Lindsay Rutland (Sam) BURFORD

BURFORD, Lindsay Rutland

Service Number: 437391
Enlisted: 30 January 1943
Last Rank: Warrant Officer
Last Unit: No. 514 Squadron (RAF)
Born: Blyth, South Australia , 19 November 1924
Home Town: Woodville, Charles Sturt, South Australia
Schooling: Woodville High School
Occupation: Not yet discovered
Died: Natural causes (diabetes), Adelaide, South Australia , 5 October 1990, aged 65 years
Cemetery: Enfield Memorial Park, South Australia, Australia
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World War 2 Service

30 Jan 1943: Enlisted Royal Australian Air Force, Aircraftman 2 (WW2), SN 437391, Adelaide, South Australia
30 Jan 1943: Enlisted Royal Australian Air Force, Warrant Officer, SN 437391
1 Feb 1943: Involvement Royal Australian Air Force, Aircraftman 2 (WW2), SN 437391
7 Sep 1945: Discharged Royal Australian Air Force, Warrant Officer, SN 437391, No. 514 Squadron (RAF)

Sam Burford's story

Lindsay Rutland Burford was born at Blyth Hospital, South Australia on November 19th, 1924, the second child of Henry and Grace Burford. He had an older sister, Grace, and later a brother, Robert.

Father Henry was a railway worker. Lindsay lived in a rural town, spending part of his school holidays with his dad in a linesman’s hut along the tracks. He became known as “Sam”, though immediate family called him “Lins”. Eventually, the family moved to Woodville, a north-western suburb of Adelaide.

Sam joined the Air Training Corps (A.T.C.), with his sister, Grace (in the W.A.T.C.). When Sam left school, he worked in a brickyard, then in a pharmacy. When WW2 broke out, he applied to join the R.A.A.F., at the time giving his occupation as “metal machinist”.

In early 1943 he began training at the I.T.S. (Initial Training School), at the stately mansion at Mount Breckan, Victor Harbor. There, he palled up with another local lad, Grant Boys, and Dave Rice, from a dairy farm near Murray Bridge. The recruits on 37 Course were issued with antiquated flying suits and nice shiny flying boots. The suits were shown off to family but never used. The boots were fielded for impromptu football games.

In April 1943, Sam, with Dave and Grant, moved on to No. 1 Wireless and Air Gunnery School (1 WAGS) Ballarat, Victoria. They booked up some air time in Avro Ansons or single-engined, two-seat Wackett trainers. April to July 1943 was especially cold around Ballarat, and it was Sam who started a trend of going to bed wearing long-johns, two pairs of socks, pajamas, overalls, a jumper, balaclava, mittens, a greatcoat, and just about everything else he could find.

Though they were doing well in skills they had already picked up in the A.T.C., Grant announced he was going to “drop out” and apply to become a simple A.G. (Air Gunner) rather than W.A.G. (Wireless operator / Air Gunner). Where one of them went, the other two followed, to 3 B.A.G.S. (Bombing and Gunnery School) at Sale, Victoria. They left the W.A.G.S. on July 18th, to join 35 Aircrew (Gunnery) Course the next day.

3 B.A.G.S. operated Airspeed Oxfords and Fairey Battles from its station near Sale. Course members could pass out as sergeants, slip back through illness or for other reasons or, in a few cases, be commissioned “off course” as Pilot Officers. Graduation came on 19th August, 1943. Sam graduated as Sergeant Air Gunner. Dave Rice left the course with an officer’s commission. Grant contracted meningitis, whilst on pre-embarkation leave in September. He was hospitalized until fit enough to pass out in March 1944. A few months behind the other two, he was destined to fly in Halifaxes with 462 Squadron, on special diversionary operations.

In November 1943, a large number of Aussie airmen departed from Melbourne on the “Lurline”, an American passenger ship now loaded with airmen bound for England, some tough Indian-service regulars, and American troops being repatriated. The R.A.A.F. contingent was under control of Flight Lieutenant Alex Callil, who disapproved of officers fraternizing with other ranks, so Sam Burford and Dave Rice saw little of each other, and their training would send them in different directions. Sam Burford turned 19 just out of Melbourne.

They spent a short time in San Francisco, and then crossed the United States by rail to New York, many attending more than one Christmas party, thanks to American hospitality. After brief leave, they boarded the Samaria, a British ship loaded with servicemen, including the same lot of Indian-service regulars who had been on the Lurline.

