He didn’t die in conflict. Wellum went on to be a pilot
trainer for the remainder of the war before working in the City until he
retired to Devon. He died just two years ago aged 96. So, why is it so sad?
Wellum was clearly utterly at one with his Spitfires. Being
up in the clouds was more than life defining; it was his life. It became
the only time he felt true contentment.
Nothing came close to fulfilling him before or after
compared to flying that plane. As he writes in the epilogue, he cursed the
fact that he had reached the pinnacle of his life before the age of
twenty-two. Though physically intact, he’d been destroyed by the war.
Once in the air he lets his mind wander. He goes back to his
childhood days fishing for crayfish and minnows on sunny days beside River
Wey in Surrey. Being alone in a cockpit at 20-30,000 feet he likens to
being beside the stream; it’s peaceful, he writes, and you can’t be
bothered to worry.
‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to lie in the grass by a fast-flowing
trout stream in Hampshire or Wiltshire, just me and the waving reeds, water
meadows, buttercups and grazing cattle? Perhaps a nearby pub with good
English ale and chunks of bread and cheese. Yes, and picked onions, a whole
bloody great jar of them and it wouldn’t matter a damn if I didn’t catch
any trout.’
Even in combat he is transported to that place.
‘I look up and see them (German fighter planes) as they half
roll and start to come down into the dogfight, fresh for the fray. God, is
there no end to them? The sun glints on their wings and bellies as they
roll like trout in a stream streaking over smooth round pebbles. Trout
streams, water meadows, waders, fast flowing water, the pretty barmaid at
the inn. Dear Jesus, why this?’
Geoffrey Wellum 1921-2018
|
No comments:
Post a Comment