I feel humbled and strange and tearful.

I've just tracked down through the net my dad's WWII bomber squadron.

My old fella died ten years ago; he was, to me at least, a hero.

When he was 22, in the 1940s, he flew Stirling four-engined heavy bombers on 25 operations over Occupied Territory.

22! For fuck's sake.

He was a commissioned officer, a flight lieutenant, a pilot, and got his wings at 21, he joined an operational squadron six months later and, according to the RAF website, took part in more than two dozen night bombing ops - including raids on some targets still classified as secret.

All the flying was at night.

The kill-rate for Stirling crews was above 80%.

That plane, which he loved, made Airfix models of, and went on about until the day he died, was a bloody death trap. Still...

He was in 214 squadron.

I've found that their motto was: "Ultor in umbris" - Avenging in the shadows.

All the stuff he used to talk to me about when I was tiny, and all the stuff he used to talk to me about when I was a mature adult, and all the stuff that's in my head and pretty much makes me what I am today, for good or ill, is on this site.

When I was nine, my dad took me on a ferry trip across the river, which was something we often used to do.

Except this time, he had with him a packet of memories. A strange paper-wrapped package which I had seen before, but which he had never spoken to me about.

Inside the package were bullets, German fighter plane bullets.

And as the ferry made its way across the water, he explained to me that he had dug them out from the seat of his tail-gunner, a chap I only know as "Tiger".

Really. That was his RAF nickname. Ironically given because he was so softly-spoken, a man who never drank alcohol but who would always stand his round in the pub while he had only orange juice

He had been killed by a German fighter pilot during one of the raids when my dad was his skipper.

As the ferry steamed on, my father tipped the slugs over the side and they disappeared in the murky depths.

I suppose it must have been a poignant moment for my dad.

He was obviously "cleaning out his closet" and for some reason, wanted me along.

For me, it was a total waste of good Nazi bullets - the stuff of dreams for a nine-year-old in the 60s.

Anyway, finding this website made me remember again that my my dad was a brave, brave man and I miss him terribly.

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