En route, Sam joined up with a Queenslander, Bob Chester-Master, and a gingery-haired chap known as “Bluey” Douglas. The three spent leave time in Leeds, with a family called Robinson. Bluey was posted to Coastal Command and they heard no more of him. Sam and Bob returned to Brighton. From there, they went to Bomber Command’s 17 O.T.U. (Operational Training Unit) at Silverstone, with a satellite field at Turweston.

There, Sam and Bob – who became known as “Chesty” – met up once more with some Aussies from the Lurline and Samaria; Jim Mallinson, Doug McConville, Dick McKenzie, “Jacko” Jackson, and others. They shared the hut with R.A.F. men, including George Durland, from Walsall, near Birmingham, who got on well with Sam’s humour.

The trainee wireless ops and gunners flew from both Silverstone and Turweston, in Wellington Mk.II’s and Mk.X’s. They and their pilots rotated through various aircraft. Sam spent more time flying with New Zealander, John Lawrie, than he did with any of the other pilots. He was, in fact, the first pilot Sam flew with at Turweston.

Sam and Chesty had decided to crew together, and they became part of a mixed crew, starting with John Lawrie as pilot. George Durland would be their wireless operator. The navigator was an Australian, Denison Reginald “Reg” Orth, from Penrith, New South Wales. Londoner Martin Carter became the bomb-aimer, and the flight engineer’s job went to a Scot, Tommy Young, from Falkirk.

Lawrie’s crew was eventually put on notice to report to 3 Group, to continue training with them, after a short leave. They moved on to 1657 Heavy Conversion Unit (1657 HCU), in 3 Group, at Shepherd’s Grove, in May 1944.

As they arrived, a four-engined Stirling bomber was making its landing approach. Beyond the Stirling was a German intruder. It attacked the Stirling and seven airmen died as the aircraft smashed into a hangar, wrecking and damaging other Stirlings as it tore through.

The Stirlings were ageing, and mostly relegated to training duties. On one take-off, John Lawrie had an engine fail, and called for an emergency landing. As they came in, Tommy Young followed procedure, announcing “Flaps down.”

John Lawrie, coaxing the brakes which had suddenly become useless, resorted to invective to help slow the aircraft. The end of the runway loomed up. The heavy bomber finally bogged in soft soil, just short of a massive water tank.

Lawrie’s crew were in time sent on leave, with orders to report afterwards to 3 Lancaster Finishing School (3 L.F.S.) at Feltwell. They flew their last Stirling on 17th June, 1944. There, they were introduced to the Lancaster, over a very brief period of about one week. Unlike Stradishall, Feltwell was a typical wartime airfield, a collection of large and small Nissen huts, with two composition runways. Familiarisation consisted of around ten hours of day and night circuits.

Sam and George spent a leave in late June at the “Mount Royal” hotel in London, at the height of the V.1 bombardment, just for the hell of it. “We must,” George wrote in later life, “have been mad.”

The Lawrie crew moved on to operational bombers, with 514 Squadron, part of 3 Bomber Group, at Waterbeach, Cambs. The squadron was equipped with Lancasters, usually powered by four Merlin engines. 514 also had a number of the less common Lancaster Mk.IIs, with Hercules radials. 514’s aircraft were distinguished by the letters “JI” on their sides, for A and B flights, and A2 for C Flight.

The Lawrie crew was listed on the battle order in mid-July; they had been assigned a Merlin-engined Lancaster Mk.I/III JI-U “Uncle”, LL731. Their first op, on the 18th, was to be a daylight raid, in support of Operation “Goodwood”. The allies had advanced from the Normandy beach-head, to be slowed at the Orne river. German forces were on the other side, and the river crossings lay under their gun sights. The head of Bomber Command was persuaded to use his aircraft in a ground support role.

The morning’s target for 514 Sqn. was a point six miles southeast of Caen. The Allies had air superiority, and the bombing force would be escorted by fighters. As a first operation, it was a short trip.

Sam and the rest of the Lawrie crew, in JI-U “Uncle” took off with 13,000 lbs of bombs to contribute to the 5,000 tons to be dropped by Bomber Command’s nine hundred-plus aircraft, and another 1800 tons carried by the Americans. They would drop bombs in a band to the left of the wave, including the villages of Sannerville, Emieville and Cagny.

