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Like Father Like Son Ch. 04

By: smilodonwriter



August 1916 Return to the Fold

The RE8 was steady at 10,000 feet above the front. Phillip stood in the rear cockpit and scanned the skies for any sign of enemy aircraft. He had been back on the squadron for four days and this was his eleventh patrol. The Huns seemed to have more and more Albatros D IIs in the area now and 14 Squadron had been among the first to feel their effect. Four aircraft had been lost during Phillip’s absence, with two pilots and three observers killed and another pilot wounded. There also seemed to be a lot more ‘archie’ than there had been before he left. All in all, the Albert sector was becoming distinctly bad for one’s health, as Peter Riley had remarked. Peter had been the observer when ‘B’ Flight had been bounced by a dozen D IIs. The big British biplanes were no match for the German scouts in speed, firepower or manoeuvrability. They grimly held formation and hoped that the combined guns of the four RE8s would deter the German pilots long enough for help to arrive.

They had been lucky on that occasion. A Royal Naval squadron of ‘Tripehounds’ – Sopwith Triplanes – had arrived and joined the fight and the Germans had their work cut out. The Tripehound was an amazingly nimble little machine and could turn inside the bigger Hun biplanes. Their three wings made them very quick in the climb and they could rapidly get into the preferred position in a dogfight, above the enemy. ‘Height is might,’ the saying went. If you were higher than the opposition, you could dive down and use your superior speed to swoop underneath the target, get in a quick burst from close range and soar away again. It was even more effective if you could hide in the glare of the sun. That was why the RFC hated the dawn patrols so much. The German aircraft would often be up waiting for them as the British pilots flew eastward, squinting against the harsh brightness. 

‘B’ Flight had got home that day without casualties but with their planes shot full of holes. On one, the mainspar was so riddled that the upper wing collapsed on landing and the crew were fortunate to survive the ensuing ground-loop. Still, any landing you could walk away from was a good one. The result of the encounter was that Major Wigram ordered all the squadron machines to be fitted with a twin Lewis mounting for the observer. It wasn’t much but it helped morale. The Lewis guns were a perpetual headache. A single drum held only 47 rounds and the guns were prone to jamming. Most Observers would check the drums were loaded and the spares secured. Phillip, by contrast, was obsessive. He would load each drum himself. He carefully checked each single bullet whether ball, tracer or the explosive ‘buckingham’ rounds. The ‘buckinghams’ were supposed to be used only against static balloons but increasingly, the German Scouts fired explosive bullets against the RFC and there was a growing tendency to retaliate, even if the use of explosive bullets was against the Geneva Convention.

Phillip swung the twin Lewis guns on their Scarff ring as he quartered the sky. He disliked standing in the cockpit but knew it was the only way. Of course, it meant that one couldn’t wear a seat belt and this could be hazardous in the extreme if the pilot was throwing the aeroplane around in a fight. A story was circulating about an air gunner named Whitehead who had been thrown clean out of the cockpit. Whitehead’s guardian angel must have been alert that day because the lucky gunner had managed to grab a wing strut and then get a foot on the lower mainplane and had hauled himself back in. As someone remarked, if he wasn’t Whitehead by both name and nature before that, he probably would have been afterwards!

Pinky Harris blipped the motor to get Phillip’s attention. He gestured, pointing below the starboard lower wing and then grinned, giving the ‘thumbs up.’ Phillip peeled back his smeared goggles and looked where Pinky was pointing. A puff of chalky earth was spreading out on the crest of a low ridge below them. The barrage they had been sent to observe had begun. Phillip wound out the sixty-odd feet of trailing aerial and tapped out the call sign on his Morse key. There was an answering chatter of RRR pause RRR from the gunners’ Forward Observation Officer. Everything was working so Phillip settled down to concentrate on correcting the shoot. It was a relatively simple task. If the shells were bursting short, Phillip sent ‘SSS’ followed by a number – his estimate of the distance short of the target. The gunners corrected their elevation and charges and tried again. Phillip fed them corrections until the barrage was falling firmly on the Hun positions. He would then send ‘OOO’, meaning ‘on target.’ 

Suddenly the air around him was filled with zip of bullets and tracer rounds slashed past the RE8. Phillip heard the ‘tackatackatacka’ of the enemy aeroplane’s machine guns before a dark shape flashed by so close he swore afterwards he could have touched the tail-wheel. Pinky instinctively swung away from the German machine and Phillip leapt to the Lewis guns. They were under attack by no less than three Huns. Phillip sized up the situation instantly. Their first attacker was wheeling about, seeming to stand on its wingtips as he hurried to return to the fray. The other two were coming on different sides. Phillip let one have a short burst and he saw the aircraft flinch away from the dipping line of his tracers. Good! A novice – or a nervous pilot, at least. He swung back towards the other machine and they opened fire simultaneously. 


