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Page 4 LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313: THE VIC POPPA STORY “TRAPPED IN THE TAIL BUBBLE” 1944





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LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313:   VICTOR POPPA “TRAPPED  IN THE TAIL  BUBBLE”  MAY 27/28,1944

alan skeoch
Oct. 2019

This was  HX 313, The Blonde Bomber, 424 Tiger Squadron, RCAF
Bomber Command, Skipton on Swale, Yorkshire, England


Each of the survivors in HX 313  had his own  struggle  with death on the night of May  27,1944.
The most detailed account was sent to me  by  Victor   Poppa who was George Freeman’s
best friend and a fellow air gunner.

This  is  Victor Poppa, 22 year old  tail gunner in HX 313.
I was able to interview  him several times between 1984 and  1987.
He figured  he was a dead  man when HX 313 was heading
to the earth ablaze and  pilotless.  Survived. Eventually Victor sent
me  his diary of his  war experience.  Long and detailed with
many humourous sexual experiences.  It will take  some  time
to convert to digital but I will do it.  Victor was George  Freeman’s
best friend through  1943 snd 1944.  Victor cried when he was
told of George’s death in 1945.  Five of the  eight man crew of
HX 313 bailed out and  survived.   Three did not.  George was
one of the three who died.

VICTOR POPPA

“Dear Alan,

Your letter came  to me approximately three weeks ago, and upon opening  and reading the first paragraph, I could not talk.
My throat constricted  and  I  had to cry.   It was 40 years ago this day (letter written May27, 1944), that we  were preparing for a
raid on a town in  Belgium…Borg Leopold.  This camp contained 13,000 German troops who had  been fully trained
and were to be moved  out the following  day.  To keep these  troops out of their air raid shelters and  above ground our
air force  planners arranged for the RAF to overfly Borg Leopold and  to continue on to  bomb Achen.  This force 
consisted  of  some 200 Lancasters. The Germans at this time went into their air raid shelters.  Then another force of some
45 Halifax bombers were routed  over our target.  They then made turn and continued on to bomb  Dusseldorf.  Again the
Germans went under to their shelters.  Then we came along…Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF with 333 aircraft which  included
424 Squadron Halifax’s ardour aircraft Q.B. – B – Hx313.  QB were the letters of our Squadron.  B was our  airport letter in the 
Squadron.  HX 313 was the serial number of our aircraft.”

“We were to bomb  from three levels.  The first level was  9,000 feet; second level was 10,900 feet; third level or wave was
11,900 feet.  We  were the third level.  Each wave consisted of 111 and each aircraft carried 18 x  500 pound bombs.
The  raid was to last for ten minutes.  As I  found  out later this raid was a classic for night bombing accuracy.  We  killed
8,500 German  soldiers in ten minutes with hardly any casualties the Belgian civilian  population.”

Note Made 1984: At this point Victor Poppa explained the routine events  of a  bomber operations day  from briefing to
a special meal of bacon and eggs.  As the day wears on the crew begin  to get nervous.  Some write  letters.  George  Freeman
wrote to a girlfriend  (platonic by sound of it) and  sounded  cheerful.  Faking perhaps.  (see Georges’ letters later). 
Some even preferred to write their last wills and  testaments.  Not George  or Victor that I could tell. As evening approaches
the crew put on their flying suits.  Victor loaned  his fur lined  suit to Bob Irwin as his feet got freezing cold…moreso
than the rest of the crew. Victor prefers the electric  flying suit as it take less space in the tiny tail gunners bubble. One 
of the most moving snapshots sent was taken surreptitiously from the crew truck.  It shows a corner of the truck
windshield and  off in the distance silhouette  against the skylines HX 313, the Blonde Bomber.

“Into HX 313 we go, each to his position.   Eric and our passenger  Bob Elliott, co pilot;  Moe, our engineer; Ken to his bomb
aimer’s position;  Bob, our navigator; and Wilf ,our wireless  operator;…all accounted for. Then George  and  myself  to our 
gunners bubbles…George as  upper middle gunner and me as tail gunner.  Eric  goes through the check  list and soon we
are taxiing around the perimeter track to the main runway.  In  position. Eric advances the throttle and we are on our way.”

Note:  Liftoff is  extremely dangerous  as HX 313 is loaded with bombs  and  high  octane fuel.  An error can detonate the load.
There would  be little chance of survival.  The crew knows this…they have seen  it happen.

“We are soon at altitude. Bob, our  navigator, has given Eric  a course and suggested so that we can arrive as scheduled.
All of the previous aircraft have stirred things up.”  (Perhaps German soldiers in Bourg Leopold will be  out watching
the bombers overflying their camp.) “Ken  (bomb aimer) is now in  his position for  bombing as we start our run.  He 
gives Eric  course directions…left, left, right, etc.  We  are  now but a few miles from the  target when Ken says, “Vic, there  is
a JU 88 below us.  I stand  up and try to see under our aircraft but cannot.   Eric  is asked  to  drop a wing so  George can
see.   He can’t see it either.  Ken is asked to give Eric evasive  action  instructions if necessary.  Just then there is  a
horrible explosion in our left inside motor.  HX 313 lurches  up as if struck  by a gigantic hammer.  Flames  run down  our
left side.  Then a few seconds later there is the clatter of machine gun bullets and  cannon shells slamming  through our
aircraft.  The plexiglass nose is shot out but the bombs are secure.”

“Our bombe did not explode.  There were  fires in from front to rear.  The inside  of much  of the plane was cherry red.
My first thoughts were: ‘You have been waiting for this and now  it has finally happened.’ I called on the Intercom
but received  no answer, only static.  HX 313, however, was still flying in a straight line.”

“I pulled off my flying helmet, opened my turret doors, reached for my parachute and snapped it to my chest. I stayed in my
position because  I saw  no parachute go by the tail.   Then,  a few seconds later, I saw  one.  It was open and  on its side
parallel to the ground  just missing the  port rudder and fin. Then I decided to go.  I swung my turrets 90 degrees in the
fuselage and tried to go  out but couldn’t because of the fire and wind.  I tried twice to no avail.   By this time the ground
was appearing quite close.  I could tell from  the fires that to bail out from the aft fuselage exit would have entailed too much 
time and  by then it would be too late anyway.  So I sat there waiting for my end.  The aircraft then went into a  flat spin.
My turret twisted  free and I was flung out by the brute force.  My leg, however, was stuck momentarily under my leg guard.
I could feel my knee pull right out of its socket.   Then my leg came free.  I was falling flat on my back.  I looked on my
chest for my parachute  and it was not there.  The parachute had been pulled away for my chest by the wind force and was
 nowhere feet from my face and above.  Pulled on the
harness  and brought the parachute down close enough so I could  grab  the D ring and pulled. It opened with sharp snap.  A pain
knifed through my groin, I put my arms above my head, grabbed the harness and  pulled thereby  relieving the pain.  A few
seconds later I saw  the ground coming up real fast. I felt as though  I was an arrow.  I hit the ground hard  and collapsed
with my parachute falling on top of me.  I am  sure the chute had  opened  at less that 1,000 feet and our aircraft had been
at 11,900when we were first hit by the flak and  then shot up  by the JU 88.”

“I managed to get onto my feet but I could not feel  anything  from the waist down…felt like metal bands were clamped around
my ankles and knees.   I was standing balanced as though on stilts.  Just t hen I could hear motors screaming…an aircraft
in its death sieve.  I Dropped flat to the ground.  It is amazing how close you think you are to the ground, as  if you are being
pulled down tight, pressed into the grass.  This aircraft hit a few fields away and  exploded.”

“All of this happened at approximately 2 a.m. on the 28th of May, 1944.  After the explosion I found I couldn’t walk but moved with
a painful shuffle.  I moved away from the area slowly.   At wire fences I would put my body through and  then with my hands pull my legs  through.
I moved along in this manner until the dawn started to glow.  Then I made my way  into the centre  of a wheat field where  I  lay down
and fell into a deep  sleep. I awoke at noon hour with the sun shining down at me.   I made my way out of the field and crawled  under
a tree.  I took off my electric suit and found I  had suffered some  spinal chord damage and had torn open my left leg and buttocks.
The  leg was swollen twice its normal  size and black  and blue.  I also had torn muscles and  ligaments.  I crawled  to  a farm house
where the farmer  was kind but reluctant  to hide  me.   He gave  me water and milk to drink.  We were advised in England never
to impose upon these people.   I they showed willingness, fine.   If not, leave.  If we were caught with them they would suffer
Grievously.”

“My legs were starting to stiffen up and  the pain was increasing.  I made  my way to another field where I lay down and rolled and rolled
in agony.   I was this way well into the afternoon.   Finally I felt that I must get  some assistance.  On my knees I made my way  
back to the  farm house and indicated I  would like police assistance.  While waiting, a Belgian doctor gsve
me an injection of some sort but it had no effect.  I gave the farm woman all of my escape  money and shortly two Luftwaffe
NCO’s came  in an automobile.  I was placed in the  back seat with one  NCO and because I  could not bend my  legs I had
to lay across his body.”

“I was driven to our target the previous night.  There was one room left standing where I was deposited on a  bed.   Despite all
of the  killing we had done I was not mistreated.  I was given a bowl of greasy stew which i could not down.  Later, I was visited
by a German medical officer   All he did was rant and rave  at me in German.   Although I Felt he was going to strike me, he did not.
Three days later I was taken outside and placed in the back of a truck with four caskets.  A German NCO pointed to one and
said “Komerad  Irwin. This was our navigator Bob Irwin.  I gave a negative response.  He then pointed  to the casket on my right
and said “Kamerad Wakely”.  This was the coffin of Wilf Wakely.  Again I gave a negative response .  I was not questioned about the 
third caskrt. This one must have been George. The fourth  was empty as I had moved it with my foot.  At that  time I did not know George
was dead.   It wasn’t until I returned to England after the war  was over that I got word from RCAF records that George had  been
killed.  This left me stunned as  Hank (George)  and I were real close friends.”

