Library Reference Number: 090
Premonition?
There is a close link between the following aircrew experience and the previous item “High Flight” which appears as No. 89 in this Branch Website Library
The year was 1941; I was aged 18 and a flight cadet at the RAF College, Cranwell. After my initial training at Scarborough and Peterborough (Tiger Moths), I, together with a few others, had been selected to complete our training at the RAF College. The rest of the course was shipped over to Canada to complete their training there under what was called the Empire Air Training Scheme. This was because the Luftwaffe, no doubt still smarting after its defeat at the recent Battle of Britain, frequently sent over what became known as intruders; operating low-level under our radar system in ones and twos, to shoot down any aircraft they came across - training aircraft, aircraft on air tests, returning bombers, etc. Their missions usually lasted no more than ten or fifteen minutes before they scuttled back home again, but often they enjoyed considerable success.
All this did not worry me - I was going to obtain my wings at the finest flying academy in the world, and, if I did nothing foolish, my commission as well. What added to my delight was the fact that my best friend, Aubrey Griffin, would be with me. The same age as myself, of exactly similar outlook on life and full of the enthusiasm of flying. It was about all we talked about. The only slight fly in the ointment was that we had been allocated to different Flights. All courses were divided into two: Flights A and B. Aubrey was in A and I was in B, which meant that we had to room separately. When A Flight was flying, say in the morning, B Flight would be at ground lessons. In the afternoon the roles would be reversed; and so it went on six days per week. The flights came together for early dinner, followed by an hour's private study in our rooms, and then the rest of the evening was our own. Aubrey and I usually spent the time sometimes playing squash or snooker or chess, or, if the weather was fine, going for a walk; incessantly talking about flying and the day's events. Life was good and I had never felt happier.
One evening I wandered along to his room where I found him alone and obviously writing a letter at his desk. I sat on his bed and idly leafed over the pages of a flying magazine while I waited for him to finish. After a while he suddenly turned to me and said, "Ron would you do me a favour?" I responded affirmatively. "You might not like it when you know what it is", he said. I said that I would take a chance on that. "Well you know that I'm an only child." I nodded, I did know that. "And if anything were to happen to me it would just about kill my mother. "Don't be daft," I responded, "You'll be alive and kicking long after the rest of us have gone for the chop." "But I'm serious", he said, “my mother has a horror of receiving the official telegram."
Now that I could understand. My own mother had told me that the most hateful sight in the first World War, was that of the telegraph boy cycling down our street. Everybody would stop what they were doing to see where he was going. It was always bad news, never good - someone killed or seriously wounded or missing-in-action. Aubrey continued'. "Now what I want you to do should anything happen to me, is to phone my folk before they get the telegram. I've written the number on this piece of paper and I want you to put it into your wallet before you leave the room." I protested that what he needed to cheer him up was a drink, but he refused and said that he wanted to finish his letter. So, after doing what he wanted, I went down to the bar alone feeling somewhat disturbed. From that moment on Aubrey seemed to change: from a cheerful, happy go-lucky sort of chap to someone depressed and quiet with something on his mind. I put it down to perhaps going through a difficult phase of the course or merely that he was sickening for some illness.
A few days later when A Flight was flying and B Flight was at lessons, suddenly the air raid siren sounded. Accordingly we all trooped out to the air raid shelters at the rear of the college - a well rehearsed procedure. After fifteen minutes or so the all-clear sounded and we returned to our lessons. It was at tea break when the rumours started - one of our aircraft had been shot down at Barkston (our satellite airfield) and the pilot was Aubrey Griffin. As soon as A Flight returned from flying I approached their Flight Commander for confirmation. "Yes Holton," he said "I'm afraid that Griffin's aircraft collided with a Spit and they were both killed." I then remembered the slip of paper in my wallet and my promise and went cold with horror. In a passage just off the main entrance hall were a few telephone kiosks where cadets could make outbound calls, inbound calls were not allowed. During the five minutes or so I spent hovering outside the kiosks, trying to pluck up courage, I felt that I, too, had changed: suddenly the war had come much closer, the fun had all gone and now all I wanted was to finish the course as soon as possible, to get on to operations and have a crack at the Hun.
Trying to clear my mind of all thought I made the call (I remember it was an Oxford number, his father was a Don or Fellow there) praying that a male voice would answer. Fortunately it did. "Is that Mr Griffin?" I enquired. "Yes, who is that?" "I'm Ron Holton," I said, “phoning from Cranwell." "Aubrey has mentioned you, is something wrong? Is he ill?" "No Mr Griffin, Aubrey is not ill - it's far worse than that. I'm, afraid he was killed this afternoon in a mid-air collision." There was a long silence, then "Would you mind repeating what you have just said." I did so, and said Aubrey wanted me to phone ahead of the official telegram if anything happened to him. Then Mr Griffin enquired was this some sort of joke? I replied that I only wish it were, and that should he wish confirmation he should phone either the Adjutant or the Commandant, which I believe he did. I then found that I was almost literally sick and had no dinner that night.
A couple of days later Mr Griffin arrived at the College with a hearse to take his son's body back for a private funeral, but before he left he sought me out to shake my hand and to thank me for being Aubrey's friend. That was the last I saw of him.
But it was not to be the end of the story: over fifty years later there came a strange sequel which brought it all back to me again. At that time my wife and I were spending a short holiday in Northumberland, and on this particular day we were at Bamburgh Castle. In the adjacent Sir William Armstrong Museum which houses many of that great engineer's inventions, a framed poem on a wall caught my attention. It was the famous poem 'High Flight' written by a young Canadian pilot and quoted by President Reagan at the memorial service for the 'Challenger' space crew: "Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth ... etc." I was so impressed by it that 1 took a note of the publishers and later sent for a copy of the booklet where it was contained. As I read the brief biography of the author P/O John Magee, I was suddenly struck by the method of his death and the date.
I flew to my log books - yes, it was Magee's Spitfire that had killed my friend. Apparently, on the day in question, there were indeed intruders in the area hence the air raid warning. RAF Digby had scrambled three Spitfires to intercept. According to ground reports two of the Spitfires narrowly missed my friend's Oxford aircraft, then on the downwind leg at Barkston Moor, but the third Spitfire (Magee's) went straight into it. The Spitfire pilot managed to bail out but he was too low for his parachute to deploy properly and he died in the ambulance later.
As the title of this story suggests, did my friend have a premonition and forecast his own death only days before, or was it merely a coincidence? I wonder?
Footnote: John Gillespie Magee who collided with Ron Holton's friend as described in the above story, was the author of a poem which is known throughout the world. The story and background of the poem "High Flight" appears as No.89 in this Website Library.