Pinky pushed the throttle to the stops and corkscrewed to the right. Phillip kept his Lewises trained on the Hun and fired a long burst. He thought he saw bullets striking it in little flashes and the German plane gave a sort of lurch and pulled steeply away. Time to change drums. He pulled off his heavy gloves and wrestled with the awkward fitting on first one Lewis and then the other. He distrusted the double drums and stuck to the 47 round singles. The first attacker was back on their tail. This one meant business! He was closing rapidly, holding his fire. Phillip gave him a short burst from the left-hand Lewis. The tracers arched lazily and harmlessly past the German. He didn’t so much as twitch. Phillip hunched himself lower behind the guns. He felt horribly, personally, vulnerable. He saw the twinkling Spandaus behind the silver disc of the Hun’s propeller and he squeezed off another short burst, this time from the right-hand gun. 

Pinky took a quick glance over his shoulder and slammed the joystick to the left, kicking hard on the rudder. They immediately reversed their turn and the German’s tracers whipped past their tail. The Hun pilot flung his machine on its side to follow them. This was the moment! Phillip opened up with both guns and hosed the German from spinner to tail as it hung there. The machine seemed to jump in the air and shudder. One wing folded back and the aeroplane half-rolled onto its back before spinning to destruction. Phillip’s burst must have hacked off a wing root for he saw the damaged wing detach itself from the stricken machine and flutter slowly earthwards like a sycamore seed. The rest of the plane plunged on, faster now, and he glimpsed a bright burst of flame flower briefly on the dark earth as it reached the end of its last journey.

He pulled two fresh drums from the ammunition rack and moved to reload again. One drum stuck fast and he hammered at it with his fists until they bled. Pinky straightened out and dived towards the British lines. Phillip struggled on with the recalcitrant gun. His hands were numb with cold and he was panting from exertion and adrenalin. The two remaining Huns were following, albeit warily. Phillip gave up on the jammed drum and tried to reload the other gun. As he did so, he knocked one full drum off his seat and onto the cockpit floor. As he spun around to pick it, the drum he had been holding slipped from his numb fingers. It bounced once on the fuselage and dropped away. He cursed furiously and scrabbled up the one remaining full magazine. 

With trembling fingers, he forced the drum onto the working Lewis and swung it towards the Huns. Once again, they opened fire at extreme range and Pinky was able to evade their tracers with a swift sideslip. Phillip waited. He was chewing his lower lip in concentration. Anger coursed through him. How could have been so stupid! He now had only 47 rounds left and two enemy machines on their tail. The bolder of the two Huns was trying to dive beneath them so he could attack from a blind spot. Phillip stood on his seat and angled the Lewis as far down as he could. Pinky banked the RE8 tightly to the left and Phillip got in a quick burst of ten or twelve rounds before the German pulled away. 

The second Hun had sneaked up unnoticed on the other side and he opened fire at about one hundred yards’ range. Phillip watched in amazement as holes appeared in their wing before rounding to face the fresh danger. He fired in quick bursts, no more than momentary taps on the Lewis’s trigger. Again, the nervous enemy pilot pulled up short. The second Hun was back now and Phillip turned again to face him. He got off another two or three bursts and then nothing! He was out of ammunition. The Hun saw this and closed for the kill. In a blind fury, Phillip seized the empty drum off the Lewis and flung it at the German machine. He heard a high voice screaming obscenities at the enemy and was only dimly aware that it was his own. He stooped and seized another empty drum and flung that also, followed by a third. The German pilot pulled up and turned away. He gave Phillip a jaunty wave as he headed off eastwards. Phillip, his anger cooling now, was dumbstruck. Why hadn’t he finished them off? They had been defenceless. Only Pinky’s skill had kept them alive that long. The answer appeared in the shape of a squadron of Vickers FB9s. The two-seater fighters were angling down towards them The Hun pilots had obviously decided that this was one of those occasions that discretion would be the better part of valour. 

Reaction set in and Phillip started to shake. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt sick. Pinky flew them home low over the British trenches. Phillip could make out the pale blobs of upturned faces and he thought the troops were waving at them. He looked for his gloves but they must have gone over the side during the fight. He stuffed his frozen hands into his coat pockets and slouched in his seat. He hurt from head to foot. His body had been thrown across the cockpit by the violent manoeuvres during the fight and, although he had been unaware of it at the time, he was bruised from hip to shoulder on both sides from the impacts with the cockpit coaming, radio and ammunition racks. 

They landed safely at Bertangles and Pinky brought the wounded RE8 slowly up to the flight line. A crowd of officers was rushing towards them shouting. Phillip felt weary to his bones and heaved himself out of the cockpit like an old man struggling to get out of the bath. He was chilled to the marrow as, even though it was still high summer, the upper air was freezing. Added to that, he had been standing in the blast of the slipstream and propeller wash for over one and a half hours. His head ached abominably and the familiar nausea from the castor oil lubricant was gripping his stomach. He could taste the tainted acid in his mouth and had to force himself to swallow to keep from retching. 