Note:  Victor  Poppa’s account closed the file on the  last flight of HX 313.   He was the last person to get out of the aircraft.  All had
been able to get out one way or  another, except for George Freeman.  Two who got out were killed when they  hit the ground.
The rest survived. George was  likely killed  when  the JU 88 strafed the plane.  One of the crew remembers George’s legs hanging down
as he worked his way past the upper turret to reach the escape hatch.   The nagging thought that George was remained  alive because
gunners were often trapped in their  turrets like  Victor Poppa.  HX 313 exploded on impact near an abandoned railway station.   Eric  Mallett
and Ken  Sweatman were escorted  past a pile of melted metal that had once been The Blonde  Bomber.  They could not stop to look
closely for their  escorts were members of the Belgian Underground and it was imperative that they hide Ken and Eric as 
quickly as possible.   Victor Poppa, George Elliott and Morris Muir became POW’s.

Victor’s adventures as a POW Had similarities to Steve MacQueen in the The Great Escape…only life was a hell of a lot less
fun.  Worse  for the Russian POW in he adjoining camp where abuse was more prevalent.   Victor had a  choice  when  the war
ended.  Either to walk out of the Stalag or  stay put until Russian troops took over.  The German guards  just disappeared one
night leaving the gate  open when the sun came up. Victor and a friend decided  to take their chances  and  start the long and potentially dangerous
trek through the  Russian sector in hope he could reach the American sector.  He had he good fortune of  hooking up with nine
French  girls hiking their  way  back  home from a German labour  camp.  

Victor had been  on a long march  from a  POW camp in Poland to another in Germany.  On that trek he became aware of the
hatred the German civilian population had toward  air force prisoners.   The bombing of  Bourg Leopold killed  many but the 
constant bombing of German cities killed  a whole lot more.  Mobs tried  to attack air force prisoners. “While in Kohn train station we   were
threatened by a large mob.  Our guards, however, kept order and we were not molested.”   So he knew the risks when  he walked
out of his Stalag and  headed south to American  lines.   In one instance, at dusk, Victor and  his French girls entered a German house
which they thought had been abandoned.   Instead they met a  German officer who was already in bed  but with a  Luger under his sheet
aimed right at them.  They left without incident.  Fear was spreading through the German civilian population in what was to become
East Germany. German  officers and soldiers feared for their lives.

REMEMBERING GEORGE (HANK) FREEMAN

This story began as an attempt to find out what happened to George Freeman  on that horrific May 27/28 evening.
“At times  Hank and  I went on leave together where we  had undisciplined fun.  Hank had a real way of charming the girls in the mess
as well as on our trips  away from he base.”  As Day approached the crew of  HX 313 were working together  like  a well
oiled machine.  A human machine.  “On one mission it was Hank’s birthday and we  arranged for Ken  to say  ‘Happy Birthday Hank’ instead
of ’Bombs away’.  QB B HX 313 was shot down on its  fourth mission.   The  crew had  flown more than double that number.  Eight missions
for some.  For others, many more missions.  The death rate was high.  They knew  that.
Both planes and men  had short lives in  #6 Bomber Group.   The results of the  steady bombing  was a devastated  Germany.
Ciies turned into rubble.  Factories flattened.  Many many thousands of people maimed and killed.  As allied land troops fanned
out across Germany this devastation became an  embarrassment to many.  As a result  the  Bomber  Groups were never  given
full recognition for their service and some  felt neglected.  Side  lined.  Overlooked.  

The  story was assembled back in1984 and now updated in 2019.  Much has happened and continues to happen.
Discoveries.  Take the war graves for instance.  One of my colleagues, John Maize, was working in Holland in 1984
and I asked him to see  if he could find the grave  of George Freeman.  He found George and Wilf and Bob all
buried side  by side in a military grave in Belgium.   What day do you think he visited the grave site? 
…John Maize arrived  there  on May 27, 1984…exactly 40 years to the day after the Bourg Leopold attack.
And on that same day, May 27, 1984, Victor Poppa, Eric Mallett and Ken Sweatman sent the letters that made this
story possible..

GEORGE FREEMAN’S LAST TWO LETTERS:  THEY WERE NEVER MAILED

When George Freeman’s personal things  were returned aunt Kitty and Uncle Chris, there were two letters
that George had written but never mailed.  They reveal much so have been included.  George was a young man…barely
past the teen age part of his  life as  will be apparent.  Thoughts  of death are not a big part of the letters but those
thoughts  can be found between the lines.

“Arrmed Forces Air Letter
Flight Sergeant Freeman, G.F.,
R190568
RCAF
Overseas

MAY – 1944 (/)

MRS. C.W. FREEMAN,
C/O Scanons Store,
1439 Kingston Road,
Toronto 13, Ont.
Canada

Dearest Mom and Dad,

Well dearest, here I  am again.  Have received a letter from you and another from Mickey (sister).  It sure is swell to hear from you.
We have been pretty busy of late and  I’m pretty tired and would like to see the end  of the war.  Maybe it’ll end soon.  I’m
flying as a  spare gunner and  also as  a  regular member of the crew, it’s a bit risky flying every time but at least it keeps  me from 
being browned off.  Auntie Jean and everybody down that way are fine and send  their love  to you and dad.  I’m sorry dad can’t get the help 
he needs the golf  course. (Chris was  head greenskeeper at the Hunt Club Golf Course in Scarborough where George spent
his teen age years  caddying.) I don’t think I told  you about the visit I paid  on my last leave to one  of the girls parents house.
The girl works in our mess  and is  a good girl.  In fact, mom, she is a Cockney so you have an idea that what she is  like.
Her parents made me very welcome and  I had two eggs there.  Eggs area blessing when you can get  them.  (This  ‘good girl’
and George were planning marriage but her name has been lost).  Frankly,  mom, I like Cockneys the best of anybody
in the south of England.   They don’t beat around  the bush if they are going to tell you something.  Gosh!  I almost forgot you
should receive a Victory Bond  pretty soon.  I’ve paid  for it so do what you want with it.  Seems  like there isn’t much more
to say Mom, outside of I’m fine and  hope you and  everybody are the same.  I’ll close for now with love to all  and  all my love
 to you and Dad and may God
be with you.

All my Love, 

Note: This letter had been ‘opened by the examiner’  on April 6, 1944.
All personal letters were censored in case crucial information would
compromise the war effort.

George   xxxxxxxxx

SECOND LETTER TO ‘DOT’, A GIRLFRIEND BACK HOME IN CANADA

R190568
Sgt. Freemand,
RCAF
OVERSEAS,
30/3/43


Dear Dot,

This is just a couple of paragraphs to let you know I’m still kicking and  that Jerry hasn’t had much  success in getting rid  of me.  How 
goes the battle with you and are you still working as hard as ever?  First, I want to thank you for the swell Valentine.  It was super.
How did  you ever dig it up?  I’m sorry I couldn’t return the favour and send  you  one.  Guess  you’ll have to settle for a  
Christmas card when Christmas rolls  around  again.  Will you thank Beryll for her card and tell her as  soon as I can find  the 
address I will write her too. Kind of me don’t you think?  Thank her for the pics  as well.

Things  are pretty much the same as ever over here.  Nothing good to eat and lots of beer.  I’m still as teetotaler.  The dances 
are corny…always  will be.  This mountain music they dish out here is worse than Columbus  Hall  stuff.  Guess  I sound pretty 
browned  off (fed  up) with things. Well I’m not too  badly put out.  It’s just the monotony of things.  One good thing is ‘leave’
which comes up pretty regularly.  We do get a  bit of a change in scenery, faces,  etc. I saw Sam Manhood on one leave.  
He looks  pretty fed up with everything not to mention that he has  aged  about 4 years.  Say, I wonder if I have aged  too?

The next thing on my list of jazz to talk about is flying.  That too is very monotonous.   I have put in a few trips  over Germany
and haven’t had too  much trouble with Jerry although he does try to give us a scare once in awhile.  The last trip over the 
skipper was in an excited mood at having seen his first real live fighter…F.W. 190.  So  he “dood it in his pants’ if you know
what I  mean.   If  I ever did that I’d ask  for my discharge  so  help me.  The agony of  it was that he had to sit that way for 
six hours.  On the whole it’s not to bad over  there if you keep your eyes open.  Maybe I’ll live through it.  Who knows?

Let’s skip that and talk about you.  That picture we had taken sure was terrific.  I had some time explaining to the boys
that it was  purely a platonic  friendship we had for each other.  How goes you and the Masonic Temple.  Still up there regular?
Are Beryll and  Freddie still on just friendly terms or has Freddie put on the old charm and  made her fall for him?

Well, Dot, there doesn’t seem to be much  more to say outside of it’s closing time.   So give my love, etc.  to the gang
and write soon.  Love to Berryl.

xxxx love xxx
xxx George xxx

CONCLUSION:  SO  MUCH  HAS NOT BEEN EXPLAINED

There is so  much that needs saying about HX 313, especially the larger picture of the RCAF and 424 Squadron.  To
do so , however, needs a lot of space and a lot of time.  Even a discussion of the gunners and their guns needs 
to be explained.  Why were the guns of limited  use?  Why did many gunners see their role as  spotters more
than gunners?   Why, also, were  the guns useless when  the pilot of HX 313 took evasive action?  Who was
bomber Harris?  Why did the streets of  Hamburg start to burn after the bomber raids?  How many German
civilians were killed and maimed by Bomber Command?   Were phosphorus bombs inhumane?  How  many young
Canadian airmen died?  How  were the thousand bomber air raids organized? What did air crews  do on leave?

Fortunately I  have Victor Poppa’s diary.   If time allows I will transcribe it in the next few emails.  I should 
warn you however, that it includes sexual exploits.  Readers who find sex distasteful  have now been  forewarned.


alan skeoch
Oct. 10, 2019

Posted on

LET’S GO TO THE ERIN FAIR…QUICKLY…opening day Saturday

“ALAN, it’s Thanksgiving  week end, we’ve got nothing special to do…Let’s go
to the  Erin Fair.”
“Best Giant Squash contest in Canada…so big a kid could make a home out of one.”
“Look at the kid in the  yellow coat…”
“And the sheep made out of  buttons.”
“And the hound with  the golden eyes.”
“And the winter hats…got to get one of those.”
“And the Merry go  Round with the frightening animals.”

“Look over here…look at how those girls are fascinated  by the apple peeler”



“See the little boy in the  yellow coat showing us the Giant Squash…”
“Somehow, Alan, you are not as cute.”



