Kindle Edition Amazon Category:  Historical Fiction Publisher: Longfire Press Type: Fiction Pages: 390 Copyright: February 2, 2017 Price: $2.94 (eBook) Eighteen years after a RAF bombing raid to Berlin during WWII, fate conspires to throw together a disparate group of people all badly affected in conflicting ways by the events of that fateful night. NOTHING STAYS BURIED FOREVER Even after eighteen years, Canadian pilot Mike Stafford still carries an overpowering sense of guilt for the death of his best friend during a huge RAF bombing raid over Berlin in 1944. He eventually returns to England for an inaugural squadron reunion full of apprehension over what the visit may produce. Siggi Hoffman, then a young German girl of twenty, also has terrible memories of a personal loss from that same night in 1944. She too is unable to forget. Nor has she ever been able to forgive. When fate throws these two together in a small north Yorkshire town during the summer of 1962, the past collides devastatingly into the present. And all the time, lurking ominously in the background, is an unknown enemy intent on extracting violent revenge. Private demons are only one of the many problems that must be overcome when Stafford and Siggi find themselves fighting to survive. As long buried secrets are finally revealed, events reach a literally explosive conclusion.   Excerpt ONE MARCH 1944 Five had already left. It was his turn next. For Flight Sergeant Mike Stafford, touching a lucky mascot was not a requirement. Far too many times had he seen such things bring only fatally bad fortune to their owners. In the rapidly fading light of a chill Yorkshire evening, he eased the big Lancaster bomber into position at the end of the runway and applied the brakes. The noise from his four Rolls Royce Merlin engines increased to a roar as he ran them all at full revs. To a pilot of Stafford’s experience, these pre-flight checks were second nature. Not that familiarity with the take-off routine ever eased the tension of the moment for him. Nor was it likely to make things any easier for the six members of his crew scattered in their respective positions throughout the length of the now violently shuddering fuselage. Each one of them would be going through pretty much the same range of gut-wrenching emotions as himself while preparing for yet another trip to the ‘Big City’ – Berlin. Below them all in the darkness of the bomb bay lurked the aircraft’s non-human cargo: one 8000lb ‘cookie’ bomb, plus well over a thousand small incendiary devices. Stafford shifted slightly in his seat. He prayed that it would be only their bombs, and not the entire bloody plane, that came crashing down on enemy territory. But the odds on another safe return to base were debatable. They had already somehow managed to survive twenty-seven previous ops. Still, he told himself, only three more to go and their tour of duty would be completed. After that there would be a nice spot of leave for them all to enjoy. Even as this pleasant thought formed, he remembered that so many crews did not even get to complete five missions. Was it unreasonable to think that Lancaster K for King may now be flying on borrowed time? Pre-flight checks completed, and with engines once again running steady, he waited for the green light that would signal his clearance for take off. There were seventeen Lancasters from 79 Squadron at RAF Wetherditch on operations tonight. They were leaving at one-minute intervals. The green light came. Stafford applied full power. The heavy bomber trembled as it began its forward surge. Rapidly gathering pace, it thundered down the runway. Outside the marker lights set on the ground flashed by. Eighty miles an hour – then ninety – then one hundred. At this speed Stafford eased back the stick. Heavily burdened with its bomb load and over two thousand gallons of high-octane fuel, the Lancaster clung stubbornly to the ground before finally yielding to the law of aerodynamics. As the four propellers clawed furiously at the air for more altitude, he raised the undercarriage. Once again they were on their way to Berlin. * * * Stafford was well aware of why Berlin had been nicknamed the ‘Big City’. Quite apart from the sheer size and importance of the place, the city’s ground defences were the most formidable in Germany. Hundreds of heavy flak guns, each capable of destroying a plane with a single shot, had been massed together to protect the German capital. Situated as it was in the heart of the country, a trip there meant that K for King could expect to be in the air and under threat of attack for around eight hours. Maybe much longer if damaged or forced to take a diversion. Enemy night fighters were an almost constant danger. Those defending the target area would be waiting high above the flak barrage like birds of