He pulled off his helmet with a leaden arm and became aware of the hubbub surrounding him and Pinky. Odd phrases started to penetrate his fuddled mind:

“…bloody young fool, could have killed someone!”

“…landing with the aerial deployed, what were you thinking of?”

He spun in horror. Sure enough, sixty-four feet of wire tipped by a two-pound lead plumb were strewn on the grass behind the aircraft. Pinky came to his rescue.

“Sorry, chaps, we got bounced by three Huns as we finished the shoot. I took evasive action and the aerial got caught around the tailplane.”

Phillip goggled at him stupidly. He had simply forgotten to wind the aerial back in. He turned aft and stared. Sure enough, the wire had bitten deeply into the tailplane, wrapping itself round the wood and fabric a couple of times. Pinky hadn’t realised he’d forgotten the drill. He just assumed that Phillip had been unable to wind the aerial after it had become entangled. 

The clamour died a little and Major Wigram stepped forward to peer at the offending article.

“Well, you two nearly bagged the adj and me. We were sitting at the adj’s table when all of a sudden the bloody thing took flight! You snagged it with the plumb as you came in, Pinky. That bloody great lump of lead passed between our heads. The adj is frightfully upset. All the morning patrol reports are scattered to the four winds and he’ll have to start over. Oh well, no real harm done, what? Better go and give your report.”

One of the armourer NCOs approached Phillip as he was standing staring at the faces around him.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Welford Barnes, sir, but you don’t seem to have any Lewis drums in the kite.”

Phillip nodded.

“Oh, sorry, corporal. I ran out of ammunition so I threw them at the Huns.”

The Major was incredulous. “You did what?”

“Threw them at the Huns, sir. Uh, I didn’t have anything else. I think I’d have thrown the radio too, only it’s a bit too heavy.”

“And Phillip bagged one of the blighters, Wiggy,” said Pinky. “Went down close to the lines. Artillery should be able to confirm.”

“With a Lewis drum?” Major Wigram was gaping at them both as if they had taken leave of their senses.

“No, sir. Before I ran out. Pinky did some splendid flying and sort of caught the Hun on the hop. He turned a bit too late and I… got lucky, I suppose. One of his upper planes snapped off and down he went. Then the other Huns closed in and I dropped a full magazine over the side because the drum jammed on the right Lewis and I’d taken my gloves off…”

“So you could throw better, I assume? No. No more, Phillip, and none of your nonsense either, Pinky. It’s too much for an old man’s sensibilities. Go and tell the adj all about it.”

They shambled off to where the adjutant had re-erected his table. 

“Good God, Phillip. Did you really throw the empty drums at the beggars?”

“Yes, adj. I’m sorry. I didn’t think – wasn’t thinking really.”

“Oh no, old boy, it’s brilliant. One for the squadron annals, that is!”

A couple of days later, a new ‘trophy’ appeared in the Officers’ Mess. It was a battered Lewis Drum, painted scarlet and with an engraved brass plate bearing the legend: “The Welford-Barnes Hun Trap. Patent pending.”


Phillip’s first ‘kill’ was duly confirmed and the squadron threw a ‘drunk’ in his honour. The party was wild and frantic and many a sore head assembled the following morning for the dawn patrol. The Somme offensive ground on and on. Progress was measured in yards rather than the hoped for miles and German resistance showed no signs of weakening. The aircrews were exhausted. Day after day of clear skies meant almost constant flying. Even when the weather was marginal, they flew anyway. Struggling through low cloud, with rain like icy bullets rattling off the fabric of the machines, they performed wonders. Reconnaissance, artillery spotting, contact patrols; one followed another in an endless round. Nerves became frayed and tempers short. Only Major Wigram, through a supreme effort of will, retained the outward appearance of calm. His leadership held the Squadron together. When, on the 19th August, a shell from the British barrage he was observing obliterated his plane, the Squadron was shattered. 

More and more new faces appeared in the Mess to replace the mounting casualties. Pinky Harris was given the temporary rank of Major and appointed to command the Squadron. ‘Old Hands’ like Peter and Phillip were few and far between. Thus it came as a glorious relief when, at the end of the month, a weather front brought two days of solid cloud, high winds and rain. News reached the squadron that Phillip had been awarded the Military Cross for his efforts during the Somme Offensive and there was news, too, of a different sort. Flying Corps casualties had been heavy, particularly among the ranks of the pilots. HQ was now calling for suitable volunteers for flying training. Peter brought the news of this request to Phillip.

“I say, Phillip, here’s your chance! Wiggy did promise you that you could go home after fifty missions as an ‘O’ and you must have done nearly three times that many.”

