My father, Edgar Owen, was a Spitfire pilot in WWII. He died in 2007 at the age of 86. His wartime experiences of flying in the Far East have given me the love of anything military - but obviously anything that flies.
He left Liverpool by troop ship, the Otranto, in 1942 and spent a number of weeks in cramped conditions sailing to South Africa. He subsequently found out that to outflank German 'U' boats, they were within striking distance of South America! He had left his girlfriend in Liverpool, and was not to see her again until 1945, after the surrender of Japan.
He trained in South Africa on Tiger Moths under the most severe instruction of South African Air Force instructors. But, after around 20 hours of training, he qualified as a pilot and joined up with 67 Squadron, which had been flying Brewster Buffaloes, but when he arrived they were starting to fly Hurricanes and later Spitfires.
A number of tours of duty followed but things got more heated when he was flying in Burma, often in support of Wingate's Chindits - dog fighting, bombing and strafing anything that moved but usually Japanese fighters, trains, bridges and fuel dumps. Although having never been to Burma - Chittagong, Mingdalon, the Irriwaddy, the Arakan and many other stopping-off points were soon known to me.
As often is the case, survivors of war don't talk in depth of their experiences, but there were many acts of bravery, and I know that many of my father's colleagues, many of whom were from the ANZAC countries or Canada, were killed in action. To survive in such a harsh a theatre of war only added to my boyhood hero-worship and I always told my friends with huge admiration that my father was a Spitfire pilot who had survived.
He returned to Liverpool and married his girlfriend, Barbara. They moved to South Wales in 1946 and my sister Stephanie and I were born in Swansea. My mother still lives up the road and is now 95 years of age. Her memories of wartime Liverpool are as bright as a button.
