By Stephen P. Nunn

“I CAN’T see anything” were the last fateful words received over the R/T in the control tower at RAF Bradwell Bay.

It was 18.45hrs on Saturday, October 9, 1943, and the primitive technology of the equipment meant that the duty officer wasn’t immediately concerned - temporary loss of contact during night patrols was a relatively common occurrence.

But this time it was serious and nothing else was ever heard from ‘Bearskin 18’, the call-sign of a 488 Squadron Mosquito XII, serial number HK204.

Battling with the controls that night was 33-year-old Royal New Zealand Air Force pilot Flight-Lieutenant Edward 'Cecil' Ball, (actually of Kinsdale, Ireland) accompanied by his younger navigator Scotsman, Flying-Officer William 'Jock' Kemp, just 25.

While the watch office personnel at Bradwell awaited a further message, on the other side of the river a few people, locals and visitors amongst them, were enjoying a rationed drink or two in the comfortable surroundings of The Plough at Tolleshunt Knights (now a private house).

Two of the clientele that evening were American soldiers and, having had their fill and shared banter with the regulars, they opened the door of the convivial pub to head back to their quarters at Birch.

Just as they did, Mosquito HK204 came roaring towards them out of the mist, hit the tops of nearby fir trees, crashed into the ground and became engulfed in an inferno of flames.

The two unlucky GIs were knocked over by the explosion and suffered injuries.

The crew of the Mosquito were less fortunate and didn’t survive the tragedy.

An official RAF enquiry followed but, unsurprisingly, it was inconclusive.

Did Flight-Lieutenant Ball suffer searchlight dazzle perhaps, was it down to the heavy mist that evening, or was it more technical – some kind of engine failure?

They didn’t know then, so what hope do we have of knowing now.

Regardless of the cause, the bodies of the crew were removed for burial in Maldon’s municipal cemetery, the wreckage was cleared away and 488 Squadron continued with its operations.

That’s how it was during those dark war years – lives snuffed out in a split second and, apart from the mourning of close friends and loved ones, the sacrifice was quickly forgotten.

However, in the case of Ted Ball and Bill Kemp someone has kept their memory and the memory of that disastrous night alive for these past 76 years.

Sylvia Beale is now 84 and, like that wartime pilot, she can’t see anything, for she is now registered blind.

Nevertheless, all this time on she still has vivid, full-colour, memories of that October night in 1943.

Aged only eight at the time, Sylvia (née Lawrence) lived at 1 Oxley Cottages with mum Hilda, dad Alf, who worked at Tiptree Jam but also served as a Special Constable, and Grandad Rawlinson.

On the evening in question, Sylvia recalls that she was innocently “playing with her dolls, whilst dad was on duty, mum was knitting and granddad was shelling peas”.

There then followed, in Sylvia’s own words, “a crash” and she “went into the front room to see a mass of flames” out of the window.

“The fire brigade then arrived,” recounts Sylvia, “and had to drive through the flames to access the pond for water.

"Meanwhile grandad went out with bowls of water but was met by a fireman and told ‘go inside dad, all is under control now’.

"The plane had taken the tops off the trees at the side of our neighbour’s house and gone into the electric light pole.

"The hedge between our two properties had burnt to within a meter of the houses and there was a crater in our next-door neighbour’s front garden, where one of the engines of the plane had landed.

"I remember this being lifted out by a large crane a few days later. The wheels had landed at Paynes Farm, further down the road.”

It was said at the time that it was “light enough to read a book at the village hall from the flames and there was a terrible smell of fumes in the air for days afterwards”.

There is, of course, a lot to be said for official records, but you can’t get closer to that wartime event than through Sylvia’s amazing, personal reminiscences.

Looking back she reflects: “It was tragic that the pilot and co-pilot were killed in these circumstances, but I am very thankful and very grateful that no member of either family in the two cottages were injured that evening.”

As well as those crystal-clear pictures in Sylvia’s mind, a lasting legacy is her continued hatred of the roar of a thunderstorm.

Years later, after Sylvia had married, she visited Maldon cemetery and found the graves of the airmen.

She reverently paid her respects to two young men who she never knew, but who will forever be part of her family story and our local history.