For the new crew, the operation was uneventful, though they found a scratch in the metal under the bomb-aimer’s position. The German perspective was much different as they faced carpet-bombing, one wave after another rolling over them.

Their second operation was that same evening evening, July 18th, on rail-yards at Aulnoye. Again they flew in JI-U “Uncle”, with a 13,000 lb. load. A concurrent raid on nearby Revigny bore the brunt of German defences, while the Aulnoye raid was much quieter. U-Uncle bombed from 9,000 ft and returned home.

On July 20th, John Lawrie flew with his crew to Homberg, carrying a 13,000 lb. bomb load to drop on the synthetic oil works. It would be a three-hour flight, to bomb from a moderately high altitude of 20,000 feet. Though the smallest of three bomber forces abroad that night by a small margin, it would suffer more losses than the other two raids together. By the time it was over, twenty Lancasters had been shot down. A Me109 attacked the Lawrie aircraft, but it was answered by the gunners and they returned home safely again.

After that, they had a few days free of flying. Sam Burford and George Durland each bought motorbikes. Sam’s was a BSA with a heavy blackout cowl on its headlamp, and George had a Velocette. Martin Carter, meanwhile, acquired an ancient machine of 1920s manufacture. Mostly he would go off alone, while Sam and George spent much of their leisure time together, often visiting George’s family in Walsall. The rest of the crew went shares in a well-worn “Standard Nine” sedan, produced in the late 1930s, price thirty pounds.

Back on ops on July 23rd, John Lawrie and crew found themselves scheduled for Kiel. That afternoon, John wrote home;

“This afternoon I had to go before the C.O. and have an interview with regards to a commission and now have to go before some Air Commodore & then I ‘might’ get a ‘flat hat’.”

“U-Uncle” never reached Kiel. John was obliged to turn for home and land, less than two hours after take-off (which was still well into a five-hour operation). They were prevented from continuing by a small, but critical, fault. The intercom had failed, and their logs were marked “DNCO” – Duty Not Carried Out. It didn’t count towards their operational tally.

By now, the crew was thinking of naming their regular aircraft. They settled on “The Swoose”, having in mind a bird with the grace of a swan and the lifting power of a goose. The idea may have come from a beaty little Jazz song by Kay Kyser, which reached number 3 in the 1941 hit parade.

“The Swoose” would take part in the first of three raids on Stuttgart, on the night of 24th-25th July. Then the crew would be rested the next night, to be available for the third raid on the 28th-29th. Sam later said they hated Stuttgart. It sat among a series of narrow valleys, in which fog, cloud, industrial haze and artificial smoke hid the target, and it was well defended. On this first raid, they were almost coned by searchlights, and their logbooks recorded “poor effort”.

On August 2nd, the “Swoose” flew to Forêt de Nieppe to effectively bomb a V.1 flying bomb site from 11,000 ft., on an operation with no aircraft losses. Next day they flew an operation to Bois de Cassan. The raids on the flying bomb sites were followed, on August 4th, by another day raid on an oil refinery, an eight-hour round trip to Bec d’Ambes, near Bordeaux in southern France. John’s crew was assigned a different Lancaster, a Merlin-engined Mk.II, LM265.

Then the crew returned to night ops, bombing the petrol dump at Forêt de Lacheux (or Lucheux) on August 8th. The “Swoose” would deliver, once again, 9,000 lbs. from a fairly low altitude, officially, 12,000 ft. A splinter of anti-aircraft shell or a bit of shrapnel from a bomb flew into the underside of the “Swoose”, opening hydraulic lines and spilling fluid into the wing and undercarriage bays. The landing was rough without hydraulics, and the “Swoose” was in for repairs.

After a night off, they flew another daylight op on August 11th. With the “Swoose” out of action, they took instead LL624. That night, they raided the railway yard at Lens. They returned home safely on the 12th, but would be flying again that night.

The “Swoose” repairs continued, so the crew had to fly one of the spare aircraft. They went to inspect a somewhat different machine to their familiar “Swoose”. It looked pristine and factory-fresh. It was LM180, JI-G “George”. George Durland was less than happy. It lacked the “Monika” tail-warning radar he was used to. Reg Orth’s concern was the H2S blister below the fuselage. They had not been trained to use the H2S navigational equipment.

