Ghostly Spirits of RAF Elsham Wolds
This is a story told by my late father who served with the Royal Air Force. Dad was a career officer not a ‘hostilities only’ and served before and throughout WWII and for sometime afterwards. He didn’t believe in ghosts but after this experience he refused to comment as to his beliefs.
Silence. All was still. The beautiful, haloed full moon bathed the airfield in a pale blue light casting long shadows beyond the row of hangars. Just the sort of night one could imagine Santa on his sleigh flying by with his sledge laden with presents. Frost crinkled underfoot. It was Christmas Eve 1946 at RAF Elsham Wolds, North Lincolnshire. The station was slowly being wound down after wartime operations had ceased. The airfield placed into a training role was instructing the next generation of ‘The Few’ and also acting as a satellite station to the nearby RAF Kirmington. The decision had been made that RAF Elsham Wolds was surplus to peacetime requirements and would close. The station, closed for the Christmas festivities, had a skeleton staff to keep it idling and to react to any alarms generated by the ungodly who formed the opposition in the developing Cold War.
By the drawing of lots in the mess I, George Stevens (Steve) had been caught for Christmas duty. There were four duty ‘bods’, a senior Flight Lieutenant as Station Duty Officer (SDO), a junior Flying Officer Ops, then me as the senior Engineering Officer and an Orderly Sergeant who carried out similar duties to an RSM in an Army regiment. We were on call 24/7, a phrase which was not in use at the time. That said, the world was so engrossed in celebrating that we were left undisturbed to contemplate the unfairness of being on duty while others played.
This incident happened to the SDO: let’s call him Jock as he hailed from north of the border. Actually, being an ardent Scotsman of many summers, Jock was a willing volunteer for Christmas duty. This freed him for attending the Hogmanay celebrations in his home town of Stonehaven in the Kingdom of Kincardineshire. Jock had won the DFC with a bar and the DSC. He was no longer an operational fighter pilot but an instructor and by all accounts a bloody good one. There were many a fledging pilot still alive thanks to his expertise. He had been shot down in his Tomahawk as a Sergeant Pilot in North Africa and been a guest of the Third Reich in a variety of POW camps across Middle Europe. He escaped three times but was always recaptured and threatened that he would be moved to Colditz, or shot, if he tried and failed a fourth time. After settling down to his fate during incarceration he became fluent in German and also became a watchmaker. Despite his Scottish brogue he could put on a passable angry Germanic voice and so amused himself and other POW’s by occasionally secreting himself and barking orders at the guards to get them running around in circles. Due to his passion for clock repairs his room in the mess was a workshop where he repaired everything horologistically within a country mile of the base. Due to his heroic and exemplary war service and admired qualities as a flying instructor his seniors allowed him a broad latitude.
That evening, Christmas Eve, I had officiated at the twice daily ceremony of ‘waving at the flag’, a disrespectful term for raising and lowering the RAF ensign at dawn and dusk. Spot on 17:00 the Orderly Sergeant blew his whistle, the signal for everyone within sight to stop, come to attention, face the flag and for officers to salute. The Station CO was a stickler for its proper execution; he had even been known to hide behind his office curtain to catch out the sloppy or inattentive. Despite the fact he was away for Christmas the discipline instilled into us by military service ensured that we carried out the ceremony fastidiously.
Ceremony over, I returned to the Mess. Jock and I had dinner brought over from the Airmen’s Mess as a meals-on-wheels service, our kitchen being closed for the holiday. We toasted our Commander-in-Chief, King George VI, the Saviour’s birth and absent friends with a small libation from the bar using the honesty chit system we had set up to keep us well lubricated over the festive season, there being little else to do. Jock and I retired at around 22:00, me to my room in the West Wing, Jock to his workshop in the East Wing. I slept the sleep of the just and remained undisturbed through the dark, mystical shadows of the night where only the ethereal and criminal fraternity lurk.
Christmas Day dawned bright, very cold, frosty and clear. The heavy frost looking like snow put an atmospheric Christmas feel in the air. I checked the end of my bed but Santa had sadly missed calling! However, I looked forward to opening some presents from the family later. After waving at the flag again, I joined Jock for our meals-on-wheels breakfast. He asked if I’d been able to solve the problem which the Orderly Sergeant had brought to him in the wee small hours. I said I had not been disturbed. With a furrowed brow Jock then gave the following account of his strange experience…..