“Hope you are having a good time folks”
“Sure are…wonderful.”
“What did you like best?
‘The hound with the golden eyes.”


alan skeoch
Oct. 12, 2019
Posted on

HERE IS AN IDEA FOR THANKSGIVING … REP

HOW TO SPEND MARJORIE’S BIRTHDAY:  A 12 HOUR TRIP TO PIRNCE EDWARD COUNTY


“Rush hour should be over, let’s head east to Picton for your  birthday Marjorie.”
“Get Woody and  start the motor…we have a beautiful day…can we do it in one day?”
“Think so…let’s roll…we  have our  favourite spots….”

FIRST STOP STAPLETON FARMS
(a farm  produce  booth north of  Port Hope on Highway 28)


“Marjorie…good choice of a sweater”
“Pumpking hunting time…”


“Alan, I think we overdid it this time…truck nearly full.”
“Just getting started…let’s roll.”



SECOND STOP:  PORT HOPE AND SALMON RUSH TO PROPOGATE

“How many salmon are  trying to get upriver.”
“Hundreds, perhaps thousands.”
“Do they all make it…those  are powerful waterfalls.”
“Some must…but I have been watching them at one waterfall and none…NONE…have been successful.”

“See that lone cormorant?
“Broken wing, cannot fly…doomed.”
“What happened?”
“Maybe a victim of Premier Ford’s cormorant cull”
“Cull?”
“Hunters allowed to shoot as many as they can…providing  they pick  up the dead bodies…tor so I read.





STOP THREE:  ANOTHER FARM MARKET ON HIGHWAY #2 EAST OF COBOURG



STOP FOUR: AMTIQUE MARKET IN HEART OF BRIGHTON (FOLLOW THE THREAD)

“Wow, this certainly is different…industrial cast offs turned into furniture treasures”
“And coffee among the artifacts.”
“How  much do they cost?”
“Well, the carpenters bench is $2,500  and milk shake maker is not cheap”
“Do not buy it, Alan…resist!?”
“Everyone wants a  good  milk shake,  Marjorie…can I get it as your birthday  present?”
“Mine…you mean your birthday, don’t you?”
“Be a sport….!!!”



STOP FIVE:  NORTH BEACH, PRINCE EDWARD  COUNTY

“North Beach is closed…we’ll have to walk in from the dirt road.”
“Happens every year…good  luck for Woody.”
“Why?”
“No one there…a vast beach all to himself…not allowed there in summer time.”
“How old is the beach?”
“See  this Fossil…a Bivalve…Devonian period about  400 million years old”
“My, this is a really old beach…why do so few people know  about it?”
“People do not like  to see themselves as Fossils.”

“Woody is trapped, Alan”
“Where?”
“He jumped from one slab of  ancient bedrock to that little island
and  now he’s afraid  he can’t get back without getting wet.”
“Throw a stick…he’ll for it and forget about the water.”



STOP SIX: ANOTHER FARMER’S PLACE JUST NOTH OF  PICTON:  TURKEYS THAT LIKE MY VOICE

“Here we are again…more pumpkins…even cheaper at $10 for the huge kind.”
“How about a turkey…they seem  to like us.”
“Stop gabbling…they think you speak their language.”
“Thankfully they have survived the Thanksigiving dinner plates.”
:”Hope so…only four more days to Thanksiving.”
“What are they saying?”
“Big guy came after us and we hid in the corn crib”



STOP SEVEN:  A LIGHT SUPPER … ALONE IN THE DINING ROOM OF THE WARING HOUSE

“Will we make it to Picton this year?”
“looks like we failed again…sun hitting the horizon soon “

“Look the birds are having a bath just outside our window.”
“How  romantic!”
“And you thought I could not be romantic.”
“See what I SEE?”
“The  flauwers  have gone to seed…I am going out
there to walk  Woody  and steal seeds.”
“How romantic?”
“While you are  stealing, I will have a glass of Barley Days Dark  beer.:’”
“How romantic?”



WOODY WANTS US TO HEAD HOME…NOW…BEFORE  ABSOLUTE DARK


HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARJORIE
Posted on

Oct 6, 2019…SEASNONS CHANGE: FIND WOODY

SUNDAY OCTOBER 6, 2019

“FIND WOODY”

Woody decided to go for a walk today.  I joined him.
Amazing what happens when the leaves begin to turn
and  cool weather  decends.  As you search for Woody
there a few  other things to see.  And at the end there
is something unique and wonderful




This giant walnut tree was planted  by me according to my grandmother
It stands where once the outhouse stood.  And today  we have
more than a dozen walnut trees on the farm…loved and hated.


There are no apples  similar to these…NONE.  

The wild grape vines have spread across the trees…loaded  with tiny grapes.  Historic for sure.  It was Ontarion wild  grape vines
that saved  the French wine industry…vines like these.   Maybe Marjorie can make some wild  grape jelly.   All the fancy
wine growers have totally neglected these grapes…business opportunity for someone


A few weeks  ago we had lots of  chestnuts peeling back their thorny skin.  today there are none and the 
chestnut leaves are curling’




That little wood  barn was once on the farm where J.S. Wloodsworth was born in Etobicoke.  We had
it moved  up to our farm.  (J.S. Woodsworth the  founder of the C.C.F, which became the N.D.P.)
Not everyone knows that.

See those shaggy mane mushrooms.  Caught at the right time … before they turn to ink …and fried
up with butter and salt and  pepper…taste delicious…taste like pepper,  salt and butter.  Left to 
themselves these  beautiful mushrooms turn into a puddle of gross looking  black muck…only
eat the  new ones like the little fellow on the left.



We have a late crop of flax…best crop.  Planted by our son Andy.  A lot better than my flax  field…embarrassing.
Flax is the only crop on our farm that ever makes  money.  How it does this is  a  trade secret.

The big pond  is waiting for the ducks  flying south…a  flock  of them arrive  every fall and  gabble away to 
themselves.    Our farm was  rejected by real farmers.  Who wants a farm  dominated by a huge  7 acre pond
that takes 25% of the  farm?   Grandma and grandad  did.  They had  no choice really.  No money.  They
came to love  their patch of land as do we.


This forest trail was once the hill that led to the harvest floor of granddad’s barn.  



The green ball is a walnut.  Size of  baseball….loved by little red squirrels.  Pionneer farmers moving into Ontario looked for 
walnut trees for the indicated good land.    That couldn’t be  true.  Our land  is  worse than  poor…fit only for wild  things…plants  and
animals.  And Woody.   Best crop is stones.


This yellowish orange looking mushroom  seems to gather things on its sticky surface…bugs.  
Must be carnivorous.

Look  at those apples…think about them


The front pond is  now full of a  kind of green split weed…forgot the name.  Under here lives
one of our big snapping turtles.   I floated that old  bedstead  for him or her to get a little sun
before diving into the muddy bottom for the winter.  


Wild asters pick  a place to live. they have minds of their own…as does the milk weed.  Two weeks ago a lone Monarch caterpillar was 
feeding  here.  Now  gone … not enough time to go through the life cycle.  Thankfully there seem to be
more  Monarchs heading south this year but not our little fellow.   Our milk weed  patch was  once our best garden
but we surrendered it to the weed.   Real farmers hate milkweed…taints  the milk.



Yes,that is Woody.  He is always near even when I  can’t see  him.  And when I call and call and call I often  
turn around  to find him there.  Do dogs laugh?  You know, I think they do for every time I do this lost calling
routine he often  shoves his wet nose into my hand.


OK.. here is the big surprise.  Startled me really.  I was moving fence  rails  from roadside to field when what should appear in front of
my nose but these two apple…red streaked.  Delightful.   I had no idea the scraggly old  wile apple tree was capable  of  such
beauty.  “Must be wormy.”  I thought but only every tenth had  worms.  Did you know that there is no apple tree in the whole wide
world like these.   Apple seeds never  produce  the same apples.   Each seed produces  a  new apple variety.  To get the same
apples grafting is necessary…cuttings are  rooted.  Orchards are built with cuttings.   Our wild apple  tree has  no kindred.
It is alone,,,will never be replicated unless we decide to do so  Most wild  apple trees are not much use compared to the domestic
varieties.  Hell, they do  not even   have a  name for tis apple.  THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN.  Let’s name the apple…male
or female names accepted.  How  about Freeman for we found it on the Freeman  farm and  wild apples are ‘’free,  man!”
Tasteless joke. Names.  Could call it the Alan  apple tree … really vain to  do that.  Or the  Morgan…or the  Angus…or the
Woody.   Now there is an idea.  Not many apple varieties,  probably none, have been named after a dog.

alan skeoch
Oct. 6, 219

P>S>   See the pail of  apples in this story…all from that special tree.

PPS   We cannot call the apple ‘Red Streak’ because that apple variety if the founding  apple
of the British  Cider industry.  If you like english cider…then you owe it to that single
apple variety that was grafted  and grafted  and grafted.


Posted on

Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 3



Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 2
Date: October 4, 2019 at 12:26:49 PM EDT
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>


Pages 1,  2, and 3


NOTE:   I have begun to transcribe this story which was originally
written in  an attempt to discover how RCAF sergeant George Freeman
died on May 27,1944…as time permits I will transcribe the story…and look for the pictures.
There will be typos.


THE LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313  

(Original written in 1984, Current rewrite Oct. 2019)

alan skeoch




Death doesn’t impact on a six year old as much as it does on an adult.  When George Freeman was declared missing on May 28, 1944, I barely noticed.
My parents were a little different that day I imagine. Quieter. Distracted.  My brother Eric  and I may have slipped out to Dufferin  Park as usual.  We  didn’t
really know there was a war being fought in Western Europe, the Middle East, Burma, China  and  islands chains of the Pacific Ocean. Not real to us at all
To us the world war was fantasy as we spent a lot of time playing  ‘guns’ with wooden weapons made from cast offs from the local piano factory. We  spent
more time  playing cowboys and indians than replicating the confusing  combatants of World War II.

