Two p.m. on the 28th of November 2000 saw the writer amongst a group of people gathered on a public footpath close to the cliff edge above a stormy Freshwater Bay.

I stood with old men, their chests proudly bearing medals, some fortunate to have their wives supporting them, some sadly alone. Local dignitaries, Standard bearers, youthful cadets and men in dark suits and regimental ties stood shoulder to shoulder. I listened to the quiet conversations that spread across this wide section of society. The crisp, clean diction of Lady Dundas and her family, mixing easily with more usual everyday accents.

A man in a blue anorak fussed around, seeking out the local reporter and his cameraman and steering them towards the most influential amongst us.
The Lord Lieutenant of the Isle of Wight hastened up the steep hillside, puffing and apologising for his late arrival, his official car had broken down some three miles away and he had been forced to thumb a lift with a rather surprised passing motorist.

At last everything was in place, the blue anorak clad man had introduced everyone to each other and every one was in the right position.

Around 60 people, gathered in the biting wind and spitting rain, all shuffled closer to the speechmaker. Struggling to hear as the wind snatched the words from the quietly spoken 70-year-old man at whose invitation we had gathered. As his short speech ended, sharp commands barked out by an RAF officer caused the standard bearers to struggle in raising their charges against the teeth of the gathering storm. A poignant struggle perhaps, to remind us of a past struggle with far worse consequences.

Three wreaths were placed against a simple memorial. A short service followed. The priest's words carried across a storm tossed bay by that biting, cold wind. Old men in thin jackets, stood stiffly at attention, ignoring the elements; I shivered inside my thickly lined jacket. Somehow these things seemed to bring home the reality of loss.

Sixty years earlier to the very day, in weather that was probably no better than this, an air battle was in progress to the south west of the Island.
Flight Lieutenant John Dundas, from 609 Squadron, was not to return from this battle. Raked with gunfire from one of his German adversaries, his Spitfire plunged into the sea. Dundas's remains were never found and his last resting-place remains an anonymous seascape. Until now, his only epitaph a simple entry on the Runnymede Memorial for those that have no known resting place.

Today, this was being redressed. A memorial to this airman was dedicated on a piece of land alongside a public footpath, above a summer holiday beach. A simple reminder of a past battle had been placed for all that pass to hopefully reflect upon.
Following the ceremony a small reception was held at a local hotel for all the attendees. This seemed too private to intrude upon. I made my excuses and left.

Driving home along the Afton road my mind dwelt upon the emotions of the afternoon. A brave young man had been dutifully and rightfully honoured for his sacrifice. But his sacrifice was only one of so many during those years of conflict. It seemed only right that a balance should be struck.

I turned off the Afton road and, almost within sight of the Lord Lieutenant’s broken down car, parked close to Chessel pottery. After donning a large pair of work boots, I set off through about a mile and a half of muddy, slippery, overgrown footpaths towards the top of the Downs.

After about ¾ hour of squelching through ankle deep mud I reached a disused quarry pit on the very top of Wellow Down. In the centre of this pit lies an area of black stones. Stones still blackened by a tremendous fire that took place sixty years ago. At 23.55 on the 30th May 1941 a German Junkers JU88 bomber slammed headlong into this pit on the crest of the Down and exploded, bringing a fiery death to its crew of four.

Standing on the top edge of the pit I gazed down at the blackened area, where even now very little vegetation has returned. I stood once again on a public footpath, the wind just as strong as at the bay; only this time there were no ladies fighting to retain their hats; no soothing sermons; no medals; no flags; no wreaths; no memorial plaque; no passers by; no holiday beach.
Just me. Standing in a solitary salute to a former foe whose sacrifice was startlingly similar to those of our own airmen.

© 2002 webmaster