As was his want, Jock had spent most of the night working on his watches and clocks. He seldom slept, preferring to catnap when the mood took him. He had been known to fall asleep in the cockpit when flying with the more confident students nearing the end of their courses. One mess tale from a student being that they had no sooner started to taxi when Jock had nodded off, the student took off and flew around for 20 minutes or so then landed. Jock apparently waking up after landing with the comment ‘Are we lined up ready for take off!’ Although that was only a rumour it bought the student a few free beers! Anyway I digress, as Jock went on; around 02:00 there was a knock on his door. Jock knowing that I was the only other person living in the mess over Christmas, assumed it was me and had yelled “Come in dear boy.” But no one entered. The knock was repeated, as was the invitation to enter. Nothing. Jock then left his bench and opened the door to see who it was. There in the doorway stood a young Sergeant Pilot, wearing flying clothing. This didn’t register with Jock at the time. So, thinking this was the Orderly Sergeant, Jock invited him into his room. Turning around to question the man, he saw the visitor had remained in the door way. The invitation to enter was repeated, but the Sergeant Pilot didn’t move. After just a second or two, the young man turned to his right and disappeared down the corridor without saying a word. Somewhat puzzled, Jock called out, ‘Can I help you?’ The visitor turned left and descended the staircase. He recalled hearing the young man’s footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted stairs, then silence as he reached the carpeted ground floor.
Jock thought it odd that the Sergeant Pilot had not uttered a word during this brief encounter. But, and thinking the man was the Orderly Sergeant, Jock assumed that he’d find me in the West Wing, and I’d deal with the problem. Jock returned to his workbench and thought no more about it, until our meeting over our ‘full English’.
Immediately, one thing struck me as odd, I had got to know the Orderly Sergeant quite well over the last four days of waving at the flag. He was a 50 something Chief Technician who would have automatically come to me as the Senior Engineer Officer of the station and not gone to the East Wing of the Officers’ mess where the pilots resided. The Orderly Sergeant was definitely not a young Sergeant Pilot. Jock and I debated concluding that although there were a few Sergeant Pilot students on the current courses we knew them all and this chap was not one of them. Anyway, they had all been sent home on Christmas leave. Perplexed, but not much concerned, we went about our duties.
In those days we officers had a sort of servant assigned to us known as a Batman, those splendid men then existed a plenty and mine, Paddy, who hailed from Southern Ireland but now living locally having been ostracised by his peers back home for joining the RAF. Well bless him, my Batman had come in on Christmas day just to see how I was and that I had everything I needed! I told him the odd tale of the night before. He smiled knowingly and said the young man was the other RAF Elsham Wold ghost, who appeared in the wee small hours every Christmas Day. Apparently on Christmas Eve in 1941 the station had mounted a raid on Duisburg with around 25 Wellington bombers.
Vickers Wellington of 103 Squadron RAF Elsham Wolds
They all got away safely except for one which had engine failure on take off. At maximum all up weight with bombs and full tanks of fuel the aircraft proved to be handful. Sadly, the young Sergeant Pilot lost it, the aircraft spun into the hills south of the airfield, the Lincolnshire Wolds being the only hills in this part of the world. Ever since, the young Sergeant Pilot had returned early every Christmas Day, the East Wing being the Sergeant’s Mess back then, searching for his crew. I sat there contemplating in silence.
It struck me that I had heard another ghost story of a young woman who would appear on Christmas Eve night just outside the nearby village of Barnetby-Le-Wold where she lived, trying to hitch a lift to the main gate to the airfield on the A15 road. Several nocturnal motorists over the years had claimed to pick up a young girl wearing a large over the shoulders type of ‘hoodie’. She had been in a frightful state, crying and saying that she urgently needed to get to the airfield main gate. I mentioned this to Paddy and asked if he had heard of this other ghost.
‘Arh yes, sor I have indeed, that will be his wife who was called to come to the station hospital as her young husband had survived the initial crash but died later….sadly, shortly after, in a fit of remorse she took her own life’!
Over coffee we chatted about it for a while. Jock not a man to show emotion turned away from me with tears in his eyes and sought solace in his private thoughts.
Every year the Sergeant Pilot from the past reaches out to the present and touches all who are privileged to meet him: evidence perhaps of the strong bond that unites all those who fly.
The young woman has been seen several times, the last reported sighting being in the late 90’s but I know nothing more about the Sergeant Pilot ghost of RAF Elsham Wold. There is very little of the base left today apart from one hangar that can be seen whilst driving along the A15, the rest of the site is occupied by an industrial estate. Perhaps if the area where the Sergeants’ Mess once stood could be discovered then at Christmas you might see the young Sergeant Pilot looking for his comrades. Although maybe he has by now found peace by being reunited with his young wife and no longer wanders around the old wartime air base.
RAF Elsham Wolds during the war years
An aerial view of Elsham Wolds today
Today Elsham Wolds is still producing spirits only now in the form of whisky, rum and vodka!
© HMStevens 2025