The only real war we knew about were the gang wars between the Beanery  and  Junction gangs which seemed to rage regularly when waves teen age hoodlums
attacked each other with lead pipes and baseball bats or fists and hand held broken  beer bottles.  Time has magnified these fights in my memory.  There are
only a few news clippings that even mention these battles.   Eric  and I did see  some battles that’s for sure.   As to how  often  I cannot be  sure.  But they did
happen.  I know  this  because we watched  them from the safety of our rented  flat at 18 Sylvan Avenue, a large Victorian house right inside Dufferin Park.
We saw the police  arrive in force to break up the combat and  when the field was  clear we tried to pick up what was left behind by the gangs. This included
what mother called “dirty things” left earlier under the forsythia bushes which bisected the park in those days. “Good balloons, Mum.”

So the  disappearance of George Freeman passed unnoticed. I never met him even though he  was a cousin.  I do remember, however, Mom taking  us by
street car to the Hunt Club Golf Course just before Christmas  in 1944.  Uncle Chris Freeman  was the head greenskeeper and  as such lived  in a nice
little house in the  centre of the place.  I remember aunt Kitty crying cause someone had  died.  Uncle  Chris who had a crooked eye was stoic but
serious.  Normally he liked to tease us.  Good humoured kind of man.  But not that year.  Mom  explained  that their son, George, has been declared
missing in acton.  He was likely dead they knew but they clung to the hope he  would turn up in a German POW camp when the war ended.

His bags were sent home from his 427 squadron headquarters at Skipton on Swale in Yorkshire.  Seems I remember mom saying that aunt Kitty took
the suitcase up to George’s room and left it there.  Unopened.  She clung to the  hope  he would be found and return to them at war’s end.  That hope
was held through 1945 and even into 1946 because newspaper  reports  of  long lost soldiers and airmen continued to crop up.  That room was waiting.
George Freeman became  a kind of  ghostly mystery figure to us.   His room…his bag…were a kind of mysterious presence that entered the long term
storage of  my brain.  Even  now, over 70 years later,  I can visualize that greenskeepers house with aunt Kitty misty eyed  and  uncle Chris stoic.

A strange thing happened to me forty years after George Freeman died in that Halifax Bomber labelled  HX 313.  Something made  me  want to try and
find out what happened to George Freeman.  I began  to try to put the fragments of his life together in 1984.   What really happened in the skies over
Belgium on May 27, 1944?  As a history teacher  at Parkdale Collegiate  Institute I wanted my students to understand what it was like to be  young, patriotic
and idealistic in the1940’s.   Wanted the students of 1984 to see  themselves wearing George’s fleece  lined RCAF boots rather than  just reading  aging
historical facts.   I had no idea just how  startling the story would become.

Where to begin?  Records existed, I knew  that but I wanted to put flesh and blood on those  records.  So asked George’s sister Lillian, we called her Mickey
for some reason, if she had any letters sent by George from  Yorkshire.   She had a few letters and small pictures but she had no idea what happened
on that last day when HX 323 fell flaming  from the skies over Bourg  Leopold.   Most moving was a picture of George  in this RCAF  uniform.  He  looked
so much like  our own sons.  Young.  But also serious and perhaps idealistic.

INSERT PHOTO

to be  continued
…the story is longer than  I ever expected


These first few fragments became parts of what became  a giant jig  saw puzzle with many pieces  missing and others in a jumble for me to sort.  One  piece  dated  January 4, 1944
was a starting point. 

 “Please  accept my sincere sympathies in this period  of  great anxiety. I trust that favourable word will be forthcoming of  your son.  The enclosed letter (and snapshots) 
addressed to you was found amongst your son’s personal effects. We  regret the necessity of having to censor the letter for security reasons, and  to ascertain  if  it contained  
anything of  a testamentary nature.”  signed  by Squadron leader  Pennington of #6 Bomber Group

The snapshots  turned  out to be wonderful clues. The letter, George’s  last letter, revealed  that he knew his chances of survival were slim.  He  was taking extra flights to try and get
his 20 flights  over with.  Air crews who survived 20  bomber raids were relieved of future  raids  unless they volunteered to continue these risky flights which many  did even with
the horrific death rates.  George was  planning to stop it seemed  although that was  not certain.  He was  committed to the war effort.  But would  he continue with HX 313?
Maybe  not for he had fallen in love with an English girl ands  preparing to surprise aunt Kitty with an engagement announcement.  “The girl works in our mess and is a  good girl.
In fact, mom, she is a  Cockney, so  you have an  idea  from  that what she is like. Her parents made me  very welcome and  I had two eggs there.”  Included with the letter was a
snapshot of George and his girlfriend in each others arms.  Smiling.  We would never know her name.  Tragic romances  were all too common among  members of #6 Bomber Group.

INSERT PHOTO

George also told  his  mom that he  had bought her a  Victory Bond.  But he said  nothing about the  war or HX 313.  One  tiny photograph wa dated February 10, 1944, taken in front
of a flimsy  looking  barrack on which was printed  “Moe, Pop, Bob, Wilf, Eric, Casey and Me”.  No last names but enough hints to  lead me deeper.  As things turned out “Pop” became
the linchpin I needed to get all the  pieces in place.  Sorry for the mixed  metaphor.

INSERT PHOTO


INSERT PHOTO

The final  snapshot, taken after the war, showed  wooden cross labelled ‘P.O. Freeman,  G.F., RCAF, KS 28,5, 44, #J 88397”.  George would not be returning To aunt Kitty and  Uncle Chris.

INSERT PHOTO

Then I  found a crumpled news clipping with the title “Nazi rockets Failed to stop Canadians” referring  to George Freeman’s first flight in HX 313.  A strong hint that the skies over
Germany were filled  with rockets and flak and  night fighters…and terror.

But I still knew nothing about the last flight of  HX 313.  George was the mid upper gunner in that lumbering Halifax bomber belonging to Tiger Squadron,  RCAF.  Efforts to get information from otters  
failed because  the Privacy Act forbade the release of  crew members that survived  the war.  Strange.  Must be some  reason for this but I failed  to know what reason.   Lillian   
Peers, George Freeman’s  sister, told me that the pilot of HX 33 visited  their golf club home after the war. “His name was Mallet and  the meeting was very emotional for all of them.”

The story could have ended there were it not for the  offer of a CBC Classified appeal. “At the sound of the beep, give your message…be sharp and specific”

“Eric Mallet, are  you listening?  You were the pilot of a Halifax bomber that was shot down over Belgium on the  night of  May  27, 1944.  Your upper middle gunner was George Freeman,
my cousin, who was killed. I am trying to  put together the details of his death.”  Then  I innocently mentioned the little snapshot of the pet Scotch Terrier sitting in George’s Air Force hat.
“I  have a  few  fragments that belonged  to George.  One is  an RCAF hat sitting upside down with a  little black dog below which is written “Nooky, Squadron Leader”, perhaps that clue
might help.”   Does the word  have any meaning?”
Well the word certainly had meaning. Many listeners responded to let me know that Nooky referred to sexual activity of a  casual  nature. Mention  of  Skipton  on Swale and  #6 Bomber 
Group and  HX 313 along with Nooky resulted  in a  shower of puzzle pieces.  Many clarified he meaning of  Nooky.  “Refers to sexual activity, Alan.”   I should have  known  that and
had I known I would never have included  it in a CBC radio broadcast that went clear across Canada  from  seas to sea to sea.

Several phone calls came  immediately.  Most were irrelevant.  Veteran airmen just making contact…wanting  to help.  Mothers  who  had lost sons.  Sisters who had  lost brothers.  One
man living in a dirt encrusted  room on Toronto’s River Street was  insistent I visit him.  Doing so I realized  he  had   lost the battle with alcohol long ago.  He had  been a gunner  with
#6 Bomer Group but had never met George Freeman.  He just wanted someone to talk to.

There was no call or letter from any of the four surviving crew members of  HX313.  But there was one unusual call.  “Alan, my name is Joyce Inkster, a listener told me to call you and
offer my help.  For the  past few years my husband and I have been tracing and reassembling RCAF flight crews.  Perhaps we can help you.”

The  Inkster were part of the Allied Air Forces Reunion.  Joyce Inkster was a  female version of Sherlock Hollmes.  Within  a day  she  had  found the casualty report for the night
of May 27/28, 1944.  It listed when names of the crew and 1944 addresses.  Pilot Eric Mallet was from Vancouver.  Mrs. Inkster consulted  her collection of telephone books from
around  the world,  No Mallet listed in Vancouver.  “Let’s try Victoria”  There was an E.  Mallett.  Was it worth a call…budget  over run possible was in my mind.  I could not afford to
call every Mallett in Canada. “Don’t worry, I have  a system. I make the call when rates  are low, say the  message  fast…of wrong person end the call in less than a minute.  But first
I need a clue that will guarantee I’ve  reached the right person.”

The Scotch  Terrier picture…Nooky….almost barked at us.

“Are  you Eric  Mallett the pilot of HX 313 in 1944?”
“Yes,” My heart skipped a beat.
“Did you have  a  mascot?”
“Yes,  we had a scotch  terrier.”

The pilot of HX 313 had been found and the story began to unfold. I was asked  to return  the CBC  Joe Cote show snd tell the audience the  story as  it stood.

We found the  pilot of HX323 living in Victoria, British  Columbia, talked with him…he confirmed that they had a mascot… Scotch Terrier  Nooky.

“We had a seven man crew normally but on our last doomed flight we had an eight member. New pilots joining the squadron were assigned to a veteran pilot for
one live operations  flight so we  had co-pilot W.F. Elliott  aboard.  Of our eight man crew, 3 were killed but 5 managed to bail out.”

THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313 –  LETTER FROM PILOT OFFICER ERIC  MALLETT,  1984


Many Bombers featured ‘Blonde Bomber’ nose art.  This photo of a Handly Page  Halifax bomber
is likely not HX 313. 



Picture of personal standing  on wings of a Halifax Bomber at Skipton on Swale
Yorkshire, where  George Freeman was stationed as a mid upper gunner on
HX 313, Number 427 Tiger Squadron, Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF.




“Dear Alan:
In the first place I must you that George Freeman was never known to us  as George,  he was Hank.  Hank carried out his duties as  Mid Upper Gunner
with great courage and at no time was overcome  by fear. I am enclosing the only picture  of our aircraft that I have with a member  of the ground crew
sitting in my seat.  The ‘Blonde Bomber’ was one of the finest aircraft that I have ever flown (note: Eric was an experienced  pilot)  At that time the  Halifax 
was the fastest heavy bomber in the world.  We  carried 42 tons of  bombs and 21,000 gallons of100 octane  gasoline, total all up weight was 85,000 pounds 

Hank’sturret had four Browning machine guns capable of firing  1,250 rounds per minute.”


