A Story Of Broadland Folk.

Wussername · December 26, 2021

This is not a Christmas ghost story, but of the supernatural that occurred during the early sixties.

George had finished his days work at the fish market on the northern side of the harbour in the Trawl Basin at Lowestoft. The end of a cold day. It was always cold on the exposed market with its sides open to the elements, especially so in winter. Men dressed in yellow oilskins, bibs, and trousers, the clatter of their clogs with metal rims on the wooden soles, their crude banter unacceptable today was simply part of everyday life. George looked down at his swollen fingers, sore and angry after a day of filleting fish. Swollen because of chilblains caused by the hands being constantly dipped into hot water throughout the day. A practice carried out by many as the fingers became numb from the cold. A brief respite with consequences.

He walked over to his trade bike, a piece of sacking laid in the basket, ostensibly to prevent small items falling through, but on this occasion it served another purpose. Underneath the sack were the spoils of a nefarious conduct. Fish, a feed of fish for the family. Dover soles, lemon soles, tasty dabs. To be fried that night, to be eaten that night, not with knife and fork but with fingers only, as befits fishing folk, hungry children licking greasy fingers tingling from the hot flesh. A feast, a treat to be remembered, as would the following day as events unfolded.

The following day dawned and for many it was unremarkable, just another day, for some it would be eventful to say the least. For one young man and his mother it would prove to be an experience neither would forget.

Terry, the young man was an officer in the Royal Air Force, a navigator on Sunderland’s, large four engine flying boats that took off and landed on water. They were used extensively during the second World War for bombing raids on German U-boats and for surveillance a task that the endurance of the aircraft was well suited. In some instances the aircraft would be some 18 hours in flight with a crew of seven or eight men. The flight for which Terry was preparing the flight plan would take them over Pakefield and Lowestoft to their target on the coast, or the Wash to be exact. The bombing range at Holbeach. Thereafter their mission would take them far into the stormy North Sea before returning to base, a harbour in the south west.

The mission had been planned for many months and Terry had an opportunity to speak to his commanding officer. He explained that his family came from Lowestoft and were a fishing family, his father George no longer went to sea but was employed on the fish market handling and filleting fish. He also explained that his mother Ivy was the daughter of a North Sea trawler skipper. Terry then asked if he could have permission to fly over his old school in Lowestoft at a height of between 500 to 800 feet , to impress the children, local pupil done good sort of thing. The officer said that he would look into it. True to his word he came back two weeks later and said that the diversion could go ahead with the understanding that the aircraft would be no lower than 800ft. A request granted as an acknowledgement which recognised the relationship between RAF Air Sea Rescue, The RNLI, The flying boat squadrons, and the local fishermen and their crews.

Terry with delight wrote a letter to the headmaster of the school and of course to his parents telling then that the ETA subject to weather of course would be 1100hrs over the school. George and Ivy were told not to tell anybody. Indeed they did not tell anybody. They told everybody, as Terry was sure that they would.

A few days before departure the flight plan was submitted and in turn RAF Coltishall, Neatishead and other radar instillations along the east coast up to Trimmingham and beyond to Lincolnshire. RAF/USAF Sculthorpe was also informed in part due to the sensitive nature of its mode of operation.

The day came and passed a people and children alike marvelled as the large four engine plane roared over and gasped as it banked over the town.

During the following day somewhere between 2 am and 3 am, that morning with the town in darkness Ivy could hear the sound of a large aircraft, the sound became louder and louder. It was a very distinct sound, the very sound which she had heard the previous day. She ran outside, the tone of the engines had changed. It was no longer a rhythmic sound, it was an uncomfortable sound. The plane seemed labour as it flew over lorne Road, towards Pakefield, and then the sound stopped. Nothing. No flash, explosion, nothing. It was if those brief sequence of events never happened.

Ivy instinctively realised, she just knew, it was the Sunderland that flew over yesterday. And she knew that her son Terry was on that aircraft. She ran up the narrow street of terrace houses towards the Marques of Lorne and then towards the sea. As she got closer she could hear the repetitive lump of the the waves which crashed onto the beach. In the moonlight the white crest of waves and the phosphorescent glitter of the sea belied the true force and cruelty of the cold North Sea.

As she got closer to the end of the beach the waves seemed to enjoy and understand the presence of their power, the manner in which they could intimidate, create fear. A wave started to form a few yards out to add to the chorus of sound, larger than most it seemed to possess a fearsome quality and as it started to curl within its mass, barely distinguishable there was a shape, a shadow, unrecognisable.

A human body.

The sea played with its victim as if it was a toy, at one moment it seemed as if it would release its charge but then at the last minute the reprieve would be taken away and the body was to be returned to the sea forever.

Ivy ventured into the sea, a cold and menacing sea as clouds passed over the moon adding to her fear and apprehension. As if a mocking gesture the sea gave up its victim. The wave receded with a hissing sound, the shingle chattered and giggled as the water left the shore as if in anticipation of another wave. But it never came.

Ivy went over to the inert body. She instinctively knew, she just knew. It was an airman. It was not till she had got closer that her fears were confirmed. She removed his leather helmet, the earphones were still attached, The lower part of his face was covered by an oxygen mask from which hanging down from his face, a black ribbed tube ripped from his life support. She struggled, the mask would not come away, she did not understand the fittings which secured it.

At last it was freed, she looked at the airman. It was her son Terry.

Ivy was frightened, confused as she awoke. Disorientated, desperately trying to distinguish fact from fiction. She was cold, and wet. Soaking wet in her own bed. She felt embarrassed, George was in the other room her family had long since left home.

Her dream was so intense, so real, she simply could not understand. Until she removed the bed clothes and looked down at the sodden bed. In her dream, in the height of her drama, the removal of the oxygen mask she had actually removed the top of her hot water bottle. By this time cold. It was that which wakened her from that dreadful night.

In itself an amazing story of a dream. However it did not end there.

Ivy did not mention her experience to George or her family that day. She felt embarrassed, silly, did not want to cause a fuss.

Later on that morning, a small motor bike entered the road of modest terrace houses. The rider, a young man was dressed in the livery of the General Post Office. At his side was a pouch. Inside a telegram. Ivy was of a generation as were so many, that the telegram boy during the war which was not long gone a distance, brought news, sad news, and was feared by many during those dark days.

Ivy took the small brown envelope, and opened. Inside it read. “Mum. It will be on the news. Plane crashed. Crew saved. We are all safe. Terry.”

The telegram boy asked. As required. “Any reply madam.”

Ivy replied “no thank you” as the tears welled in her eyes as she closed the door.

Not a ghost story , but it was a true story. Vaughan knows the family but must not tell.

Old Wussername.