by Steve Darlow
Called to the skies in their youth, they crossed into a realm of fire and fear, endured unthinkable trials, and returned changed – unseen heroes whose journey echoes the oldest myths, and whose legacy still asks to be understood. Such is the story of the airmen of Bomber Command.
‘He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.’ (Friedrich Nietsche, 1886.)
(A section of novice air gunners from No. 81 Course, No. 7 Air Gunnery School)
In the maelstrom of the Second World War, a unique group of young men found themselves confronting the very edge of human experience. These were the airmen of Royal Air Force Bomber Command, many of whom were barely out of school, yet volunteered to fly explosive-laden bombers deep into enemy territory, night after night, with no guarantee of return. They were tasked with one of the most perilous roles in the Allied war effort. And although they rarely, if at all, call themselves heroes, their journey, both literal and emotional, echoes the great heroic archetypes of history and myth.
This post reflects on their journey. Their motivations. Their training. Their fear and terror. Their loss. And their long fight for recognition in a world that was eager to forget them. A journey that follows the classic mythic hero's story model of call to adventure, transformation, confrontation, and, if they survive, victory and return.
The Call to Adventure
When thinking of Second World War aviators, popular imagination often conjures the steely resolve of film heroes in The Dam Busters or 633 Squadron. But the reality, as uncovered through letters, interviews, and recollections, was far more human. Most of the airmen didn’t set out to be warriors of the sky. They were young men, even boys, seeking purpose, adventure, and sometimes, simply a way to avoid repeating their fathers’ experiences in the trenches of the First World War.
Pilot Tony Iveson recalled how his father had been wounded on the Somme, ‘He bore a terrible battle scar on his chest’. The stories of gas attacks and trench warfare haunted Tony’s generation, and he was determined to find a different path.
For Benny Goodman (left), it was the thrill of flight. ‘My father took me to see a display by Alan Cobham and his flying circus. I greatly admired these people tearing around in their flying machines and this really triggered me off.’ Pilot Tiny Cooling recalled during the early days of his training ‘It was a beautiful sunny day and I was diving down into these cumulus valleys, shrieking with delight. When I came back from this flight I landed and was asked if I was alright. My response, ‘It was bloody marvellous'.’
These were not men primarily driven by hatred or vengeance – they were curious, idealistic, and hopeful. And the Royal Air Force knew exactly how to appeal to them. Posters promised excitement, camaraderie, and a ‘war-winning job’ for men of dash and initiative. The air force represented something new and modern. It wasn’t marching in mud – it was flying above the clouds, riding the wind, and mastering machines that defied gravity.
But not all Bomber Command airmen were British or from the Commonwealth. It became a truly multi-national force, and for airmen whose countries were subject to Nazi occupation and oppression, such as the Poles and the Czechs, retribution fuelled their determination.
Training and Transformation
Answering the call was only the beginning. Aircrew volunteers underwent months of training, often in far-flung corners of the Commonwealth, away from the threat of enemy attacks. Here, they learned to fly, navigate, send Morse code, and drop bombs. Yet this training was anything but safe.
Over 8,000 aircrew died before ever reaching an operational squadron. Wireless operator John Banfield recalled being assigned as a pallbearer three times during his training, ‘The previous course got practically wiped out’. Testament to the ever-present danger even before engaging the enemy. The abyss, to use Nietzsche’s famous phrase, had already begun to gaze back.
Towards the end of their training men were ‘crewed up’ – a surprisingly informal process. Bomb aimer John Bell (right) recalled how airmen were simply thrown together in a hangar, ‘And we were told to form up in groups of five. We were all milling around wondering what happened next.’ A glance at a brevet denoting the wearers trade, a random nod, a handshake, and a few words were often all it took to forge the most important bond of their lives.
These crews – usually of seven men for the four-engine bombers – would live, fly, and often die together. They trained together, trusted each other implicitly, and were welded into a fighting team through shared danger.
