Like Father Like Son Parts six to eight

Michael missed the broadcast. He was doing an air test on his Blenheim at the time but the news was relayed to him over the control net. Something new stirred within him; an excitement not unlike the first onset of lust. So it was war at last. That bastard Riley had been right all along. He turned the Blenheim for home. An observer on the ground saw him change course and head towards London. It was an easy mistake to make. The short greenhouse nose of the Blenheim I did resemble a Junkers Ju 88. A call was made and, for the first time, London heard the wailing of the air raid sirens. 

Part Eight

December 1939 – The Bore War

The hut was freezing despite the efforts of the pot-bellied stove that glowed cherry red in the darkness. David groaned as he woke and someone snapped on the lights.

“All right you lot, hands off cocks and on with your socks. Let’s be having you, gentlemen! Parade outside, working dress, twenty minutes.”

The door slammed as Sergeant Rutter crashed his way out and down the path to the next hut where his voice could be heard repeating the same instructions to the inmates, like some absurd echo. David flopped out of bed and stood in his pyjamas, blinking in the harsh light. The others, too, were getting up and they stared at each other with bemused expressions. David grabbed the wash bag and towel from his bedside locker and made his way out to the ablutions. He showered and shaved quickly and hurried back into the main room to dress. 

“For crying out loud! D’you know, it’s only 4.30! Don’t they have any consideration?”

Mark Chapman sounded deeply aggrieved. David had to smile. Typical Mark! All the same, it was unusual. He dressed and started to make up the bed in its ‘boxed’ blankets. He didn’t have to think about it any more, it was a reflex action. Sometimes he would pause and wonder at how quickly he seemed to have been absorbed into this new life but for most of the time he was either too busy or too tired. War had changed everything. The tight discipline had been replaced by a sense of urgency. David and his fellows had found themselves plunged into basic flying training within days of the declaration of war. They had done their initial flying in open-cockpit biplanes, Tiger Moths, that his father would have been totally at home in. They had flown every available hour permitted by the weather and at times the sky had seemed so full of aeroplanes, he’d had the feeling he could have walked across the sky using them as stepping stones. 

David had loved every second of his time in the air. Eight of his entry had been ‘chopped’ already – sent home, unable to make the grade, and the one topic of conversation in the hut each evening was the dread prospect of being thrown out. Aubrey Maitland was definitely struggling. On the ground, he was all easy confidence but he froze once airborne. He confided in David that it wasn’t a question of being afraid of flying but that he was terrified of failing. David sympathised; everyone felt the same. Aubrey was convinced he was next for the chop. Now, after forty flying hours, Aubrey was just starting to relax and his instructor had given him the glad tidings that he thought Aubrey ‘just might make it after all.’

Mark Chapman, by contrast, had proved himself to be a ‘natural’ and had been the first to go solo. David was somewhere in the middle, slow to start with but improving rapidly. His instructor encouraged him to fly more gently, not to overpower the aircraft. He had been clumsy at first, his feet had seemed too big for the rudder pedals and his movements were exaggerated. The tiny Tiger Moth had lurched about the sky to accompanying bellows of anguish from the instructor in the rear seat. He had settled down, though, and now felt that he had begun to ‘feel’ the aeroplane instead of trying to master it. He finished his bed-making and stood back. The others were ready now and they moved outside into the freezing darkness. A mob of cadets was slowly organising itself into a semblance of order and once they had formed up, Sergeant Rutter marched them off to the parade square. A small group of officers waited for them, huddled against the cold. They straightened visibly as the cadets marched on and formed up to their front.

It soon became clear to the cadets that this break with normal routine signalled something momentous. The officers were now holding a hurried conference, sheaves of paper were being consulted and there was much arm waving and urgent whispering. At last, the senior officer, Squadron Leader Bridges, moved forward.

“Good morning, gentlemen. So sorry to have dragged you from your beds at such an ungodly hour but, you see, there is something of a flap on. We have been ordered to send your entry elsewhere for advanced flying training. Some of you will be going to 6 SFTS, Little Rissington and some to 14 SFTS, Kinloss and the remainder to 15 SFTS, Lossiemouth. Transport leaves at 0730. Fall out when your names are called and get your kit packed. I’m going to call the Little Rissington contingent first.”

Aubrey Maitland’s name was called for Little Rissington and he shrugged as he walked away. David and Mark Chapman were both selected for Lossiemouth in Scotland. 