prey. With their vastly superior speed and armament, these Luftwaffe pilots were sure to find many more easy pickings before the night was over. Tonight’s raid numbered nearly a thousand aircraft - the sky would be packed with potential victims. Far too many for the German fighters to gobble up completely before the opportunity had passed. Survival in a Lancaster, and in the even more vulnerable Halifax, often came down to nothing more than the passing whim of an enemy pilot. ‘Eeny – meeny – miny – mo,’ Stafford murmured to himself in a moment of dark humour. * * * The navigator’s voice sounded over the intercom, giving Stafford his course for the first leg of the journey. A few minutes later they crossed the English coast just south of Hull and were heading out across the North Sea. Further snippets of information came from both the flight engineer and navigator. Twice he made slight adjustments to their course to compensate for the strong crosswind they were experiencing. Twenty-five miles out over the water, he once again flicked the intercom switch on the front of his oxygen mask. His accent was pure Canadian. ‘Pilot to gunners. Test your guns now.’ Flight Sergeant ‘Geordie’ Heatley was the first to respond. Exposed for the duration in his isolated transparent turret at the tail of the aircraft, everyone on board knew that his was the loneliest and most dangerous job of all. With just four lightweight .303 machine guns to defend himself and the Lancaster with, he would make a highly tempting target for the heavy cannons of any night fighters seeking to attack from the rear. Each of Geordie’s guns fired off a short burst into the night sky. Above and behind him, their New Zealand born mid-upper gunner, Sergeant Phil Thomas, went through the same routine. ‘All guns okay, skipper,’ both men reported. From the very front of the aircraft, the south London tones of Sergeant Jimmy Knight also responded. ‘Same here, skipper. All guns okay.’ As the bomb aimer positioned in the nose turret, it was Jimmy's job to double up as their front gunner. Stafford smiled at his best friend’s bright tone. They were both only twenty-four years old, but just six weeks ago Jimmy had astonished everyone by getting married. Stafford could still hardly believe how suddenly it had happened. Not that Jimmy was making the most of his new status at present. With his wife many miles away in London, the couple had seen each other only twice since their big day. Stafford smiled again. There was little doubt how his buddy would be spending his time on leave once they’d got through this tour of duty. Jimmy’s voice came over the intercom once again, bringing his mind back to the job in hand. ‘Bombs selected on all switches, skipper.’ Stafford acknowledged this, at the same time casting his eyes around the sky. He could see two other Lancasters, but already their squadron was being scattered by the strong crosswinds. After two hours in the air, Flying Officer Doug Short, the navigator and only commissioned officer on board, came out with the words that the entire crew were apprehensively waiting for. ‘Enemy coast ahead.’ Stafford responded to this with a general broadcast. ‘Right, you guys. Keep your eyes open and lights out as much as possible.’ They flew over the Danish coast at 18,000 feet and began to climb until Stafford levelled out at 21,000 feet. He glanced yet again at the airspeed indicator. At this higher altitude it was approaching 220 mph. It wasn’t long before Warrant Officer Hughie Smith, the Flight Engineer occupying the seat alongside Stafford, was offering further advice. ‘I’d ease back on the revs a bit skipper, we’re drinking up the fuel.’ ‘Thanks, Hughie.’ The engines dropped a tone as Stafford acted on this advice. They sure as hell wanted enough fuel to get them back home. He then checked himself. That was always assuming that K for King would be making the return journey. There was no room for complacency. * * * The Dresden to Berlin train ground noisily to a halt thirty miles short of its destination, bringing a frown to Siggi Hoffman’s face. ‘Not another delay,’ she sighed to herself. They were already running over three hours late. At just twenty years old, Hitler’s war had been with her for nearly a quarter of her life. It felt far longer. All she wanted right now was to be home again with her mother and elder sister, Astrid. Although away for only a few days, she was already missing them both a great deal. Her whispered words must have sounded louder than she imagined. A soldier sitting directly opposite gave her a wry smile. ‘Better to arrive late than not arrive at all,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure there is a very good reason for us stopping again.’ He hesitated before adding: ‘Are you from Berlin?’ Siggi studied him briefly before replying. He was only two or three years older than herself. A corporal in one of the infantry divisions she would guess by the look of the insignia on his jacket. ‘Yes, I live in Steglitz in the south-west of the city,’ she said, deciding that the soldier was being genuinely friendly and not interrogating her. ‘I’m just returning from visiting a relative in Dresden.’ ‘Did you enjoy your visit?’ ‘It was …' She shrugged in a vague, non-committal way. He took the hint and did not press her with further questions. Maybe the expression on her face had discouraged him as well, she realised. In truth, it was all she could do to suppress a shudder as she recalled the last three days spent with her uncle. She would never understand how her relative had become so indoctrinated into Nazi party ways. When younger, she had always thought of him as being a fair and reasonable man. Now he was a fanatic. Just prior to her departing he’d even had the nerve to suggest she should be proud that her father – his own brother - had sacrificed his life for the Führer on the Russian Front. She clenched her fists as the memory of this provoked a spurt of anger. Her father had never had the slightest belief in the cause he’d been compelled to fight and die for. She had no belief in it either, nor did her mother and sister. In many ways all three of them hoped that Germany would lose the war. Better that than a lifetime under the Nazis. But it was one thing to think these anti-party thoughts, quite another to express them openly. There were people everywhere prepared to report such loose talk to the Gestapo, so on the surface at least, she and her family were forced to go on supporting the Nazis. At the same time, in spite of the increasing demands being made of the civilian population, each of them did as little as they could get away with to aid Hitler’s war effort. Straining her eyes to see in the dimly lit carriage, she looked at her watch. It was 9.30 pm. ‘Why have we stopped again?’ she asked a passing guard. The man paused briefly to spit on the floor. Siggi felt disgust at both his manners, and sense of hygiene. ‘The British bombers are coming again,’ he almost shouted at her. ‘Hundreds of them.’ He then continued on his way down the carriage, muttering loudly to himself. Many other passengers sitting nearby could not fail to also hear the guard’s words. Almost immediately a concentrated murmuring developed. An old lady two seats further along began praying in a loud, shrill voice. Siggi’s thoughts immediately went out to her mother and sister. Not Berlin again – surely not? Why couldn’t they leave the city alone? She tried to reassure herself. The majority of the bombs were usually directed much more towards the city centre than to suburbs like Steglitz. Their area had escaped reasonably lightly up until now, so why should it be any different tonight? Although it was strictly forbidden under the blackout laws, she tugged nervously at the window blind, raising it a touch to peer outside. She could see little in the darkness apart from the fact that they were in the middle of the countryside. Then a distant droning reached her ears. It was the all too familiar sound of approaching bombers. A sound that was invariably the prelude to ear-shattering noise, fire and death. The sound rapidly grew, as did the babble of voices on the train. Disregarding the rules, more people began raising the blinds. Some even opened the windows and leaned out in an effort to spot the planes. ‘There’s one!’ exclaimed a middle-aged man with a moustache clearly modelled on the Führer’s very own. ‘And another! And another!’ The noise from the bombers was now very loud. In contrast, a hush descended over the carriage, as if the passengers were suddenly realising the vulnerability of their position. Siggi knew they would stand little chance while crammed together like this if a stray bomb were to fall nearby. The guard returned. ‘Everybody off the train,’ he ordered. No one needed telling twice. Siggi was swept up in the mad crush as people began scrambling for the nearest door. For over a minute it was sheer madness. Then the soldier who she had spoken to briefly was by her side. He placed a protective arm around her shoulder. Grateful for his help, she allowed herself to be guided safely off the train. Together, they walked to the middle of a field. Both of them gazed skyward. The flak guns had now started, their noise competing for supremacy with the monotonous drone of wave after wave of bombers. Searchlights probed the sky, endlessly searching for targets to trap in their glare. And then they heard the first of the bombs falling. Even at a distance of thirty miles, the sounds and smells reached them clearly. Looking away, Siggi buried her face in her hands. Like the old woman on the train earlier, she began to pray.

