This is an extract from ‘The Last Lanc’ by Patrick kilvington, the story of flying the bomber back from Australia. It is a reminder of the affect of the Lancaster on those who served on them, and with them.
‘The sun beat down, throwing a shimmering haze over the parched paddocks.
A tractor stood immobile in the shadowed interior of the barn, a mans legs protruding underneath.
The sweat trickled into his eyes, and he wiped it away immpatiently, leaving a faint smear of black grease across his lean, tanned face. His back hurt.
That noise, that strange pulsating, disturbingly unfamiliar noise. It sounded like-hell! It couldn’t be! No way!. he grabbed the underneath of the tractor and pulled himself out to hear better. It was! He’d bet a quid. It was! It had to be.
‘It’s a Lanc’ he said wonderingly ‘ it’s a bloody Lanc!’ Almost beside himself with excitement, he flung wide the door of the wool shed, and rushed into the open, his eyes half shut against the glare of the sun, searching the sky.
He shaded his eyes and yelled aloud. There, quite low the roar of the four merlins spanning two decades, was the long, old fashioned shape of the World war 11 Lancaster.
Former war-time Lancaster Captain Peter Paul stood there, his eyes rivited onher as she thundered overhead. ‘It’s a Lanc’ he screamed, tears coursing down his face,’Its a bloody Lanc……. a bloody old Lanc!’
Long after the sound had gone, the ghost from the past no longer visible, he stood there, remembering……..’
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