Phillip looked up from the letter he was writing to Bethan. He looked ghastly, thought Peter, but then, they all did. Even Pinky Harris’s fresh complexion, which had earned him his soubriquet, was wan and grey. Peter thought Phillip had suffered more than most. Flying with Pinky, Phillip always seemed to draw the most dangerous patrols. Pinky would never dream of ordering a pilot to undertake a mission that he wouldn’t do himself. In fact, Peter thought, Pinky was a bit obsessive on this point. He drove himself, and consequently Phillip, harder than anyone else. A chap only had so much luck. Pinky was probably overdrawn on his share. 

It had taken Peter’s words a few moments to register in Phillip’s tired mind. The previous night’s party had left him jaded and the damp weather always made his old leg wounds ache. He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at Peter.

“D’you really think so? I’ve only been out here five months and it wasn’t that long ago I had sick leave – even if it does seem like an eternity since then.”

“Well, no harm in trying, is there, old man? Oh, and by the by, your old mob are in reserve near Bouzincourt. I heard they got knocked about a bit taking Longueval. Thought you might like to pay them a visit while it’s ‘napoo’ here.” 

“I think I might do that tomorrow, Peter. I’ve letters to write and I need to see Pinky about the pilots’ course. I tell you what, why don’t we go together? Brian Redbourne’s a splendid fellow and he’ll be sure to give us a welcome.”

“Good Egg! Let’s do that. Now off you trot and see Pinky. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that rot.”

“What about you, Peter? Are you going to apply?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, old chap. I mean, look at me. I’m far too lanky. I think I’ll just stick in the back where there’s a bit more room. If I put my feet on a rudder bar my knees would be under my chin. Thank God for the ‘Harry Tates.’ It was murder in the old BE2s. And my driver was always complaining that he couldn’t see over the magnificent Riley bonce. My head stuck up so far it was permanently in the prop wash.”

Phillip had to smile. Peter stood something over six feet three and his big raw-boned frame was a tight squeeze into any cockpit. He always looked untidy, somehow, however smartly he was dressed and his huge hands and feet looked as if they had been stuck onto his long limbs as an afterthought. Phillip looked at his friend with amused affection and then said:

“Peter, I’ve asked Bethan to marry me. If she does say ‘yes,’ would you be so kind as to stand up with me?”

“Phillip, I’d be both honoured and delighted. And what d’you mean ‘if she says yes?’ Only a mad woman would refuse a dashing young aviator such as your good self!”

“I do hope so, old man. I asked her over a month ago and she still hasn’t given me her answer. I don’t want to press her, you know, in case it puts her off, but what’s a chap to do? I think about her all the time, unless we’re over Hunland. Then, well, one is rather preoccupied with other concerns.”

“Ha! Aren’t we though? I really think the blighters are getting better, you know. That chap, Bolcke, is supposedly in our sector now. From what I hear, he should liven things up a bit.”


Like Father Like Son Ch. 04



“And your old chum, Ball, is making a name for himself, too, I hear. The last I heard, his score is over twenty.”

“Yes, rum little fellow, that one. Oh, you’ll no doubt meet him. He’s to get his MC the same day as you, Pinky says.”

“Speaking of whom, I’d better run along and put my request in.”

Phillip hurried across the soaking grass to the hut that served as the Squadron offices. He was wet through by the time he got there and presented himself, dripping, at Pinky’s door.

“Lovely weather for ducks, what? Come in, Phillip, and sit ye down. Tell me, what I can do for you this fine day?”

“It’s about pilot training, Pinky. I think you know I’ve always been keen and now, well, Peter told me Corps HQ are asking for volunteers. Would it be awfully inconvenient if I put my name forward?”

Pinky surveyed the young man in front of him. He took in the tired features and sighed inwardly. Phillip Welford-Barnes was something of an enigma to him. The vast majority of officers on the squadron acted with a kind of mad gaiety, as if each day could be their last. Phillip wasn’t like that. He was quiet, reserved. Yes, he joined in – one couldn’t criticise him there – but Pinky felt that Phillip never truly let himself go. Nor could one fault his courage; yet Pinky had the feeling that Phillip was drawing on some finite stock; that he was driven by duty and would never be otherwise. The majority of the young airmen were natural adventurers. Of course, the strain eventually told on everyone, but most could put aside the war for a few brief hours, at least, and find solace in drinking and women. There were willing girls in most of the village estaminets. The French soldiers grumbled enough at how easily their womenfolk were seduced by the glamour of the flyers. Pinky sighed again, aloud this time.

“I won’t stand in your way, Phillip, if it’s truly what you want. I know dear old Wiggy promised you could go so, in his memory, if for no other reason, I’ll support your application. I’m going to miss you, though. Who else is going to stand in the back chucking tin cans at Huns for me?”

Phillip smiled his thanks and made as if to leave. Pinky raised a hand to stop him.

“I suppose you want to be a Scout pilot?”