Buried Pasts brings past to life
I received a copy of this book from my Father, whose Father was from Brandon Manitoba, as was the main character in the novel. My Grandfather navigated a Lancaster Bomber during the war. The British Commonwealth Air Training Program, developed to help defeat the Axis powers, trained over 130 thousand airmen and a large part of this training took part in and around Brandon, Manitoba. Brandon has a museum to the BCATP.
The book gives an excellent description of being on board a Bomber during a mission over the 'Big City'. From there it is a very interesting perspective on the lives of all involved during that particular mission, whether they were in the air or on the ground. The author brings together the lives of the characters and mixes them with emotion, fear, mystery & intrigue, and gives them seemingly impossible situations and no real answers. The characters lives are changed forever, and not just once.
The author makes the lives of the characters real in every sense of the word and you are always wondering just how they will come together, why, and what will happen when they do.
It is a great read with mass appeal for people from all over the world.

5 STARS IN THE STRATOSPHERE
I thoroughly enjoyed this book because it worked, for me, on several different levels. First off, it's an intriguing story, told well, and Stratford doesn't waste any words; he gets the job done and intertwines his story threads without confusing his readers. I almost felt as if I were watching a movie, at times, not reading a book - which made the pleasure of it, for me, all the more acute. Then there was the story, itself. Stratford and I share a few similarities in that both our Dads fought in the War and were both in the Air Force. My Dad was in the US Army Air Force, stationed just northeast of London, at Knettishall, and flew some 35 missions in a B-17 Flying Fortress. I'd never much cared about the War and my Dad rarely spoke of it when I was growing up. The future was what was important, not the past - and the War was something of an embarrassment, something best left unsaid. It wasn't until my Dad got older and his health began failing that it dawned on me how huge a part of his life the War had actually been - and this is another big reason why Stratford's book is so good; it's given me a sense of what those realities must have been like for my Dad. As I read it, I felt as if I were watching an old black and white film from the 1940s and somewhere, just out of camera-range, was my Dad and his Bomber Group, playing their unfilmed parts in supporting roles along the edges of the airstrip. Towards the end of his life, he spoke more openly about his experiences. He'd served a double duty, at times, as both a ball-turret gunner and a navigator, as the situation required, and I remember him saying that some of the rules were different for British and American flyers. Generally, the USAAF were held to stricter rules about staying in formation and not diving to avoid German searchlights but the RAF was given much more leeway, so, in this instance, I believe that any (minor) criticisms that may come of Stratford's research are invalid and that the details in Mr. Stratford's narrative are factual. When they get around to filming 'Buried Pasts' for real, the ideal leads would have to be, without question, George Clooney and Ingrid Bergman. Problem is, Clooney's too old and Bergman's too dead for their parts so they'll have to pass them on to younger actors whose identities escape me. Nevertheless, I tip my hat to George Stratford for having written a novel that both tells a damn good story and honors the memory of his Dad at the same time. If I had been a writer, I would hope to have had the ability to accomplish the same. I've no doubt that his Dad, somewhere off in another dimension, is proud of him for this very admirable achievement.

A Cracking Yarn!
As I'd just re-read The Long Run by the same author on Kindle, I thought I'd do the same with Buried Pasts and I'm so glad that I did. An excellent read in the Ken Follett mould. It grips from the start where the writing makes you feel you are part of the bomber crew over Germany and the mixture of apprehension, professionalism, claustrophobia and understandably plain old fear that went with it. The sudden juxtaposition to the people on the ground that are likely to be on the receiving end of the bombs truly brings out the stupidity and futility of war. This could just as easily have developed into an excellent war story told from different perspectives (perhaps a future novel.) Instead Mr Stratford moves us forward twenty years to a reunion of the Bomber Squadron taking place in a hotel. A German woman that happened to be on the ground at the time of the raid in question and lost family is just one of the many ingredients thrown into what is a rich mix of characters thrown together. Lovely stuff.