Note from 1984:  Eric Mallett’s enthusiasm for the Halifax contrasted with the opinions of military historians who regarded the Halifax heavy bomber inferior to the Lancaster.
Some historians even went so far as to note that the conversion of  bomber squadrons to Lancasters was done in a discriminatory manner which favoured
RAF  bomber squadrons.   Canadian Number Six Bomber Group continued to fly Halifax bombers to the end of the war.

“The member of  my crew were  Flight Lieutenant Bob Irwin (deceased); Wireless Operator Wilf Wakely (deceased); Vic Poppa, tail gunner; Ken Sweatman, bomb aimer;
Engineer Morris Muir (English); Mid-UpperGunner George Freeman (deceased); and flying  officer Elliot who was coming  along on his first trip…The target was Borg
Leopold in Belgium a base  which the Germans  were using as a  rest camp for their troops from the Russian front.   After leaving the briefing I  mentioned  to the 
crew that we were being sent on a mission for the sole purpose of killing people. We  carried  14,000 lbs. of anti-personnel bombs and the aiming point was to
be the officers quarters.  This mission did not sit well  with the crew. We had already  been through some tough missions against industrial targets but
this  mission made us feel uneasy.”

“Strangely enough we were not able to drop our load.  We were  right on our bomb run when we got hit.  Just a few seconds prior to being hit I had  an
urge to take evasive action but I did not because we had  our bomb doors  open and  had  started  our run.  I didn’t want to spoil the bomb aimers sighting
as there was  no indication of an attack other than my hunch.   Suddenly there  was  a tremendous burst of flame and I gave the order to ‘abandon aircraft ‘
immediately.  Knew from past experience that we only had seconds to do so because  100 octane gasoline  would blow  up once the  flames reached  the 
tanks. The Navigators position was right on top of the  forward escape hatch.  The whole crew was supposed  to go out this exit so  I would know when all
were out.  They did  not, however,  because Bob Irwin couldn’t get the hatch  open.  The second pilot (Elliott) and engineer (Muir) took off the rear seat and
went out of the entrance hatch.  I went forward to see how Bob was  doing and  by good fortune he was  beginning to have some luck so  I went back and
straightened out the aircraft.  In what seemed  like an eternity I returned to the hatch in time to see someone leaving.  I then, did not hesitate to  follow.
Upon hitting the air my flying  boots left me and I then tried  to find the rip chord  on my parachute.  I couldn’t find the  ring for what seemed like another
eternity. Eventually I hooked the ring, otherwise I would  not be here.”

Note:  Even today, Oct. 2, 2019, I can remember reading Eric Mallett’s letter.  Rivetting.  I could hardly believe I  had set an event like  this in
motion back 1984.   I had an idea that this  was  the end of the story so I read  slowly  and  re-read even slower.   But the story of the  Last Flight
of  HX 313 was really just beginning.  Read on!

“Drifting down through the nigh sky, I could see the target with the bombs landing, exploding and  setting fire to the buildings.  I thought for a moment or two
that I was going to land right on it.  The next thing I recall was seeing the ground  come up to me and then  ‘Boom!’…everything was silent.  When I came
to, I found myself right beside  a barbed wire fence.  Remembered my previous training and buried my parachute.  It required much effort.

“It is almost  impossible to describe the feeling that overcame me.  Since that day nothing has ever scored me as all I have do is recall in my
mind this dreadful night and the terrible feeling that I had.”

“I spent the rest  of the night sitting in a cornfield taking off my rings and rank markings as well as looking at my purse and pandora.  The escape kit
contained Horlicks tablets, benzedrine, German, Belgian And French currency.  When daylight came I discovered that I  was close  to a small village.
I knew that i  must get some help as I had a badly cut finger and no footwear.  I waited and  waited to  see what  sort of  traffic was entering or leaving the village.
There seemed  to be none other than that of  someone  tying up a  goat close to  where  I  was  hiding, for  quite  long time I wondered what the tinkling of
the goat’s bell  was.”

“Alan,  I  am going  to sign  off for now for this  is  only the beginning of a long, long story.  Enclosed you will find  your map with the location of the attack. Also 
you will find pictures of my crew, and one of  the Blonde Bomber.   We  were not allowed to take any pictures of our aircraft for security reasons, as  you can
well understand.    Also included is a  picture  of Hank  and Vic  Poppa engaged in a  little horseplay outside of our flight room.   Vic Poppa  and Ken  Sweatman
would be very pleased to hear from you if  would  care to write them.”

Kikndest  Regards
Eric  L. Mallett

Note from 2019:  Wow!  What a letter.  More to come. Eric  Mallett included the addresses of two other survivors.   The story was growing and growing.   It could  so  easily have  been  
lost.  What followed was almost a  year of contacts back  and forth and even  a visit with Victor Poppa in Cslifornia topped  off by him travelling to Toronto in a ramshackle truck
and trailer filled with spare used tires.  Victor’s  story eventually took  over.  Hank’s best friend.   Could  I put their life experiences  back together?   Pictures  are a bit of
a problem  for me  in 2019.  They are here among my books and records but it will take time to find them.   My  priority is  to get the written account transcribed to digital.



Note from 2019:  This is the  living quarters at airbase Skipton on Swale in 1944, a series of  Quonset buildings with rounded roofs.  The ruined  brick  building
was the  operations centre, picture taken about 1984 when the airbase had  been converted to a chicken farm after  the tarmac landing strip had  been
ripped up.


TO BE CONTINUED … TRANSCRIBING MY 1984 STORY NOW IN 2019…HOPE YOU ENJOY IT


Page 3

And so the  story  continues.   The excitement that coursed through my body as I read Eric Mallett’s letter is hard to describe.  Something akin to Eric’s feelings when he  hit solid ground
in Belgium.  No, that is an overstatement.  Not only had i received his letter but also had two other  survivors  actresses … Ken  Sweatman and  Victor Poppa.   Both of  whom were ready
to talk about their experiences.  Talking about the war was not easy for many.  Some air force survivors  just would  not talk about it.  One good friend, who  was also  a tail gunner like Victor
Poppa just did not want to talk.   Why? “Because  I survived and so many of my friends died.”  Talking hurt in her words. 

In a subsequent letter, Eric  Mallett explained he  had  joined  the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan and subsequently received  his wings in 1941 at Dauphin, Manitoba, “The BCTAP
was one  of Canada’s great contributions  to the war effort.”  For nearly  two  years Eric was a fight instructor and  had 1300 hours of flying time before he was  sent overseas as a  Flight
Commander.  Like  so many young Canadians he was attracted to the airforce by a desire to fly.  Many young men, 18 year olds just out of high school found the idea  of flight the most
attractive military arm.  Did they know the  death rate?  I am not sure of that. 

Eric  Mallett was older…age 24.     He was married and his wife was shocked.  “My wife’s reaction was one  of disbelief,” wrote  Eric.

By interviewing the  survivors was it possible  to find our what happened to George Freeman in those last few chaotic  moments before  HX 313 hit the ground followed by a totally disintegrating explosion?
As a mid-upper turret gunner George may have been the prime target for a diving German  night fighter like the JU  88.  He may have been killed  in the first burst of gunfire.  Gunners, like Victor Poppa
and George Freeman were  used more as  spotters than as gunners.  The  best defence against German night fighters was evasive action.  Remember Eric  Mallett’s hunch?   Unlike the American bomber 
groups who flew in high formations  in broad daylight, the Canadian  and British  bomber  groups flew at night and were on their own from the moment they  left the coast of England.  They flew in a stream
kind of formation most of the time. Evasive  action was easier since there was no tight formation to worry about.   American bombers that took evasive  action were as likely to collide with other bombers.

Information overload worried me.  So much that I did not know about Bomber Command in World War II.  So much to learn.  So  much to miss.  Would it be possible to get more information from the
rest of the crew?  First person accounts.  Like how was a bomber crew put together.   I think the  crew members were deliberately unknown to each other at the beginning.  Never brother  and brother.
Or even friend and friend.  Keep  emotional attachments to a minimum.  But I was not sure.  One thing seemed certain.  Once  a crew  was formed they bonded tight.  Now the close bonds may not have
been true for all air crews in World War II, but it was certainly true for the ill fated crew of HX313.  The  crew was headless when Eric  Mallett arrived  at Skipton on Swale.  “I chose  my crew from a
conversion unit.  They  were called a headless crew as their skipper had been shot down on his first flight with another crew.”   Eric Mallett did not know that on May27,1944, Flying Officer  Elliott would
suffer the same  fate leaving another headless crew.  Why risk sending  new pilots on dangerous bombing runs  The answer is simple.  The the experience  a new pilot got as a co pilot reduced his chances
of interception by German night fighters.  But not by much.  New  flight crews had a higher risk of being shot  down by veteran crews.   And every crew had to make  20 runs over Germany.  Statistically
few survived.   Thousands of bombers were lost.  The  story of  HX 313 was not unusual.  It went down during its eight raid as I remember.



THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313:  LETTER FROM KEN SWEATMAN (BOMB AIMER)  1984

“Dear Mr. Skeoch,

“Hank” and “Pop” were  an inseparable  pair.  They  did everything together…their gun inspection and harmonizing (test firing)… their courting when on leave.  The stories they told of their escapades on  
leave  were really something  else.  Hank saw the fun in every situation.  He was a good  looking boy with his deep blue eyes and  brown hair and always prided himself on looking sharp. I remember
asking  as he came into barracks after a night out:  

“How was she, Hank?”
“Both of her teeth were nice.”

Wilf Wakely was a slightly built but very agile chap.  He often sang in a delightful Irish tenor voice, songs like “Martins and the Coys”, “Queeney” and “Lillie Marlene”.  On our  way from our billets o the mess Wilf
would do a few cartwheels along with forward and  backward somersaults.  It was Wilf who got us all whistling ‘Pedro and  the Fisher Boy” wherever we went as a  crew.  Bob Irwin and I worked side by side
in the nose of the aircraft.  I operated the H2S passing on pinpoints as they came up on the screen.  We  were always reassured when the flak and searchlight positions were where they should be and then we
knew we were on track. I began passing on this over the intercom but on bad nights with fighters I used chits and left the intercom to Pop and  Hank.   

