If you drive past today, you will not see any trace of the old airfield.
At the end of the Second World War, the RAF abandoned the wartime base. After a few years, nature reclaimed the land. The concrete buildings and crews Nissan huts remained untouched, but four East End kids discovered a way through the wire and made it their airfield.
In the summer of 1956, we were the 38 Fighter Group, Tiger Squadron, comprising myself, Squadron Leader Ron, Pilot Officers Keith, Colin and Mick, whose problem was his bicycle chain.
When we went home each night, our crates nestled in the one remaining hanger. Its silver domed roof now covered in grass projected up from the green field like an alien ship. In the shafts of light that penetrated the open doors, dust swirled, and the wind whistled through the front and rear openings. It seemed unfinished, abandoned, yet it was not old. There was no decay and no cracks in the concrete floor.
Each morning dressed in our flying gear, I gave an update in the briefing room on what we could expect to meet that day. Bombed each night by the Luftwaffe, our duty was to protect London. We looked and acted our parts, sat in deckchairs in our long trousers and flying jackets. My dad gave us these; he said they fell off the back of a lorry.
Our planes, two spits and two hurricanes were old bikes that had no tyres, and lollypop sticks for machine-guns. We were the cream of the RAF. On a sortie that morning I bagged three Messerschmitt 109s over the channel.
Life for us during those long hot summer days with no school or homework was perfect. Lunch we ate in the officers' mess; the sergeants' mess belonged to my cousins who acted as ground crew when and if they arrived. They were a lazy lot. Our meals were never much, but we shared our sandwiches. My aunt Daisy, who I lived with, made the best jam butties in the world.
Until the alarm rang, we relaxed in our chairs reading faded 1940s Tit-Bits magazines. It was another world. Then the hand-operated bell clattered and, tally ho, we'd be running at full tilt across the grass to our carts.
Once airborne in our standard formation, we searched the sky for the enemy. Mick, if he could fly, was tail end Charlie. Diving, climbing, banking left and right, we were the heroes of the day, eliminating the enemy and returning unscathed from the battle. A wild and vibrant imagination governed our young lives.
One day, while we tucked into our lunch, the alarm rang. We weren't ready and never flew on empty stomachs Sergeant David, my cousin, ran in to the mess, shouting for us to get out.
We ran outside and in the distance saw a large aircraft approaching our airfield. Goggle-eyed we stood and watched as it descended, its wheels barely missing the chimney pots on nearby houses. What was the pilot doing? He must be mad attempting to land such a large plane on a disused and potholed runway. As it drew near, I recognised it as a B17, a flying fortress. Something was wrong as it drifted to the left, straightened and veered right as if difficult to control. The closer it came, we saw jagged tears in the fuselage, wings and tail fin. The plane's nose was missing, and a man's body draped from what remained of the top Plexiglas turret, its machine gun waving in the slipstream. In awe we watched, transfixed. The plane made a near perfect touchdown right at the end of the main runway. Then the undercarriage collapsed and in a shower of sparks it veered onto the grass. With a trail of debris in its wake it stopped. When no one got out, we ran to help, but it burst into flames.
We stopped, unable to help. Keith shouted, "Call the fire brigade."
We ran for our good bikes and raced to the telephone box by the main gate. First there, I dropped my bike, lifted the receiver and pressed the emergency button. For a few seconds I talked rubbish, but the operator understood the gist of my message.
The Fire Brigade, followed by a police car, arrived. I told the fire officer where the plane crashed. With bells ringing they roared through closed gates sweeping them aside and onto the airfield. In less than two minutes they returned. The fire officer grabbed me by the collar and accused us of wasting their time. No trace of the crashed bomber existed.
The police sergeant said, "If it's a hoax, why are the boys still here?"
The fire officer jumped into his tender, muttering, "Bloody kids."
A police van took our bikes and us to the police station. The sergeant wrapped our knuckles for being on the airfield.
A week passed, and we did not return. Our playground wasn't the same anymore. Sometime later, the police sergeant visited my aunt. In his own time he had investigated our mystery plane.
A damaged B 17 landed at Fairlop on its return from a raid over Germany, crashed and caught fire. A copy of the casualty report stated the aircrew were dead long before it landed.
No one understood what we saw. Dead men flying. Maybe their guardian angels brought them home.
We never went back to our airfield and today one of Tiger Squadron remains ready to fly – well in his imagination.
For the record, I don't believe in ghosts or restless spirits. I have no idea what caused what we all saw that day. Oh and one last thing. When I was in my twenties, I met a woman who said she knew me. Her husband was the pilot of that unfortunate flight and he died on the day I was born.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