“Actually, Pinky, I think I’d rather prefer two-seaters. I’ve always liked the teamwork aspect, you know. We made a good team in the end, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. And we did have our moments. Oh well, I’ll suppose I’ll have to break in another new boy. Someone else to throw up all over my nice new coat! Actually, I’m rather glad you don’t want Scouts. I don’t really think they’d be your cup of tea, old man.”

“No,” said Phillip, “neither do I, somehow. And Pinky, thanks old chap, for everything. You’ve been an absolute brick and it’s been a privilege to serve under you. I never felt half as scared with you driving.”

“Really? Most of the time I terrify myself positively witless, old chap. Still, it takes all sorts, what? Now get out of here and see the adj to put your request in.” 

Pinky made a show of going back to his paperwork and Phillip left. After he had gone, the major sat back in his chair and lit a cheroot. He would genuinely be sorry to see Phillip go but a part of him was also relieved. That was one letter, at least, he would not have to write. He stared at the paper on the blotter in front of him. He wondered vaguely how many times he had written a variation on the words that stared back at him in his own round hand. More to the point, he thought, how many more times will I have to do it?


He resumed his letter, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated:

Dear Mr and Mrs Stacy,

As Herbert’s Squadron Commander, I can’t tell you how saddened we all are by his death. Although he had only been on the squadron a short time, he was already one of the most popular chaps in the Mess.

The truth, Pinky thought, is I have already forgotten what he looked like; but he might have been the one with the big ears and the annoying laugh. I didn’t have time to get to know him and neither did anyone else; our Lords and Masters sent him out her with a paltry seventeen hours in his logbook and some Hun pilot saw easy pickings. Like about half of the other letters I’ve got to write, this poor bastard never stood a chance and it only took three days for him to find a Hun to kill him. He resumed his letter.

It may be some small comfort for you to know that Herbert was killed instantly and did not suffer at all. It may also help to remember that he died doing the thing he loved above all others – flying.

Far better that than the truth. No one saw him go down but troops on the ground found the burnt out wreckage so it had been a ‘flamer.’ Nobody wants to think of their nearest and dearest slowly roasting to death in the five or so minutes it takes to fall ten thousand feet in a burning aeroplane.

He finished the letter, blotted his signature, and added it to the pile in his ‘out’ tray. He stretched and rubbed his temples. The familiar throbbing of a headache was forming behind his eyes. He gave another exaggerated sigh and reached for a fresh piece of paper.

**************************

Phillip found the Second Battalion of the Wessex Light Infantry without too much difficulty. The battalion were camped around the battered village of Bouzincourt only a mile or two north west of Albert. Peter and he had borrowed the tired old Morris van that served as the squadron’s motor transport. It had been the property of a Winchester baker’s shop and still bore the legend ‘Holmes Finest Loaves’ in faded letters on the side. It had solid tyres and only rudimentary springs and they had rattled and jounced the twelve or so miles to Albert. They stopped in the town to get their bearings and to gaze in awe at the statue of the Virgin that hung at a crazy angle from the damaged cathedral spire. A superstition had grown up that whichever side was eventually responsible for knocking the statue down would lose the war. (So it proved, for the German artillery finally dislodged the hanging Virgin during their great offensive in the spring of 1918.)

They obtained directions to Bouzincourt and set out once more on a little back road that was scarcely more than a cart track. They ground along in low gear with the old Morris’s springs complaining all the while. They topped a low rise and trundled down the road into the village. It had been knocked about a bit by artillery fire as the German batteries probed the British rear areas. Even so, the civilian population was still in residence and the fields thereabouts were still under cultivation. Outside one of the larger houses hung a hand-painted sign: ‘2/1 WLI Bn HQ,’ which translated as: 2nd Battalion, 1st Wessex Light Infantry Regiment, Battalion Head Quarters. 

Peter stopped the van and they got out. A large and familiar figure appeared, caught sight of the two officers and offered up a smart salute.

“Geordie Watts! And a sergeant, I see.”

“Fuck me! Oh, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen. Mr Welford-Barnes! Good to see you, sir. I’ll tell the Colonel that you’re here.”

“Just a mo, Geordie, or I suppose I should say Sergeant Watts. I never really thanked you properly for pulling me out. Peter, Geordie carried me back when I was crocked at Loos. He saved my life, for certain.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant. I am in your debt. Life would be exceedingly tedious without Mr Welford-Barnes to keep me amused.” 

“Thank you, sir. We were rather fond of him ourselves. Until he took up with this flying malarkey. I dunno how you gentlemen does it. I much prefers to keep me feet on the ground. The Colonel’s inside, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.”


They followed the ample figure around the corner and entered the house. What had once been a large kitchen was now festooned with maps and the old cast iron range was covered in signal flimsies and other assorted papers. Geordie stiffened to attention and announced them:

“Lieutenant Welford-Barnes, sir, and another gentleman from the Royal Flying Corps.”