Bob was a more  serious type of person, very sure of himself. Having been in the cavalry in peacetime he had a very  military bearing and  manner.  He had his hands and feet frost bitten on a mountain climbing
episode so he and I used  to trade gloves quite often on ‘ops’ (operation flights) where the temperature could drop to minus 72 degrees centigrade.  In Canada,  he had  won a gold watch for navigation so we
were sure  of his ability. A lot of  noise would  bother him and he often called ‘less chattering’.  He  married a nurse, Kay, while on ‘ops’ which added  a heavy load of worry.

Morris Muir of Nottingham, a very British  Englishman, was our flight engineer who came  to us from South Africa.  Being on a lower R.A.F. pay scale and  receiving no overseas  parcels made it hard for him
to be one  of  us.  He tried  hard to fit in but he had a  habit of bragging.  When this happened  in our crew we formed a join hands right around  the  culprit and sang  ‘bull shit, bull shit, bull shit, it all sounds
like bull shit to me’, to the tune of ‘My Bonnie Lives over the Ocean’  It happened to us all, not just poor Morris.

Eric  Mallett (our fourth pilot) came to us as a Flight Lieutenant with a British  accent as he was English born.  He had a log showing 10,000 hours as a flying instructor.   In an easy  sort of way  he
became one of us.  One  of the first things did was make  an unintentional  belly landing and he became ‘Wheels up Mallett’ for a while. I remember on our ops he would call the  two  gunners to see  
if they were OK and awake.  It was  hell trying to stay  awake with the drone of the aircraft and  constantly staring off into space.

We thought the raid  on Bourg Leopold  would be a  piece of  cake.  It’s located in the NE corner of Belgium little more than a  two hour flight from Skipton on Swale  in Yorkshire.  Also Bourg Leopold was
a POW camp, our men in other words.   I remember the Wing Commanders caution, “the target it a  rectangle…imagine a line dividing it diagonally.   Our prisoners are on the close side and to your left.
Don’t undershoot the target.!”

The flight to Bourg Leopold was  quite  uneventful as the Blonde Bomber wove  its way around  flak  stations and avoided getting coned  by searchlights. A lone Mosquito bomber  had already dropped 
a yellow flare on the target and was backed  up by a Pathfinder force  dropping green  and red flares.  The target began to look like a bulls eye by the time the first wave of bombers were beginning 
their bomb run. I think it was the poor Sterlings (*rather obsolete English Bomber aircraft) flying  at 8 to 10 thousand feet that had the first run. How the Pathfinders kept from colliding amazed the  crew
of HX 323 but the trick was for each wave  of bombers to attack from different heights.  Pathfinder crews were the best that could be found.  Not only were  the bombers given height instructions but
they also had precise time periods over the target. After the bomb  run, the planes headed for home as fast as  they could.  HX 313 was part of 424 squadron and was part of the  third  wave coming
in at 23,000 feet…we dropped down for the bombing.  At the moment the bombs  were released a photograph was automatically taken. “

Note from 2019:  Ken Sweatman noted that the low  flying Sterlings were in one of the pictures taken.  Bombs  did occasionally
hit friendly aircraft flying at lower altitudes.   The  infantry term is ‘hit by friendly fire’

“I was about to put the fusing switches down when I reported an enemy aircraft passing below  us from port ahead. Pop saw him pass on through on a straight course.  Eric reported port inner engine 
on fire.  Nest I heard a sound like stones hitting  metal and Wilf yelled  ‘ouch!’.  Next came Eric’s voice, very faint, “abandon aircraft…Jump! Jump!”  Bob was struggling to open the  the  nose  escape
hatch which had melted where an incendiary bullet had passed through  the  door jam.  Between us we managed  to get it open.  Wilf went first, Bob next, then Eric.   I recall yanking the intercom wire
from my helmet and in my panic I twisted off my oxygen tube. Snapping on my parachute, I remember thinking how I hated to leave as the wind from the holes in the  nose kept the fire back.  The  cockpit
and backwash an inferno by now. The last thing I remember was  hooking my thumb through the rip chord ring while the  wind was tugging at my feet.  From this instant on, all was  black.


Parachutes were very awkward it seems and both Sweatman and Poppa were

not wearing their chutes when the cry came to  abandon … Jump…Jump.  the
picture above shows how encumbered they all were.

“I assume that I had gone  out feet first facing forward.   When the chute cracked  open the chute casing hit me  under the jaw. I landed
unconscious and took quite  a beating.  The next recollections are fleeting  glimpses.  I remember my ankle  hurting as someone was  ripping the leggings off my escape boots.  I recall I was in a
very dark place like  a dirt cellar.  Next I remember Eric and someone with him saying, “Oh good,it’s Ken.”  I didn’t have  any idea who Ken was…and what’s more I didn’t give a damn.”

Note:  The Belgian underground found Eric Mallett and Ken Sweatman and hid  them in the Ardenne forest for 10 days.   After this began a series adventures that eventually lento them being 
liberated by American troops not long after D Day (June  6, 1944)

COMMENT BY ERIC MALLETT

“When we were struck there were white hot incendiary bullets that hit us through the crew compartment.  They  were hopping about somewhat like water droplets in a hot frying pan.  With  each hop
theist anew fire.   I handed Morris the fire extinguisher.   The paper from the maps were all on fire anti soon becomes infernally hot that I barely had time to trim the  aircraft and head it out to sea.   As I went
out I noticed Ken Sweatman sort of dazed and I  motioned him to come as I jumped.”
This is an artist’s take on what it must have been like  in HX 33 when the German incendiary shells set the plane on fire
which soon engulfed everything.  The  surviving crew had seconds to jump.

TO BE CONTINUED 

Posted on

Fwd: THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX313 by ALAN SKEOCH Page 2

Page  2


NOTE:   I have begun to transcribe this story which was originally
written in  an attempt to discover how RCAF sergeant George Freeman
died on May 27,1944…as time permits I will transcribe the story…and look for the pictures.
There will be typos.


THE LAST FLIGHT OF  HX 313  

(Original written in 1984, Current rewrite Oct. 2019)

alan skeoch




Death doesn’t impact on a six year old as much as it does on an adult.  When George Freeman was declared missing on May 28, 1944, I barely noticed.
My parents were a little different that day I imagine. Quieter. Distracted.  My brother Eric  and I may have slipped out to Dufferin  Park as usual.  We  didn’t
really know there was a war being fought in Western Europe, the Middle East, Burma, China  and  islands chains of the Pacific Ocean. Not real to us at all
To us the world war was fantasy as we spent a lot of time playing  ‘guns’ with wooden weapons made from cast offs from the local piano factory. We  spent
more time  playing cowboys and indians than replicating the confusing  combatants of World War II.

The only real war we knew about were the gang wars between the Beanery  and  Junction gangs which seemed to rage regularly when waves teen age hoodlums
attacked each other with lead pipes and baseball bats or fists and hand held broken  beer bottles.  Time has magnified these fights in my memory.  There are
only a few news clippings that even mention these battles.   Eric  and I did see  some battles that’s for sure.   As to how  often  I cannot be  sure.  But they did
happen.  I know  this  because we watched  them from the safety of our rented  flat at 18 Sylvan Avenue, a large Victorian house right inside Dufferin Park.
We saw the police  arrive in force to break up the combat and  when the field was  clear we tried to pick up what was left behind by the gangs. This included
what mother called “dirty things” left earlier under the forsythia bushes which bisected the park in those days. “Good balloons, Mum.”

So the  disappearance of George Freeman passed unnoticed. I never met him even though he  was a cousin.  I do remember, however, Mom taking  us by
street car to the Hunt Club Golf Course just before Christmas  in 1944.  Uncle Chris Freeman  was the head greenskeeper and  as such lived  in a nice
little house in the  centre of the place.  I remember aunt Kitty crying cause someone had  died.  Uncle  Chris who had a crooked eye was stoic but
serious.  Normally he liked to tease us.  Good humoured kind of man.  But not that year.  Mom  explained  that their son, George, has been declared
missing in acton.  He was likely dead they knew but they clung to the hope he  would turn up in a German POW camp when the war ended.

His bags were sent home from his 427 squadron headquarters at Skipton on Swale in Yorkshire.  Seems I remember mom saying that aunt Kitty took
the suitcase up to George’s room and left it there.  Unopened.  She clung to the  hope  he would be found and return to them at war’s end.  That hope
was held through 1945 and even into 1946 because newspaper  reports  of  long lost soldiers and airmen continued to crop up.  That room was waiting.
George Freeman became  a kind of  ghostly mystery figure to us.   His room…his bag…were a kind of mysterious presence that entered the long term
storage of  my brain.  Even  now, over 70 years later,  I can visualize that greenskeepers house with aunt Kitty misty eyed  and  uncle Chris stoic.

A strange thing happened to me forty years after George Freeman died in that Halifax Bomber labelled  HX 313.  Something made  me  want to try and
find out what happened to George Freeman.  I began  to try to put the fragments of his life together in 1984.   What really happened in the skies over
Belgium on May 27, 1944?  As a history teacher  at Parkdale Collegiate  Institute I wanted my students to understand what it was like to be  young, patriotic
and idealistic in the1940’s.   Wanted the students of 1984 to see  themselves wearing George’s fleece  lined RCAF boots rather than  just reading  aging
historical facts.   I had no idea just how  startling the story would become.

Where to begin?  Records existed, I knew  that but I wanted to put flesh and blood on those  records.  So asked George’s sister Lillian, we called her Mickey
for some reason, if she had any letters sent by George from  Yorkshire.   She had a few letters and small pictures but she had no idea what happened
on that last day when HX 323 fell flaming  from the skies over Bourg  Leopold.   Most moving was a picture of George  in this RCAF  uniform.  He  looked
so much like  our own sons.  Young.  But also serious and perhaps idealistic.

INSERT PHOTO

to be  continued
…the story is longer than  I ever expected


These first few fragments became parts of what became  a giant jig  saw puzzle with many pieces  missing and others in a jumble for me to sort.  One  piece  dated  January 4, 1944
was a starting point. 