The Realm of Fabulous Forces
What followed was an initial ‘tour’ of thirty bombing operations over occupied Europe or Germany. Fifteen more if you were selected to join the Pathfinders. These ops were not symbolic acts. They were long, freezing, high-altitude flights into areas defended by flak, searchlights, and night fighters. Every time they climbed into a Wellington, Lancaster, Halifax, or Stirling, they knew the odds were against them.
The danger was not abstract – it was vivid, visceral. Navigator Gordon Mellor remembered a terrifying encounter with a Messerschmitt night fighter which, 'started pumping cannon shell at us... You could see the tracer whizzing past... The wings and inboard engines were in flames… we were going down at quite a rate… the pilot said, ‘everybody out’.’ Their rear gunner was already dead.
Rear gunner Dave Fellowes (left) recounted a mid-air collision, ‘there was a crash, a rendering and tearing of metal, and a thump. Some other aircraft had come out of the cloud just below us and stuck his port wing into us, right under the mid-upper turret.’ There was now a gaping hole beneath the mid-upper gunner. ‘That part of the aircraft had disappeared from the bomb bay right back to the main door.’ The crew somehow limped home, with a buckled aileron and over three feet of wing tip gone.
Australian navigator Cal Younger, whose prisoner-of-war memoir No Flight From the Cage is a classic of its kind, shared a harrowing moment when his Wellington was hit. ‘The pilot said, ‘Is there any hope, Cal?’ I told him no… he sat with a serene smile on his face, resigned to going down with the stricken plane.’ While Cal and others in the crew bailed out Russ, the pilot, fought to control the bomber. It cost Russ his life. Cal came to England from Australia as one of what he called ‘Ten Little Navigators’. Within a few months of starting ops eight were dead and two were prisoners-of-war.
The dangers of 'ops' weren't one-time ordeals. The airmen faced it repeatedly – some every other night. At one stage operations counted for only a third of an op if the risk was deemed low, meaning some men had to fly far more than their tour of thirty. Canadian Jack Fitzgerald wryly noted in a letter home, ‘If you go over there and get killed, you don’t get only 1/3 killed.’ Jack lost his life over Denmark in August 1944.
Home, Then Hell, Then Home Again
Perhaps the most psychologically jarring element was the rapid transition from life-threatening fear, perhaps even terror, to normalcy. One moment, an airman would be witnessing another RAF bomber, with seven humans on board, plummet to earth in flames; a few hours later, he’d be in the mess eating eggs and bacon or flirting with a barmaid.
This cycle repeated endlessly, and many crews developed a dark humour to cope. But no one came through it unscathed. The airmen lived on the edge – adrenaline and fear were constant companions.
And many didn’t live at all. Bomber Command suffered some of the highest casualty rates of any Allied unit. The official statistics record 55,573 killed, 9,838 prisoners of war, and 8,403 wounded – a sixty per cent casualty rate.
(Commonwealth War Graves Commission Berlin 1939-1945 War Cemetery)
Heroes in the Classical Sense
What about the term 'heroes'? Most veterans bristle at the word. ‘We were just doing a job,’ they often say. But in a deeper sense, they fit the model perfectly.
American mythologist Joseph Campbell described the Hero’s Journey as a universal narrative pattern: a call to adventure, a journey into the unknown, the confrontation of supernatural forces, the winning of a decisive victory, and the return home bearing a gift to mankind.
By this standard, Bomber Command aircrew were heroes in the truest sense. They answered the call, crossed into a realm of death and terror, faced inhuman challenges, helped defeat the evil of Nazism, and returned changed—bearing freedom, remembrance, and warning.
Betrayed After Victory
Yet these heroes were not treated as such. In the immediate post-war years, the British government distanced itself from Bomber Command, particularly due to growing unease about the morality of area bombing. Winston Churchill, who once said, ‘The bombers alone provide the means of victory,’ neglected Bomber Command in his 1945 victory speech.
And no specific campaign medal was issued. Their legacy was obscured by political discomfort and a shifting moral climate.
