This is my father's story. He was 22 years old and had been flying Coastal Command Wellingtons over the North Sea, the Atlantic and the Red Sea on the look-out for U-boats. This could be the loneliest and least glamorous role for a pilot; eight-hour patrols, low over the sea, with everyone in the six-strong crew straining eyes (and radar) for a tell-tale sign somewhere among the waves. He says you had to concentrate hard to keep your altitude; the horizon was usually lost in the murk and you didn't dare nod off for even a second. The crews came back with red eyes and were often too exhausted to eat before collapsing into their bunks.
In 1944 he was given the job of familiarising new crews with the technique of criss-crossing the ocean in a systematic pattern. This was called a 'nav patrol'. On this particular day he met his crew of trainees - all bright-eyed and excited, fresh out from the UK - in Haifa, and they took off in a Wellington XIII for a night patrol over the Eastern Mediterranean.