 “Please  accept my sincere sympathies in this period  of  great anxiety. I trust that favourable word will be forthcoming of  your son.  The enclosed letter (and snapshots) 
addressed to you was found amongst your son’s personal effects. We  regret the necessity of having to censor the letter for security reasons, and  to ascertain  if  it contained  
anything of  a testamentary nature.”  signed  by Squadron leader  Pennington of #6 Bomber Group

The snapshots  turned  out to be wonderful clues. The letter, George’s  last letter, revealed  that he knew his chances of survival were slim.  He  was taking extra flights to try and get
his 20 flights  over with.  Air crews who survived 20  bomber raids were relieved of future  raids  unless they volunteered to continue these risky flights which many  did even with
the horrific death rates.  George was  planning to stop it seemed  although that was  not certain.  He was  committed to the war effort.  But would  he continue with HX 313?
Maybe  not for he had fallen in love with an English girl ands  preparing to surprise aunt Kitty with an engagement announcement.  “The girl works in our mess and is a  good girl.
In fact, mom, she is a  Cockney, so  you have an  idea  from  that what she is like. Her parents made me  very welcome and  I had two eggs there.”  Included with the letter was a
snapshot of George and his girlfriend in each others arms.  Smiling.  We would never know her name.  Tragic romances  were all too common among  members of #6 Bomber Group.

INSERT PHOTO

George also told  his  mom that he  had bought her a  Victory Bond.  But he said  nothing about the  war or HX 313.  One  tiny photograph wa dated February 10, 1944, taken in front
of a flimsy  looking  barrack on which was printed  “Moe, Pop, Bob, Wilf, Eric, Casey and Me”.  No last names but enough hints to  lead me deeper.  As things turned out “Pop” became
the linchpin I needed to get all the  pieces in place.  Sorry for the mixed  metaphor.

INSERT PHOTO


INSERT PHOTO

The final  snapshot, taken after the war, showed  wooden cross labelled ‘P.O. Freeman,  G.F., RCAF, KS 28,5, 44, #J 88397”.  George would not be returning To aunt Kitty and  Uncle Chris.

INSERT PHOTO

Then I  found a crumpled news clipping with the title “Nazi rockets Failed to stop Canadians” referring  to George Freeman’s first flight in HX 313.  A strong hint that the skies over
Germany were filled  with rockets and flak and  night fighters…and terror.

But I still knew nothing about the last flight of  HX 313.  George was the mid upper gunner in that lumbering Halifax bomber belonging to Tiger Squadron,  RCAF.  Efforts to get information from otters  
failed because  the Privacy Act forbade the release of  crew members that survived  the war.  Strange.  Must be some  reason for this but I failed  to know what reason.   Lillian   
Peers, George Freeman’s  sister, told me that the pilot of HX 33 visited  their golf club home after the war. “His name was Mallet and  the meeting was very emotional for all of them.”

The story could have ended there were it not for the  offer of a CBC Classified appeal. “At the sound of the beep, give your message…be sharp and specific”

“Eric Mallet, are  you listening?  You were the pilot of a Halifax bomber that was shot down over Belgium on the  night of  May  27, 1944.  Your upper middle gunner was George Freeman,
my cousin, who was killed. I am trying to  put together the details of his death.”  Then  I innocently mentioned the little snapshot of the pet Scotch Terrier sitting in George’s Air Force hat.
“I  have a  few  fragments that belonged  to George.  One is  an RCAF hat sitting upside down with a  little black dog below which is written “Nooky, Squadron Leader”, perhaps that clue
might help.”   Does the word  have any meaning?”
Well the word certainly had meaning. Many listeners responded to let me know that Nooky referred to sexual activity of a  casual  nature. Mention  of  Skipton  on Swale and  #6 Bomber 
Group and  HX 313 along with Nooky resulted  in a  shower of puzzle pieces.  Many clarified he meaning of  Nooky.  “Refers to sexual activity, Alan.”   I should have  known  that and
had I known I would never have included  it in a CBC radio broadcast that went clear across Canada  from  seas to sea to sea.

Several phone calls came  immediately.  Most were irrelevant.  Veteran airmen just making contact…wanting  to help.  Mothers  who  had lost sons.  Sisters who had  lost brothers.  One
man living in a dirt encrusted  room on Toronto’s River Street was  insistent I visit him.  Doing so I realized  he  had   lost the battle with alcohol long ago.  He had  been a gunner  with
#6 Bomer Group but had never met George Freeman.  He just wanted someone to talk to.

There was no call or letter from any of the four surviving crew members of  HX313.  But there was one unusual call.  “Alan, my name is Joyce Inkster, a listener told me to call you and
offer my help.  For the  past few years my husband and I have been tracing and reassembling RCAF flight crews.  Perhaps we can help you.”

The  Inkster were part of the Allied Air Forces Reunion.  Joyce Inkster was a  female version of Sherlock Hollmes.  Within  a day  she  had  found the casualty report for the night
of May 27/28, 1944.  It listed when names of the crew and 1944 addresses.  Pilot Eric Mallet was from Vancouver.  Mrs. Inkster consulted  her collection of telephone books from
around  the world,  No Mallet listed in Vancouver.  “Let’s try Victoria”  There was an E.  Mallett.  Was it worth a call…budget  over run possible was in my mind.  I could not afford to
call every Mallett in Canada. “Don’t worry, I have  a system. I make the call when rates  are low, say the  message  fast…of wrong person end the call in less than a minute.  But first
I need a clue that will guarantee I’ve  reached the right person.”

The Scotch  Terrier picture…Nooky….almost barked at us.

“Are  you Eric  Mallett the pilot of HX 313 in 1944?”
“Yes,” My heart skipped a beat.
“Did you have  a  mascot?”
“Yes,  we had a scotch  terrier.”

The pilot of HX 313 had been found and the story began to unfold. I was asked  to return  the CBC  Joe Cote show snd tell the audience the  story as  it stood.

We found the  pilot of HX323 living in Victoria, British  Columbia, talked with him…he confirmed that they had a mascot… Scotch Terrier  Nooky.

“We had a seven man crew normally but on our last doomed flight we had an eight member. New pilots joining the squadron were assigned to a veteran pilot for
one live operations  flight so we  had co-pilot W.F. Elliott  aboard.  Of our eight man crew, 3 were killed but 5 managed to bail out.”

THE LAST FLIGHT OF HX 313 –  LETTER FROM PILOT OFFICER ERIC  MALLETT,  1984


Many Bombers featured ‘Blonde Bomber’ nose art.  This photo of a Handly Page  Halifax bomber
is likely not HX 313. 



Picture of personal standing  on wings of a Halifax Bomber at Skipton on Swale
Yorkshire, where  George Freeman was stationed as a mid upper gunner on
HX 313, Number 427 Tiger Squadron, Number Six Bomber Group, RCAF.




“Dear Alan:
In the first place I must you that George Freeman was never known to us  as George,  he was Hank.  Hank carried out his duties as  Mid Upper Gunner
with great courage and at no time was overcome  by fear. I am enclosing the only picture  of our aircraft that I have with a member  of the ground crew
sitting in my seat.  The ‘Blonde Bomber’ was one of the finest aircraft that I have ever flown (note: Eric was an experienced  pilot)  At that time the  Halifax 
was the fastest heavy bomber in the world.  We  carried 42 tons of  bombs and 21,000 gallons of100 octane  gasoline, total all up weight was 85,000 pounds 

Hank’sturret had four Browning machine guns capable of firing  1,250 rounds per minute.”


Note from 1984:  Eric Mallett’s enthusiasm for the Halifax contrasted with the opinions of military historians who regarded the Halifax heavy bomber inferior to the Lancaster.
Some historians even went so far as to note that the conversion of  bomber squadrons to Lancasters was done in a discriminatory manner which favoured
RAF  bomber squadrons.   Canadian Number Six Bomber Group continued to fly Halifax bombers to the end of the war.

“The member of  my crew were  Flight Lieutenant Bob Irwin (deceased); Wireless Operator Wilf Wakely (deceased); Vic Poppa, tail gunner; Ken Sweatman, bomb aimer;
Engineer Morris Muir (English); Mid-UpperGunner George Freeman (deceased); and flying  officer Elliot who was coming  along on his first trip…The target was Borg
Leopold in Belgium a base  which the Germans  were using as a  rest camp for their troops from the Russian front.   After leaving the briefing I  mentioned  to the 
crew that we were being sent on a mission for the sole purpose of killing people. We  carried  14,000 lbs. of anti-personnel bombs and the aiming point was to
be the officers quarters.  This mission did not sit well  with the crew. We had already  been through some tough missions against industrial targets but
this  mission made us feel uneasy.”

“Strangely enough we were not able to drop our load.  We were  right on our bomb run when we got hit.  Just a few seconds prior to being hit I had  an
urge to take evasive action but I did not because we had  our bomb doors  open and  had  started  our run.  I didn’t want to spoil the bomb aimers sighting
as there was  no indication of an attack other than my hunch.   Suddenly there  was  a tremendous burst of flame and I gave the order to ‘abandon aircraft ‘
immediately.  Knew from past experience that we only had seconds to do so because  100 octane gasoline  would blow  up once the  flames reached  the 
tanks. The Navigators position was right on top of the  forward escape hatch.  The whole crew was supposed  to go out this exit so  I would know when all
were out.  They did  not, however,  because Bob Irwin couldn’t get the hatch  open.  The second pilot (Elliott) and engineer (Muir) took off the rear seat and
went out of the entrance hatch.  I went forward to see how Bob was  doing and  by good fortune he was  beginning to have some luck so  I went back and
straightened out the aircraft.  In what seemed  like an eternity I returned to the hatch in time to see someone leaving.  I then, did not hesitate to  follow.
Upon hitting the air my flying  boots left me and I then tried  to find the rip chord  on my parachute.  I couldn’t find the  ring for what seemed like another
eternity. Eventually I hooked the ring, otherwise I would  not be here.”

Note:  Even today, Oct. 2, 2019, I can remember reading Eric Mallett’s letter.  Rivetting.  I could hardly believe I  had set an event like  this in
motion back 1984.   I had an idea that this  was  the end of the story so I read  slowly  and  re-read even slower.   But the story of the  Last Flight
of  HX 313 was really just beginning.  Read on!