“Harvards,” said Mark. “They fly Harvards at Lossiemouth. Little Rissington does too, of course but they also have Ansons. Looks like we’re going to be single-seater pilots, David.”

“Golly, I hope so! I’d hate to spend the war stooging around in a bomber – far too dangerous!”

Aubrey Maitland looked desolate. 

“I can’t believe they’re splitting us up. I bet I get Ansons.”

“They have Harvards at Little Risington, too, you know.” David did his best to cheer him up.

“I know, but I’m such a ropey pilot, they’re bound to give me the big stuff. Of course, Chapman’s the ace of the base. He’s bound to be a fighter pilot.”

“Jealous are you, Maitland? How unbecoming.”

“Leave it out you two. Aubrey, Mark can’t help it if he is a natural. I expect that I’ll soon get found out and posted to Risington or somewhere to convert to the big stuff, too.” 

They completed their packing is silence. Mark and Aubrey exchanged glares and David made sure he stood between them whenever possible. The animosity between the two young men had grown worse during their flying training. Aubrey resented Mark’s ability. David came to the conclusion that Aubrey was something of a snob and that Mark’s humbler origins were seen as an affront to Aubrey’s aristocratic ego. As a consequence, David had become less friendly with Aubrey and closer to Mark. Mark never flaunted his superior ability and was always willing to offer encouragement to those for whom flying did not come as naturally. David liked it that Mark never offered advice – that would have been to rub salt in already tender wounds. Instead, he would claim that he was just lucky to have been placed with such a good instructor. It was also noticeable that Mark was no longer getting himself in trouble. Now the serious business had begun, he worked with a will.

The long journey northward took almost two days. The trainee pilots were crammed into a couple of compartments of an ancient railway carriage that seemed to have been added as an afterthought to a slow goods train. They then spent a cold and very uncomfortable six hours on Edinburgh’s Waverly Station, waiting for the connecting train to take them to Elgin. At Elgin they were met by transport to take them to No 15 Service Flying Training School. The aerodrome at Lossiemouth and its neighbour at Kinloss had been only been open since the spring of that year and consequently, they were delighted to find the Officers’ Mess building was modern, warm and comfortable. David and Mark signed in. Acting Pilot Officers Chapman and Riley ‘on posting’ and grinned at each other. Now the really serious business could begin.

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Back home in Dorset, Peter was experiencing another bout of intense frustration. Since the declaration of war, he had been trying to get back in uniform. He’d hoped that his engineering expertise would now be recognised and that he could be of some service to the RAF. Once more, he found his pleas falling on deaf ears. Someone in the Air Ministry was pathologically opposed to the technology of fuel injection; that was the only conclusion. Pinky Harris hadn’t been able to help much. Bomber Command had been in action since the first day and Pinky had been kept busy. In the brief conversation that Peter had managed to have with Pinky, he learned that the politicians were still interfering with the RAF’s efforts. No bombs were to be dropped on Germany in case ‘private property’ was destroyed. Bomber Command was limited to dropping leaflets urging the German people to overthrow Hitler and come to their senses. The only raids of note had been anti-shipping strikes. The Blenheims and Wellingtons had showed themselves to be vulnerable to the German fighter defences and the bomb loads carried were too small to inflict serious damage.

Only the Royal Navy seemed to be taking the war seriously. Already they had experienced both triumph and disaster. The German pocket battleship, Graf Spee, had been run to earth off Montevideo by a Royal Navy Cruiser force and, after a sharp sea-fight, had sought respite in the port. Her captain, mistakenly believing the smaller British ships had been reinforced, had scuttled the ship rather than resume the battle. It was being hailed everywhere as a great victory and welcome news for the first Christmas of the war. Churchill, recalled to the government as First Lord of the Admiralty, was cock-a-hoop. Less pleasing was the loss of the aircraft carrier, HMS Courageous, torpedoed in the Irish Sea by the German submarine, U29, with heavy loss of life.

Worse was to follow. On the night of Friday 13th October, U47, commanded by Gunther Prien, penetrated the main fleet anchorage at Scapa Flow and torpedoed the battleship Royal Oak. Prien had made his getaway as skilfully as his daring attack and returned to a hero’s welcome in Germany. Over 830 British sailors had died. It was already clear that the U-Boat menace would be every bit as dangerous in this new war as it had been in the last. In the opening three months of the war, the Royal Navy had managed to destroy seven enemy submarines with a further two being lost to mines. On the debit side, the Royal Navy had lost two capital ships and many, many merchant ships. If nothing very much was happening in France, the Navy already knew this was no ‘phoney war.’