Joseph Campbell identified a figure in the hero’s journey known as the ‘shapeshifter’ – someone who appears as an ally but transforms. In this context, Churchill became the shapeshifter. First their champion, later their forgetter.
The public conversation about Bomber Command became obsessed with Dresden, and the devastating raid of February 1945. The wider context – the extreme risk, the lack of precision weapons, the changing roles, the intent to shorten the war – was often overlooked. Intentionality is the key concept. It is a moral mistake to equate Auschwitz, where the Nazi regime’s intent was genocide, with Allied bombing aimed at liberation from the perpetrators and aggressors.
Living With the Abyss
Even those who survived and resumed normal lives found themselves haunted. Tiny Cooling (right), who once shrieked with delight during his first training flight, lived in post-war Frankfurt. One day, he passed a woman with a single leg. ‘Maybe she was a victim of the bombing campaign,’ he thought. ‘I hated to feel that I might have been responsible… you put that in a drawer right at the bottom, at the back.’
And that’s what many veterans did—put it in a drawer. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t dwell on it. But the drawer was always there, waiting to be opened.
A Long-Awaited Recognition
For decades the world was unsure how to remember them, but finally the tide began to turn. Authors, historians, families, and veterans themselves fought for recognition.
The Bomber Command Memorial in London’s Green Park was finally unveiled in 2012. It stands as a solemn tribute to those who served and died, a symbolic righting of historical neglect, a place of pilgrimage and an opportunity to focus remembrance.
People come from all over the world to pay their respects. Widows like Jessie Bowler (left), who lost her husband Ernest Thirkettle in a 1943, shot down over Denmark, stand quietly beside the memorial, clutching old wedding photos. Ernest’s body remains in the wreckage of his Lancaster – his grave a hidden scar in the landscape.
The Wall of Names at the International Bomber Command Centre, opened in 2018, commemorates by name the individuals who died in service with Bomber Command. A permanent and poignant reminder of the scale of sacrifice.
Conclusion: The Abyss Still Gazes
So, were they heroes?
By every narrative, moral, and human standard – yes. They were not perfect, and they would never claim sainthood. But they took on an extraordinary burden, faced overwhelming odds, and gave everything they had to stop tyranny.
They stared into the abyss – and sometimes, the abyss stared back. Did they become monsters? Well we don’t know the detail of every former Bomber Command airman’s personal life, but the ones I knew didn’t appear to be.
Instead, they became the quiet men, the fathers and then grandfathers with hidden medals, with memories of colleagues whose names were carved into silent headstones and memorials. Many veterans, I would suggest most, kept their experiences to themselves – and many was the family unaware of what grandad did and what grandad saw.
Descendants of Bomber Command airmen often recall that dad, or uncle, or grandad, never spoke about their experience. Perhaps it was humility, or a way of shielding themselves from painful memories. Or maybe they felt that no listener could ever truly understand – that words would never be enough.
Recent recognition, the opportunity to meet up with fellow veterans, and the pestering of inquisitive authors, have, thankfully, encouraged some to open up.
The airmen of Bomber Command were heroes of the sky and guardians of our freedom.
We owe them more than remembrance. We owe them understanding.
(Gordon Mellor gazes at the name of one of his former crewmates on the Wall of Names at the International Bomber Command Centre)
Notes
Tony Iveson, Benny Goodman, and Tiny Cooling feature in Five of the Many by Steve Darlow and published by Grub Street.
John Banfield, John Bell, and Dave Fellowes feature in The Bomber Command Memorial by Steve Darlow, Sean Feast, Robin Gibb, Jim Dooley, and Gordon Rayner, and published by Fighting High.
Calton Younger's story is told in his book No Flight From The Cage published by Fighting High.
Jack Fitzgerald's story is told by Steve Darlow in Bomber Command Failed to Return published by Fighting High.
Gordon Mellor's story is told in his autobiography ETA - A Bomber Command Navigator Shot Down and on the Run published by Fighting High.