Brian Redbourne slowly stood up, a grin splitting his homely face.

“W-B, by all that’s holy, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Introduce your pal, young Phillip. This calls for a drink! Now where did I put the whisky?”

Phillip grinned back, noticing the Lieutenant Colonel’s badges on Redbourne’s epaulets. 

“Looks like congratulations are in order, sir. Have they given you the battalion?”

“Yes. Colonel McKay copped it at Longueval, along with about four hundred others. I’m sorry to say you won’t find too many familiar faces around here anymore. Oh, Geordie’s still here, of course; indestructible is our Geordie. I’ve given him your old platoon along with young Simmonds. Oh I forgot, you won’t know Simmonds, he came out in June. Still, he’s shaping up nicely, ain’t he Geordie?”

“Yessir. A very good young officer, sir.”

“So who’s your pal, Phillip? Don’t they teach you manners in the Flying Corps?”

“Sorry, sir. Allow me to present Lieutenant Peter Riley, late of His Majesty’s Royal Engineers and a very good chum of mine.”

After the introductions, the three officers settled down to do some serious damage to the whisky. Peter related the Lewis Drums incident and Brian Redbourne roared with laughter. Phillip then recounted his story of Redbourne leading the company at Loos with an umbrella and handing out footballs before the attack. Peter opined that madness must be a prerequisite for a career in the Wessex Light Infantry and that called for another toast. After a little while, Redbourne took them to visit Phillip’s old platoon. Phillip was saddened to find that he recognised only about one face in five from the year before. He did notice, however, that the battalion appeared to be at full strength and the men looked fit and rested.

“We’ve been out of the lines for about three weeks,” Redbourne told him later. “We’ve been training to operate with a new weapon.”

“Oh? And what’s that, if you can tell me?”

“The code name for them is ‘tanks.’ They’re like a sort of ‘land battleship.’ We’re going to surprise Fritz and his boys with them quite soon. Can’t tell you when and where, of course, but the boys are cock-a-hoop.”

“Why ‘tanks’? Seems an odd sort of name.”

“Ah, It’s those cunning blighters in Intelligence. The story is that these things are self-propelled water tanks. That’s what they tell anyone not involved with the operation. There’s about eight battalions that have been withdrawn to train with ‘em. I really think they could turn the trick, you know. It’s the first really new idea to come out of this war; apart from that beastly gas, that is.”

“And don’t forget us, too. What was it the Army Board said in ’12? Aeroplanes have no place in modern warfare? I bet the duffer who came up with that one is eating his hat!”

“Quite right, too, Peter. I shouldn’t have forgotten our own tame birdmen, should I? I say, you two, what’s it really like up there? I mean, does it all look wonderfully strange from however many feet you boys perch at?”

“Sometimes it’s magical. I was up one evening and the sky was so clear you could see all the way to heaven. I watched a new cloud being born. It was a mystical, almost spiritual, thing, somehow. It feels like, I don’t know, a wholly new and different kind of freedom. There’s a purity, a cleanliness about it that I can’t really describe. Sometimes I hate the war simply for spoiling that. It’s cold, of course, and there are moments that are simply terrifying; but there’s a clarity about it. It makes one elated and humble at the same time.”


Peter’s voice trailed off and his eyes were distant, his mind clearly elsewhere, up among those clouds. Phillip and Redbourne stared at him as he finished speaking. Phillip was used to Peter as a light-hearted joker - someone who never failed to lift his spirits. He had never suspected that Peter Riley was sensitive to the beauty around him. Redbourne simply looked wistful. How strange, he thought, to be free of mud and filth: to fight one’s war far above the stink of the battlefield in the pristine void. He shook his head slowly. 

“I can’t pretend that I can begin to imagine it - but, thank you, Peter. Somehow, that makes me feel better.” 

They parted company soon after that. Phillip gave Redbourne half a dozen bottles of claret he had bought as a gift and they shook hands warmly. Redbourne was glad that the bonds forged in the fighting of the first year of the war were still unbroken; stretched a little, perhaps, by time and experience, but there nonetheless. Phillip felt a moment’s regret as they drove away. He had experienced again, albeit briefly, that sense of belonging, of family almost, that the best regiments engender in their own. 

Peter was silent. His big hands gripped the steering wheel and he stared straight ahead. His mind was a jumble of scattered thoughts. He pondered what he had heard about the ‘tanks.’ Could they really be the key that would unlock the stalemate? He kept drifting back to thoughts of flying; he had surprised himself. He knew how he felt, of course, but had never tried before to put it into words. He had a sudden urge to capture his feelings. He didn’t think he had the skill but he would have to try. Just in case, he told himself, just in case.

Later that night, he wrote these words:

I have seen the dancers in the sun

And heard the silvery, crystal tongue

Of rainbows breaking on the clouds

And I shouted my joy aloud.