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Michael’s squadron flew standing patrols and continued training hard for the battle to come. There was still much dissatisfaction with the Blenheim F1. It was fast enough to take on unescorted German Bombers but already, in training exercises against the Hurricanes of 56 Squadron, it was shown to be relatively ponderous and no match for a modern true fighter. 56 Squadron had endured troubles of their own. In the infamous ‘Battle of Barking Creek’ in September, they had lost two aircraft to the Spitfires of 74 Squadron sent to intercept them following a mistake by the radar operators of ‘Chain Home.’ This led to the invention of an ‘Identification Friend or Foe’ system. The RAF hurriedly fitted these IFF devices to all its aeroplanes and it was now common to hear a controller instruct an unidentified aircraft to “squawk your parrot.” 

The pilots were getting used to the battle control system that ‘Stuffy’ Dowding was rapidly now perfecting. Sir Hugh Dowding may not have been the best squadron commander in the Royal Flying Corps in Peter’s day, but he had come into his own as the Commander of RAF Fighter Command. The command was organised into three Groups numbered 11, 12 and 13. 11 Group covered the whole of the south of England and Wales. 12 Group then covered the Midlands and East Anglia, where most of the bomber bases were situated, and 13 Group was responsible for the north of England and Scotland. Each Group was divided into sectors with a main RAF base designated as the ‘sector airfield.’ Each sector airfield had a number of fighter airfields under its control. 

The key to Dowding’s defensive plans was the ‘Chain Home’ radar system. This had been augmented by a further system called ‘Chain Home Low,’ which covered the identified gap in the main system. Whilst radar was in its infancy, the Chain Home systems gave the fighters valuable warning and could, in the hands of a skilful operator, provide quite detailed information on numbers of enemy aircraft as well as height and bearing. It was then up to the ground controllers to ‘vector’ the fighters to intercept an incoming enemy. The system had already proved its worth with successful interceptions of German bombers over Scotland and the east coast of England. 

Dowding’s real worry was the number of trained pilots. Aeroplanes, particularly the Hawker Hurricanes, were now coming off the production lines at a satisfactory rate. The RAF had expanded rapidly during 1939 but there was a serious shortage of experienced men to fly the new machines. This accounted for David’s sudden removal from Cranwell to the North of Scotland. The RAF could no longer afford the luxury of extended training periods. Basic flying courses had been cut back to five weeks and advanced training reduced to twelve weeks from fourteen. A sense of urgency pervaded everywhere but the Air Ministry, where red tape and bureaucratic muddle were still the order of the day. After three stultifying months, Peter finally secured an interview for the 28th December in London. Bethan was relieved. It had been like living with a ticking time bomb. Now, she hoped, Peter would be satisfied at last. 

She dreaded the idea of having all ‘her men’ involved in the war but was astute enough to know that Peter would never settle for the status of casual observer. Albert was far more philosophical:

“I don’t have the Captain’s ‘ighly developed sense of duty, Missus. If they want me, well, they know where to find me.”

Bethan wished that Peter could be similarly relaxed and let things take their course. She had the strong feeling that this war would be over no quicker than the last one. She also sensed that everyone would have a part to play before the end. If someone had questioned her on this, she would have been able to give only the vaguest of answers. The world had changed, was all that she knew. The twenty-one years between the wars had seen seismic shifts in society and technological innovations happening at a frenetic pace. Back in 1914, when she had first volunteered her services, aeroplanes were considered a novelty, radio communication was embryonic and even motorcars were a comparative rarity.

Now, every home in the land seemed to have a radio set, aeroplanes were flying at the phenomenal speed of 400 mph and there were motor vehicles cluttering up the roads wherever one looked. The old social order of squire and villager, master and servant had vanished with an entire generation in the trenches and mud of the Western Front. Britain had even had a socialist government – something utterly unthinkable before the First War, as people were starting to call it. There was a very different mood. The wild, uninformed patriotism of 1914 was no longer evident. No crowds had thronged the London streets on September 3rd 1939. Instead, there had been a sombre acceptance of the inevitable. To Bethan, this did not signal a lessening of love for one’s country in any way. It was more a case of the country having grown up, she felt. The experiences of four terrible years had touched every home in the land. Now it was starting all over again, well, small wonder if there was less enthusiasm than in those far-off days of innocence and ignorance.

