help. There was no such call from HB856 and as the dawn broke over the quiet English countryside the loyal ground crew waited for any sign or sound of an approaching aircraft. All the other planes that had departed from Stradishall the previous evening returned to base one by one.

   The news was not encouraging. The weather forecast had not been correct and once over Germany the formations broke up in the heavy cloud and encountered concentrated and accurate anti-aircraft fire. That mayday call never did come from pilot Flying Officer John Murray and as another day greeted the anxious ground crew it was now clear that HB856 had not made it. My Uncle Harry was not coming home this time.” Fast forward to the present and I lifted the phone to recognise my sister Fiona’s exited voice on the other side. `’ I’ve found him. It was on the Internet. I cannot believe it. Our uncle is buried in Germany.” I was stunned and after some small talk sat back to reflect on what was now the beginning of the end of a search to solve a family mystery that had puzzled me for many years. So now I knew where he was I could start to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. What had happened to Harry on that fateful night? I was born 13 years after his death and never had the privelege to know the man and had to rely on stories from his father and brother as I grew up.

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