I have seen the somnolent, wooded hills,

And breathed the morning, stretched my will

To catch an escaping dream

And have wondered at what I’ve seen.

I have flown across the face of God

That gave dimension to his rod

And staff, but saw no comfort is there

And I stopped for a while to stare

At khaki columns, winding past

To find again that I was last

In some grandiose parade;

Or maybe a charade

I never guessed quite properly,

Nor discovered which face was for me.

Peter sighed and pushed the sheet of paper away from him. He wasn’t sure if it would make any difference in the scheme of things but he was glad he had done it. He stopped to gaze at Phillip’s sleeping figure on the other side of the tent. Oh God, he thought, I am going to miss him. Maybe next time I’ll get someone who doesn’t snore. He stretched and threw himself, full length, upon his camp bed. His big feet stuck out over the end. He grunted at this perpetual annoyance and turned off the pressure lantern. Lying in the dark, he heard the pops and hisses as the lantern cooled and the soft, steady beat of the rain upon the canvas above his head. He shrugged mentally. Oh well, tomorrow is another day. Who knows what it might bring? 


Autumn 1916 Back to School

Phillip never did get to meet Albert Ball. His Military Cross was presented back in England on 2nd September by Sir David Henderson, the ‘father’ of the Royal Flying Corps. Phillip’s parents came up from Dorset and, to their mutual delight, Bethan was able to get the day off to attend as well. After the presentation, they repaired to the Savoy for lunch. Phillip took the opportunity to have a private word with Bethan as they waited for his parents to secure a table. 

“I’ll be at home for a while now, Bethan, while I go to Flying School. I hope we can see each other a bit more.”

“Won’t that be grand, Phillip? I do miss you so when you’re in France.”

“Do you truly? You’ve never given me an answer, you know.”

“Of course I miss you. There’s silly you are, Phillip! And I’ll give you the answer you want when I’m good and ready and not before, do you hear me?”

He had to be content with that but his heart sang. She would give him the answer he wanted! But wait, did she mean that or simply that he wanted an answer? He turned to her again, the question forming on his lips but she forestalled it with a brief kiss. 

“No, Phillip, I’ve said all I mean to say for now. It’s no good you looking like that at me, either. It’s take your time, isn’t it? I’m not one to rush things. I’ve spoken to your mother and she understands.”

He moved to kiss her again but she held him off gently.

“Not here, Phillip! People are staring. You don’t want to embarrass me now, do you?” 

She smiled at him and surreptitiously squeezed his hand. Her eyes were bright and looked at him so lovingly that his head swam. Then they were called through to eat. William Welford-Barnes was all beaming pride and bonhomie. Beatrice sat and gazed fondly at the two men in her life. Phillip looked tired and strained but the girl beside him positively glowed. She caught Bethan’s eye and gave her a quick smile. 

Beatrice had arranged to meet Bethan at Winchester and the three of them, Bethan, Beatrice and William, had travelled up to London together. It wasn’t the most direct route for Beatrice and William and he had grumbled. Beatrice had won the argument, as usual. She pointed out to William that Bethan could not be left to travel alone and he had reluctantly concurred. Her real reason for making the arrangements, however, was that she wished to have another chance to talk with Bethan. She knew of Phillip’s proposal and Bethan’s procrastination and decided it was time that she took a hand in affairs.

Soon after the train had pulled out of Winchester, William fell soundly asleep behind his copy of The Times, as was his habit. Beatrice turned to Bethan. 

“Now, my dear, I think it’s high time we had a little talk. First, and I want a completely honest answer, do you love my son?”

“Yes.” 

Bethan was a little taken aback but had expected something of the sort from the tone of Beatrice’s letter to her.

“Yes, I do love Phillip. And with all my heart.”

“And he has asked you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“And you have put him off. May I ask you why, Bethan?”

Bethan puffed out her cheeks and stared at her hands that were twisting in her lap.

“It’s the war, now, isn’t it? I mean, if it was all over, I’d marry him tomorrow.”


“What about the war, Bethan? Are you saying that you won’t marry my son because he might be killed?”

“Oh, no! It’s not that. I mean, there’s selfish, isn’t it? No. I’m just scared that he only loves me, or thinks he loves me, because of the war. How would it be if, when this is all over, he finds himself married to a silly little Welsh girl he doesn’t really love after all? It’s not clever that I am; I’ve never been to London and I don’t know how to dance and things like that, do I? I come from a farm in the middle of what you might call nowhere. I just keep thinking I’m not good for him, for all of you. Can you understand?”

“Have you quite finished? Bethan Meredith, I have never heard such rot in all my life. I know my son as I know my husband. Let tell you a little secret. I met William when I was a year or two younger than you are now. I knew he liked me but he was never importunate. I saw that he was a sticker, not the sort to give up if things got rough. Oh, they’re not the most charming men you’ll ever meet, the Welford-Barnes, nor the most handsome.