She found the change welcome. It accorded with her own mood. She saw Hitler’s Germany as something loathsome and evil. The pillaging and destruction of first Czechoslovakia and then, in far more dreadful circumstances, Poland, was an act of barbarism perpetrated by a madman. Much as she hated the idea of war, she accepted its necessity. If we don’t stop them, who will? That was the way most people put it. There was no shortage of confidence in the country; that was for sure. At the same time, and possibly as a result of Peter’s influence, she could not quite suppress the sinking feeling that perhaps this confidence was somewhat misplaced. In her darker moments she was consumed by doubts and felt the icy touch of fear; fear for her children and her husband. It was all very well for Peter to say he was too old for flying duties. She knew her man and if there was any way he could find to play an active part in the coming struggle, she had no doubt he would be there at the forefront yet again.

Most of all she feared for David. Michael was self-sufficient somehow, a law unto himself. David, on the other hand, she felt was vulnerable. He was such a gentle soul. In many ways he reminded her more of Phillip than anyone else. There was that innate sense of fairness, a willingness to see the other person’s point of view. He lacked a little of Peter’s steely resolve. Then there was Phillipa. What would become of her? Her heart lurched at the thought of Phillipa having to endure the pain and loss that she had been through when Phillip had died. And yet this was likely. Almost all eligible young men would be in the forces and already there had been casualties from among the families in the village and the Army hadn’t even begun to fight! How terribly wasteful it all was. 

At other times she was proud of her sons; proud to have two young men in the Air Force, ready to defend their loved ones and their country. It was all so confusing. Peter didn’t really understand – couldn’t. He saw everything in terms of duty. Duty, the curse of his generation! Duty had led them to hang on the barbed wire, to burn in a fiery comet-tail across the skies of France or to drown in the icy waters of the oceans. She was a harsh mistress, this duty. Where did love and the comfort of family come into it all? Nowhere, that’s where! So she kept her counsel and endured in silence, weeping soundlessly in her bed after Peter had gone to sleep, as doubts and fears assailed her.

February 1940 Pieces on the board

David glanced up as he heard the snarl of the Harvard’s engine. Someone had ballsed-up their approach and was having to go round again. He could picture the scene perfectly. First there would be the cold voice of the instructor:

“I have control.”

The poor student would then have to suffer a blistering tirade enumerating every single mistake made. Then the instructor would hand back control and another attempt, further hampered by shattered confidence, would begin. The attrition rate amongst the student pilots was high. Some were sent to nearby Kinloss to try their luck on the twin-engined Airspeed Oxfords or Avro Ansons. Others, less fortunate, were offered only the option of re-mustering as Equipment Officers or similar. David had already resolved that, if his name was called for the chop, he would not stay with the Air Force but would join the Army instead. What was the point of being in the Air Force if one couldn’t fly? He might accept becoming a navigator at a pinch but it wouldn’t be the same. His heart was set on being a fighter pilot. 

He had learned to respect the North American Harvard advanced trainer. It was a hell of lot more sophisticated than the Tiger Moths he learned to fly on. It had a retractable undercarriage and a variable-pitch propeller as well as five times the horsepower and enough vices to keep a pilot very much on his toes. The Harvard was also fully aerobatic and Peter had learned the joy of throwing a responsive aeroplane around the sky. His instructor had constantly encouraged David to be very accurate in his manoeuvres and had made him repeat the various evolutions over and over until David felt he could do them in his sleep. 

Not that there seemed much time for sleep. When there was no flying, there was ground school and many of the students found this the most onerous task of all. David’s years of playing with model aircraft stood him in good stead. He already knew much of the theory of aerodynamics and impressed his tutors with his ready grasp of mechanical details. Mark Chapman managed well enough and David was always on hand to help out with any complexities that Mark struggled with. The two of them became inseparable and spent what little free time was afforded to them in each other’s rooms, discussing the finer points of the day’s lessons, their flying experiences and the general state of the war. David was also able to snatch odd moments in which to write to Johanna. This was the one part of his life that he did not share with anyone. Jo was his one release from the toils of the day. He had even managed to telephone her a few times and he lived for the day he would see her again. Now, over halfway through his course, that day was drawing ever closer.

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Johanna had finished school the previous July and had immediately announced her intention to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Her parents vehemently opposed such a move. They wanted her to continue her education, her father harboured fond but vain hopes that she would be attracted to a career in medicine. Jo was not a girl to be put off easily and her home life resembled nothing so much as guerrilla warfare as she kept her determined campaign to be allowed to enlist in the forces. 