As a complete crew, this would be their eleventh operation. Counting John’s flight as “second dickey” before commencing operations and a windowing sortie, some of them would be flying their 13th action.

That night, Bomber Command would be flying 1167 sorties; that is, 1167 individual flights. The Lawrie crew would be part of the largest force of 297 aircraft, bound for the Opel works at Russelsheim, near Frankfurt.

Both going in and coming back, the courses were not very devious, nor very different from each other, and were called by Peter Brown, of 115 Sqn., “a dead give-away for night fighters”. To gunners like Chesty occurred the obvious thought.

“We would stir up a hornets’ nest of defences on our way out, and reap the harvest on our return.”

Lawrie crew’s aircraft load consisted of a four thousand pound “Cookie” and a series of canisters, each one holding ninety four-pound incendiaries.

John and Tommy were parties to a snippet of “extra gen”. This was to be their last operation with 514 Squadron. The Lawrie crew had been selected to fly as Pathfinders, when they came back.

At eleven o’clock that night, the bomber stream passed over France and Belgium, the sky already beginning to brighten ahead of them. A full moon was beginning to rise, and after midnight would provide a clear light above the clouds. At Russelsheim, they bombed through flak which intelligence, back in England, would later assess as “moderately heavy”.

They had bombed at 0015 hrs, barely into August the thirteenth, and turned for home with a nearly full moon behind them. At near 0100hrs, cruising at 8,000 ft., Reg Orth warned John of a coming course change, right after crossing the Meuse. John turned onto a track that would take them south of Brussels.

In the tail, Chesty saw tracer coming their way and called for a corkscrew. He and Sam opened fire on a night-fighter, a Ju-88, which broke away to port. Sam later said he’d seen tracer striking the German aircraft. In any case, it didn’t come back.

Sam’s call came from the top turret, announcing the starboard inner engine was on fire. Tommy, the flight engineer said that, according to his instruments, it was fine.

“Come up here and look, then!” retorted Sam. “I can see bloody great flames shooting out of it!” They feathered the engine, but Sam could still see sparks. Then he called in that he could see fuel flowing over the other wing. John told Reg, the navigator, to plot a course for Manston, which was closer to the Continent for them.

At 3,000 ft. the two port engines failed. The hydraulics were gone, so that could mean they were further hampered by flaps and doors hanging in the air stream. John ordered a normal bale-out drill, which would have the crew strap on parachutes and move to various points, ready to bale out. The two gunners were to exit by the rear hatch, the rest of the crew by the forward one, with the wireless op having a choice of either.

Their remaining engine was straining at full boost. Tommy Young moved to help John Lawrie attach his chest parachute, but John shook his head. He had the yoke right back against his chest, and didn’t dare let it move forward. Reg Orth came through, saw the situation, and patted John’s knee, then took up position near the nose hatch.

In the rear, Sam was sitting in the open hatchway, and the ground looked close, George guessing about 900 feet. At first he couldn’t reach the pilot by intercom, but, as the engine died, he heard the order to bale out. He kicked Sam out, ripped off the intercom cable and dived out himself.

South of Ghent, young Jacques de Vos was listening to the drone of aircraft and watching. He saw a trail of sparks pass over, then the sky lit up. Others at Gavere saw it, too, in the direction of Bavegem. At Bavegem, shoemaker Nestor van der Heyden’s house shook as the Lancaster came down in a field near the church. He rushed out to find his fruit trees ablaze. The burning wreckage was unapproachable.

Nestor Van Der Heyden was later able to find John Lawrie’s remains. He hid them in his garden. Thanks to his consideration in August ’44, the War Graves Commission was finally able to transfer John to Schoonselhof Cemetery, the largest in Antwerp. He lies under a white headstone, inscribed simply, like all the others;

“428001 – Pilot Officer J. Lawrie, Pilot, Royal New Zealand Air Force, 13th August 1944, Aged 21.”

Of four-engined bomber kills close to “G-George’s” briefed course, occurring shortly before the time the aircraft was abandoned by most of the crew, the one by Uffz. Friedrich Grunder of 3/NJG2 fits the chronology and the geography.

At 4,000m above the ground, in a grid referenced by the Luftwaffe as “05 Ost S OH-6”, Grunder intercepted and attacked a four-engined bomber. This was west of Lens, south of Ath, or about 50km due south of Gent.