“Drifting down through the nigh sky, I could see the target with the bombs landing, exploding and  setting fire to the buildings.  I thought for a moment or two
that I was going to land right on it.  The next thing I recall was seeing the ground  come up to me and then  ‘Boom!’…everything was silent.  When I came
to, I found myself right beside  a barbed wire fence.  Remembered my previous training and buried my parachute.  It required much effort.

“It is almost  impossible to describe the feeling that overcame me.  Since that day nothing has ever scored me as all I have do is recall in my
mind this dreadful night and the terrible feeling that I had.”

“I spent the rest  of the night sitting in a cornfield taking off my rings and rank markings as well as looking at my purse and pandora.  The escape kit
contained Horlicks tablets, benzedrine, German, Belgian And French currency.  When daylight came I discovered that I  was close  to a small village.
I knew that i  must get some help as I had a badly cut finger and no footwear.  I waited and  waited to  see what  sort of  traffic was entering or leaving the village.
There seemed  to be none other than that of  someone  tying up a  goat close to  where  I  was  hiding, for  quite  long time I wondered what the tinkling of
the goat’s bell  was.”

“Alan,  I  am going  to sign  off for now for this  is  only the beginning of a long, long story.  Enclosed you will find  your map with the location of the attack. Also 
you will find pictures of my crew, and one of  the Blonde Bomber.   We  were not allowed to take any pictures of our aircraft for security reasons, as  you can
well understand.    Also included is a  picture  of Hank  and Vic  Poppa engaged in a  little horseplay outside of our flight room.   Vic Poppa  and Ken  Sweatman
would be very pleased to hear from you if  would  care to write them.”

Kikndest  Regards
Eric  L. Mallett

Note from 2019:  Wow!  What a letter.  More to come. Eric  Mallett included the addresses of two other survivors.   The story was growing and growing.   It could  so  easily have  been  
lost.  What followed was almost a  year of contacts back  and forth and even  a visit with Victor Poppa in Cslifornia topped  off by him travelling to Toronto in a ramshackle truck
and trailer filled with spare used tires.  Victor’s  story eventually took  over.  Hank’s best friend.   Could  I put their life experiences  back together?   Pictures  are a bit of
a problem  for me  in 2019.  They are here among my books and records but it will take time to find them.   My  priority is  to get the written account transcribed to digital.



Note from 2019:  This is the  living quarters at airbase Skipton on Swale in 1944, a series of  Quonset buildings with rounded roofs.  The ruined  brick  building
was the  operations centre, picture taken about 1984 when the airbase had  been converted to a chicken farm after  the tarmac landing strip had  been
ripped up.


TO BE CONTINUED … TRANSCRIBING MY 1984 STORY NOW IN 2019…HOPE YOU ENJOY IT
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SUNNYSIDE BEACH…Small garden teeming with MONARCH BUTTERFLIES SEPT. 17, 2019


MONARCH BUTTERFLIES KNOW WHERE TO GO…SUNNYSIDE  BEACH IN SEPTEMBER

alan skeoch
sept. 2019


“Wish you were with us  today.”
“Why?”
“An invasion of Monarch  Butterflies at Sunnyside Beach”
“Why would they congregate there…it’s a barren  stretch of
boardwalk and  water.”
“True but there is  one small Butterfly Garden between Sunnysdie
Swimming  Pool and  the Palais  Royale….loaded with Monarch
Butterfly right now….”
“Tale a  break…take a look…lots of room to park.”





“Beautiful board  walk…lovely beach…but looks devoid of life forms other than
the two legged  kind.”

“Then suddenly there in front of you is the Butterfly Garden…lots of things
fluttering.”



“This picture looks nondescript until you look clearly and see FOUR MONARCH BUTTERFLYS!!!”




“Marjorie and some others collected seeds.”
“Is that  legal?”
“Catch  me if you can.”




There are no milkweed  plants in the Sunnyside Beach  Garden.

“But fear not.”





“Meanwhile, 45 miles away from the Sunnyside Monarch Butterfly ‘swarm’, two young Monarch  caterpillars
were chewing  merrily at our little milkweed garden.  Sometimes these  creatures are  hard to find Like
this one chewing upside down from under a  milkweed leaf.  The best way I use to find them is.!!!”

“Is what?”
“Hold on, Alan, your next comment may be in bad taste, better warn any readers. “
“good  point.  If  you are sensitive please  do not read any farther.”

“The best way I find  to locate a Monarch  caterpillar is to look for its’ excrement…that is
how I found the little fellow below…excrement in little brown  marbles.”
“Crude, Alan…crude.”
“I Told you not to read  if you are sensitive.”

“See  if  you can find  the Monarch below…bet you cannot.


STORY TWO

“Time to pick the crabapples…right now…”
“Some say wait until the first frost.”
“What if  they fall to the ground?”
“Best to get them now.”

“Alan, crab apple jelly is a lot of work.”
“I risked  my life picking the apples…is that not enough.  High on
a wooden ladder that had  seen better days…while  below  me three
old horse drawn mowers waited  for my flesh to land on their cutter bars.”
“Alan…you over do comments far too often.”
“Take a look … three rusted out mowing machines hungry for
blood  as red as the crabapples.”

“Enough…give me a hand cutting top and bottom, then cutting the little
red apples in half
“What about the worms?”
“Keep  that as  our little secret.”
“Now boil them up…get the sugar ready…may or may not need  pectin.”
“Definitely need bottles…little ones are best.”
“Why?”
“Friends  and enemies want to steal the finished  product…”
“Will hardly  miss a little bottle…but a  big bottle of  crab apple jelly  if  
stolen is a tragedy.”

“I thought this story was  about Monarch Butterfly.”
“Do  you not know the trick …”
“What trick?”
“All writers have a main story and a secondary story going at he same time.”
“Some writers have a whole bunch of  stories going at the same time…”
“Only two stories here…less stress on your metal ability.”

alan sketch
Sept. 2019






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“BIGGER THAN A MONARCH BUTTERFLY…AND SO CONFIDENT.

IT landed in front of me  as I sipped cold coffee  on the side

verandah…bigger than a Monarch butterfly…and black.


“Holy Samoly…that is one big butterfly.  Wonder  what it is?”

This is the Giant Swallowtail butterfly…4 inch wingspan…to 6 1/4 “wingspan…Almost at the
edge  of its  territory at our arm in Wellington County…outside its territory really.
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2019 STEAM ERA AT THE SHERWOOD HUME FARM: “A SUCKER BORN EVERY MINUTE”

“A SUCKER BORN EVERY MINUTE”

THE 2019 STEAM SHOW AT SHERWOOD HUMES FARM

alan skeoch
August 30, 2019


ONE DAY in the early 1960’s my Uncle Frank Freeman dropped by…


.”Alan a bunch of farmers

are showing their old farm machines over on a farm near here, do you want to come?”
“Thanks for asking me Uncle Frank…love to come.”

And I have not missed a Steam Era show in nearly 60 years.  Marjorie is less enthralled
and  has missed a few of the  shows.   I do  not know why.  This year the show was
in a bit of turmoil as the Milton Farm Museum site bumped  up the rent five times…FIVE TIMES!
SO the organizers  made a fast decision to hold the show on the farm of Gladys and  Sherwood 
Hume.  

Take a gander and see what you like best.

Guess what I liked best.

Have you every heard of the PARACAS SKULL?  If you have not then
you are about to be mystified as I was.



Our first tractor was an International Formal A…like this little beauty.  We were  so proud of it.  Bought it from Al Fox when he
retired and then proceeded to make a mess of the farm fields bye dragging an ancient single furrow plow up and down.  I drove
while dad held the plow handles and called me a ‘damn fool’.   It was quite a  wonderful few weeks.  Then winter came and  we
parked the Farmall A behind the farm house.  In theory it would be ready for spring planting.  That never happened. I assumed
the radiator was filled with anti freeze. Wrong!  WRONG!  It was filled with water and one herd  cold snap was enough to crack
the engine block.  Scrap tractor resulted…ruined.  As dad said, I was a  damn fool.


I really enjoyed these people who  set up their tent promoting ‘UNSOLVED MYSTERIES OF THE WORLD’.  The little tent was jammed with wonderful things most of
which were hard to believe.  Like the elongated silver looking human skull.  “When found in Peru, many thought this was the skull of aliens from outer space”

It is called the ‘[PARACAS SKULL’.   Now that aliens from space explanation was very hard to believe.  As  was the comment that the skull was a copy
of the original which was destroyed in the London Blitz of World War II.  But the story was amusing.  just for fun I punched up Paracas Skull on my search
engine.  There are dozens of entries.  Was there a lost tribe of humans with skulls like these?  Find our for yourself.   Stop laughing and do  some  research.

Lighten up…your underwear is twisted.






Inside the mystery tent there is  a big box promoting the GREATEST LIVING
WONDER OF ALL.   

“Brace yourself, sir, you are about to see one of
the great wonders of the world.”

And she opened the doors of the box.  I leaned  over and looked in.
Surprise!!!







Look who is sitting on the back of Dave’s truck.  Cute.




Why do people go to Fairs  like the Steam Era Show?

“Too have a good time…and we are devoted to that.”

“Some of our strange and funny mysteries are even based on fact.”



I spent two hours at the Steam Show.  Guess where I spent most of my time.




Just before I left I noticed  this lady and  her dog sitting on this  wagon.
“What are you waiting for…a tractor to pull you?”
“No, I’m waiting for my husband…pulling us around the
Steam Show is his job.”

I waited  and watched for a few minutes….no sign of the husband.


Now here is a gem.  Two people with many years gap between them, both enthralled
by this ancient Massey Harris  tractor.    

ALAN SKEOCH
August 30, 2019



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IN PRAISE OF GOLDENROD….FIND THE POLLEN LADEN HONEYBEE


FIND A HERO BEE IN THE GOLDENROD

WE  have so much goldenrod growing on our farm  that it has  bevy a taken for granted weed.

Now that is  unfortunate for goldenrod seems to be loved by honey bees, wasps  and even humming
bird moths.

Others love it as  well.  Henry Ford for instance had  the  tires on his first Model T cars made from
rubber extracted from golden rod.  Hard to believe I know.

Golden rod honey is now  in full production.  Take a  look at this heroic pollen laden honey bee.

alan skeoch
August 30, 2109