“But I want to do my bit, Mummy. Loads of girls are joining the forces now, you know. I feel it is my duty.”

“There are plenty of other ways, dear. All those girls do is menial labour. We didn’t spend all that money on your education for you become to a driver or a typist.”

“Well, if a girl does one of those jobs then it means that a man is released to do something more useful! Surely you must see, we’re all involved this time?”

“Johanna, it’s no good arguing with your mother about this. When you are twenty-one we will not be able to prevent you from doing as you wish. Until that time, you are our responsibility and I forbid it. That’s flat.”

“But…”

“No ‘buts’ and no ‘ifs,’ Johanna. You have my final word on the subject. Anyway, I expect that we’ll make peace soon and it will all be for nothing.”

“Make peace? How? Daddy, you don’t think the Germans are suddenly going to change their minds and march out of Poland, do you? You must know that it’s impossible to make peace with that horrid man. Look at all the promises he made and never kept.”

“There’s a lot more to it than you understand. All I know is that I went through the last lot and I don’t want to see it happening again. I would do anything in my power to stop this war. If that means letting the Germans have Poland, so be it.”

“What a dreadful thing to say! How can you simply forget about all those poor people? And what about what they did to Warsaw?”

“I don’t want to see the same happen to London or Birmingham or even Dorchester. We can’t stop bombers with fine sentiments, Johanna.”

“But we can help if we try. That’s why it’s so important that we all do our bit.”

“Enough! The subject is closed.”

But it wasn’t. Johanna returned to it again and again. 

Peter was back in uniform. He had accepted a commission in the rank of Flying Officer – one down from his old RFC rank – but, if the truth were known, he’d have enlisted as a lowly aircraftman simply to get involved. He wore his old RFC Observer’s badge and First war medal ribbons with a quiet pride. As he had predicted to Bethan, he was considered too old at 44 for a flying appointment but had been pleased to be posted to the Head Quarters of 12 Group, at RAF Watnall in Nottinghamshire, as a junior staff officer. He was due to take up his duties at the beginning of March and was arranging with Bethan for them to move to a rented house nearby. Bethan had taken the news philosophically. Her one concern was Beatrice, who had gone downhill markedly over the last year and now seemed to be living in the past permanently. She scarcely recognised Bethan these days and when she did, asked why Phillip never visited. It broke Bethan’s heart to see how frail the old lady had become. 

After one such visit, she broached the subject with Peter:

“Peter, I don’t know what to do about Beatrice, do I? She isn’t at all well, you know, and I dread to think what will become of her if we’re not around to keep an eye on things. I feel like I’m abandoning her, see?”

“I don’t know what to suggest, my love. We can ask old Hepworth-Lloyd to keep an eye on her, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure it’s a doctor she needs. Maybe we could find her a companion? It would have to be someone we can trust, mind.”

“Anyone particular in mind?”

“Well, now, I was thinking just the other day. What about Marjorie Hallam? She’s retired now and I think she would like something useful to do. She never married, you know.”

“I didn’t realise you were still in touch. Where is Sister Hallam these days?”

“She lives with her sister near Reading, isn’t it? I think I’ll write and ask if she’s interested.”

Marjorie Hallam arrived a week later, as formidable as ever. She hadn’t changed much to Peter’s eye, perhaps a little stouter, and her hair, still swept into a severe bun, was grey now. But there was still that faintly humorous twinkle in her eyes that belied her stern demeanour. Bethan took her to Pitton House and she immediately took charge in a very unobtrusive but no nonsense fashion. Beatrice, somewhat bewildered by the rapid turn of events, was acquiescent. Bethan felt a weight lifting from her as she drove back home with Peter. Beatrice would be well looked after, that was for sure. Now she could concentrate all her energies on supporting her own family.

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At the end of that month, Michael’s squadron scored their first success. Two Blenheim F1s on patrol over the Thames estuary had been vectored to intercept a German raider. They shot down a Heinkel 111 that was attempting to lay mines in the approaches to Tilbury docks. Michael wasn’t involved, but he joined enthusiastically in the celebratory party that followed. For the first time in his life he was really enjoying himself. War had lent an urgency, an immediacy to things that had always been missing before. He was learning to trust others a bit more. His sense of superiority had been severely challenged as the flying had intensified. The slight edge of danger thrilled him. He didn’t feel fear exactly. It was more a sense of heightened awareness. His superiors noted the change in his attitude approvingly.