Sam Burford made a comparatively safe landing. He swung in his harness, his parachute canopy snarled in a tree, before he released himself and dropped to the ground. He scratched the paint off a small collar-stud compass, and struck off southwards, in the general direction of France and Spain, on a course which would pass through the little town of Flobecq.

Sam tried knocking on doors as he moved southwards, towards the village of Flobecq, smiling, and asking, “Resistance? Resistance?” He probably hadn’t heard the familiar rumour that the Germans dropped spies by parachute, dressed in R.A.F. uniforms, during air raids.

Sam later reflected that it was just his luck to have French and Dutch escape money, and to come down right between the two countries, in Belgium. He was lucky enough to eventually meet Remi d’Hayer, connected with the underground. Remi took him immediately to a farm near Zegelsem, almost twelve miles southwest of Bavegem. There, he was introduced to the Marroyen family, who were already hiding a young Belgian resistance man, Lucien Labiau. Sheltering Sam for just one night was a small extra risk, and they were prepared to take it.

The Monday morning after taking in Sam Burford, the Marroyen family held a meeting to debate what to do with him. Mrs. Marroyen felt that the risk of hiding an airman as well as the young resistance fighter was too extreme. Finally, as so many Europeans did, they decided he would have to stay a little longer. Mrs. Marroyen’s daughter, Maria, a few years older than Sam, found him to be “a very polite, quiet man of some 19-20 years old. He was extremely nice to us.”

The short stay turned him into a family guest. He became a friend of the Marroyens and their children, Maria, Albert, Armand and Andre. Sam’s closest friend was the other fugitive, young Lucien Labiau. He listened as Sam spoke about his family and friends, and realized how much the Australian, felt the distance between the farm in Belgium and the people back home. Lucien and his fiancée, Emma Sadones, did their best to cheer him up and fill the lonely gap.

George West, Chaplain to 514 Squadron, undertook the writing of letters of consolation to families whose sons, husbands or fathers were lost. The Russelsheim operation left him with fourteen such letters to write, to the families of the men who had been flying in LM180 and LM265.

Wing Commander Wyatt signed off on a stiffly formal condolence letter, on August 14th. He “sincerely hoped that we shall shortly hear that your Son and other members of the crew are prisoners of war”. The RAF would inform them immediately of any news, but, he suggested, they might be the first to know of his safety from Sam himself or via the Red Cross.

The two letters had been preceded by a formal telegram to Mr. H.T. W. Burford, delivery confirmed by the PMG on 15th August. To the air force he was simply “Missing Air Operations”.

Sam’s mother’s health was already poor, and her nerves, not surprisingly, frayed. The news was a blow to her and the whole family, and a cloud of gloom settled over the household.
Sam’s effects had been gathered together, and were being held at the RAF General Depository at Colnbrook, near Slough, Bucks., “where they will be safeguarded until some definite news is received.” Weeks later, in compliance with procedure, RAF Kingsway advised RAAF HQ of several bulky items being held by them which had belonged to aircrew missing or killed. A motor cycle belonging to F/Sgt. Burford was among the other “bulky items”.

Back in Australia, short items appeared in local papers;


“Mr. and Mrs. H.T.W. Burford, of Stanley Street, Woodville Park, have been informed that their son, Flight-Sergeant Lindsay Rutland Burford, is missing as a result of air operations on August 13.

“Flight-Sergeant Burford, who is 20, enlisted in the Air Force as an air gunner two years ago from the Air Training Corps, and has been in England for about six months. Before enlisting he was employed by Electrical Products Ltd., Alberton.”

Word spread, and other families whose sons were missing supported each other, and agreed to share any news which came their way.

After a little while hiding out on the farm, Sam became restless, and asked if he might join in the resistance activities. Probably with some reservations, he was allowed to join an ambush of a lightly protected German road convoy.

The partisans selected a section of road with a ditch on either side, and nestled down to wait. Sam became aware of a low grumbling, growing louder, and with it, the squeak of metal. Cautiously, he raised his eyes to look over the cover. A column of German armour, tanks, was rumbling along the road, not a soft truck in sight! He turned to ask the others for guidance, and found the ditch was deserted. Sam followed that lead.

A few days after Sam reached Zegelsem, the Flobecq bridge exploded skywards. On other occasions, the resistance left railway stock laying alongside damaged lines, wheels pointing to the clouds.