He would never be a popular member of the squadron. His colleagues found him somewhat disconcerting. There was a brittleness about him that made others wary. It was as if he were barely contained, always teetering on the edge of violence. His rages were legendary. Most of the time he managed to remain silent, white faced, eyes blazing with murderous intent. Very occasionally he was unable to restrain himself and would vent his fury in a high-pitched voice, crackling with rage and dripping vitriol. A fighter squadron is a fairly tolerant place but there is little room for prima donnas. Michael learned this the hard way. After one such episode in a local pub he was seized bodily by a group of pilots and flung head first into an adjacent pond to cool off. That night he had prowled the streets of Soho, looking for a prostitute to take out his anger and frustration. After the incident with Maisey, he found himself increasingly drawn to rough sex and more than once his victims ended up in hospital claiming to have ‘fallen down stairs.’

He heard the news of Peter’s appointment to 12 Group with something like disbelief. He told anyone who could be bothered to listen that his step-father was a washed up old ‘has-been’ who had no place in the modern Air Force and would be soon be exposed as the liability that Michael knew him to be. He learnt to keep such opinions to himself when an elderly reserve officer called ‘Tiny’ O’Rourke flattened him with a single punch after Michael had ventured to suggest that ‘dug-outs’ (former offices recalled to the service) were a waste of time. O’ Rourke’s nickname was ironic. He was around six foot six and possessed of a temper to rival Michael’s.

Michael avoided confronting him directly again but lost no opportunity to goad the big man. He was always careful, however, to do so only when senior officers were present. Now, with the war hotting up, he gave up on such puerile pass-times and everyone was relieved. The best news was yet to come. One morning, the Squadron Commander announced to the assembled crews that the squadron was to re-equip with Hurricane Mk1s the following month. The pilots greeted the news with much enthusiasm. Of course, it would mean that the rest of the crews would have to be posted elsewhere, but, to Michael, this was an added bonus. Now the squadron was deemed fully operational, they had already shed the navigators and were flying with two man crews of pilot and wireless operator/air gunner. Michael suspected that the news would also be welcome in the Sergeants Mess by at least one NCO. His Wop/AG, Sergeant Braithwaite, was not exactly Michael’s greatest admirer and had insubordination down to a fine art. Braithwaite had been the target for Michael’s rages too often. 

Had Michael but known it, the NCOs had received the news before the pilots and a party of epic proportion was in full swing. ‘Kiwi’ Braithwaite sank another pint of bitter and grinned at his mate, a black Jamaican air gunner who went by the nickname ‘Snowball.’

“Christ, Snowy, old mate, it’s the best news I’ve heard since getting off the boat. That little shit Mr Welford-fucking-Barnes can go root himself blue.”

“Ya got your chit, yet, Kiwi, man?”

“Yep, 264. Defiants. How ‘bout you?”

“’Cross the road, man. 600 Squadron. More bloody gentlemen.”

“Ow! Tough shit, mate. At least 264 are proper Air Force and not bloody nobs. I reckon the Defiant’s good kit, too.”

“Me, I prefer two engines, Kiwi, man. One more to get you home when the other gets shot up. At least it will be better than bombers, man. My pal from Kingston, Alfie, he’s on a Hampden squadron. I don’t give much for his chances, man.”

“Too right! Give me fighters any day. The kiwi is not a nocturnal bird, Snowy. At least we get home for supper.”

“From what I heard, the kiwi can’t fly at all, man. The aerodynamic properties of a brick.”

“True, my wise and educated friend. I sometimes think I should have remembered that when I get into the kite with that young prick.”

“Well, man, maybe you’ll get somet’ing worse next time.”

“Christ, it’s being so bloody cheerful keeps you going, mate. Anyway, I heard that it’s the gunner that’s the aircraft captain in a Defiant.”

“Tell that to the officers.”

The two men exchanged wry smiles. The social order was very much maintained in the ‘Millionaires.’ Kiwi Braithwaite had heard that, in pre-war days, a prospective officer was deliberately encouraged to drink a large amount of alcohol over dinner, to see if ‘he still comported himself like a gentleman.’ The Auxiliary Air Force was too much like a gentlemen’s club for the taste of most regular servicemen and ‘Empire’ volunteers like Kiwi and Snowball were considered way beyond the pale. Kiwi had once overheard Michael complaining to his flight commander:

“Can’t I at least get rid of that bloody man Braithwaite? He doesn’t even speak a recognisable form of English, for God’s sake!”