Sam kept mementoes of those days, including photographs of the exploding bridge and inverted wagons. The first had written on the back, “Onze eerste brug gesaboteerd den 19.8.44 te Flobeeque”, with a note added, “Do you remember the first bridge at Flobeeque?” The next picture was captioned, “Onze eerste locomotief gesaboteerd,” with a considerate translation, “The first railway we have blown up.”

In their escape kit, each of the crew had a small photograph of themselves wearing “civvies”, for use if they should be brought down in occupied Europe. The photos could be fixed to whatever identification papers were appropriate to the area, and now they would go into falsified cards provided by their Belgian helpers, their “Kaarte van Eenzelvigheid”.

Sam Burford’s card identified him as Andre Michel De Brême, born in 1919, which arbitrarily aged him by five years, and claimed to have been issued at Opbrakel, not far from where he had landed after George had kicked him out of the Lancaster’s rear hatch.

Sam Burford remained in hiding in the Nederbrakel area, before being taken to Brussels, as well. Remi D’Hayer, who had first taken him to the Marroyen farm, reappeared. He, Lucien, Sam and Emma posed openly in the streets, Sam in his battledress, in front of a Citroën with a white “P” painted on the mudguard.

The first Allied troops Sam recalled seeing were some British tank crew, who sold a radio and settled down for some drinking. In the city, Sam hitched a ride on a passing tank, and was surprised when some Belgians spat at him, thinking he was a captured German airman.

He was able to commandeer a Jeep for a quick tour of the Flemish plain. For a while, he posed as an Australian liaison officer, dropping in on American camps and asking for a meal, a place to rest, and fuel for the Jeep. In that way he was able to tour quite extensively. After that, he was driven to Evere airfield to be flown back to England.

As a parting gift, he left his silk escape-map kerchief with Emma Sadones. She and Lucien married and raised a family. She kept the scarf for the rest of her life.

On September 25th, Sam sent a telegram home; “Back in England safe and well, am writing, love, Lindsay Burford”. It was beaten home by an Air Force telegram couched more formally; “Pleased to inform you that your son…” This formal news reached the Burford home at Woodville on a warm evening, and in minutes the neighbours knew.

George Durland was recovering from a broken leg, which had led him to be the only crew member to find himself in German hands. He escaped from a Germany-bound convoy when it was strafed, and he reached England before the others. When the remaining crew arrived, they spent time visiting Falkirk, Scotland, and Walsall. They went to a dance there together, then Chesty and Reg left for the holding depot at Brighton, before returning to Australia about three weeks later. After that, Sam said goodbye to George, leaving him a gold watch as a memento.

Sam also returned home via the U.S.A. He was hosted by the Johnson family, in New Jersey, and lauded in local papers as “Samuel Burford”. With an American leather “bum-freezer” flying jacket and sporting an “operational” moustache, he came home, anticipating more service in the Pacific.

He remained on reserve, a Warrant Officer’s flat hat replacing his sergeant’s forage cap. He savoured a particular moment when, clad in his greatcoat and hurrying for a train with his cap under his arm, a sergeant bawled at him, “Get your cap on …!”

Sam did as he was told. When the sergeant saw by the hat that he was outranked, he did have the presence of mind to add a strangled, “…Sir!”

After the War, Sam remained in touch with his old friends from training, Grant Boys and Dave Rice, who had also been shot down and was interned on the island of Oland, off Sweden. They got together annually, in August, to celebrate their survival.

Bob Chester-Master outlived the whole crew, and made several trips to Belgium, remaining in touch with those who had helped him evade capture.

Sam retained several souvenirs; his log book, some badges, his papers, including his fake Belgian ID card, some photos, and a small, gold badge in the shape of a caterpillar badge. This was awarded by the Irvin Parachute Company to those whose lives had been saved, when they jumped with an Irvin parachute. It identified him as a member of a small and exclusive group, the “Caterpillar Club”. It had red jewelled eyes, signifying escape from a burning aircraft.

Sam Burford died on 5th October, 1990, in Royal Adelaide Hospital. He had one son and three grandchildren, and they and their children know what he did during the War.

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Service Medals: 1939-45 Star, France & Germany Star, Defence Medal, War Medal 1939-45, Australia Service Medal 1939-45