“I had plenty of young men paying me attention and trying to get into my drawers, if you’ll pardon the expression. I took a good long look around and decided that William, with his quiet, steadfast sort of love, was the one for me. But he was too shy to ask, too damned diffident. There, I swore! But it was true. I had to make the running. I trapped him in the summerhouse and practically tore his clothes off. Poor man still doesn’t know what hit him. Yes, I know it was dreadfully forward and nice girls don’t do that but I’m not one bit ashamed and I certainly have never regretted it for an instant.

“You see, my dear, I made sure I got what I wanted and I work hard to make sure that I keep it. I’m not going to share with you the secrets of the marriage bed but I can tell you, if Phillip is anything like his father, there is a great wellspring of passion waiting to be tapped. And don’t believe any of this nonsense about not enjoying that side of married life. Only a complete fool will lie back and think of England – or Wales in your case. No, my dear, married love can be wonderful but it doesn’t just happen, it needs work. But, oh the rewards from that sweet labour!




Like Father Like Son Ch. 04



“I’m sorry if I have embarrassed or offended you but I would like you to think about this: I know my son. I know he loves you with all his being. Remember the way he looks at you? How can you doubt it? And as for not being good enough, stuff and nonsense! I want the best for my family and you, my girl, are that. I couldn’t hope for more. I know William feels the same. And if he doesn’t yet, he will by the time I’m through with him. So there!”

Bethan sat in open-mouthed confusion. She gulped a couple of times and continued to goggle at Beatrice. Had she heard right? She was lost for words. She knew her cheeks must be scarlet. No one had ever spoken like that to her. Some of the other nurses sometimes made smutty remarks about their men-friends; but Beatrice! She stared at the older woman in fascination. Her thoughts raced first one way and then another. It was too much to take in! She stammered out a reply:

“I don’t know what to say. I promise I will think about… what you said. I’m just so confused, I mean, I never thought… I do want to marry Phillip and I do love him but I’m scared, so scared.”

Her voice trailed off and she sat in silent wonder at what had transpired. Not the least of her wonder was directed at herself and her admission. She did want to marry Phillip. Yes, and she did want to do with him all those things that Beatrice had alluded to – had shocked her by talking about so openly. The realisation flooded her and she felt that strange thrill. She wished her mother were still alive and then thought longingly of Sister Hallam. That was it! She would have a good talk with Sister Hallam; she would know what to do. She looked up at Beatrice, who regarded her with a closed expression. Bethan took a deep breath.

“Thank you. I know that cannot have been easy – to talk to me like that, to say those things. I need a little time to thing things over, to get it all straight in my own head, see? But I am so glad you think I’ll make Phillip a good wife. It’s not that I’m saying yes, mind, not today at any rate. It’s sorry I am that I can’t be more definite.” 

William snorted and grunted in his sleep and they both fell silent. Beatrice reached out a hand and patted Bethan’s. They smiled like conspirators. Beatrice turned away and looked out of the window. They were passing through some grubby little town. Rows of scowling terraced houses backed onto the railway on each side, wearing a mantle of soot. Bethan was left with her own thoughts and, more and more, these turned to that mysterious joy of which Beatrice had spoken. Could it really be so pleasant to have a man put his thing in you? Sister Hallam had hinted at something similar. And she didn’t know two women she liked and trusted more than Sister Hallam and Beatrice Welford-Barnes.


Bethan had to travel back to Hampshire after lunch so they all took a taxi to Waterloo station to see her off. As she boarded the Winchester train, she whispered to Phillip, promising that she would give her answer very soon. He reassured her that there was no rush and that he would wait – forever if need be. There were tears in her dark eyes as the train huffed away. Phillip was quiet after Bethan had gone. His father kept up a stream of light-hearted chatter to cover the silence and Beatrice smiled tolerantly. William always found difficulty exhibiting his emotions but she knew that he, too, was feeling something of Phillip’s sadness. She cast her mind back to her conversation with Bethan. Had it really only been that morning? She felt sure that everything would work out for the best. Bethan was young, naïve, that was all. It was silly of her to worry about not being ‘one of the gentry.’ There would be precious few gentry left if this war went on much longer.

They went to the theatre that evening and had a late supper in a little restaurant off Drury Lane. It seemed that every man under the age of fifty was in uniform. William, in his evening dress, stood out among the serried ranks of khaki and navy blue. They had not been in London together as a family since before the war. The city seemed different. There was a frenetic edge to the diners and dancers as if they were all intent on making the most of every moment. Beatrice also noticed that a number of the women were not of the sort that one expected. They were heavily made-up and their evening gowns revealed as much as they concealed; a fact not lost on her husband, who frequently gawped in amazement at some dazzling new arrival. 

Back in their hotel room, they made love. Beatrice sighed with pleasure as William’s familiar hands reached for her breasts.

“I thought you might have preferred some younger flesh, judging by the direction your eyes were taking this evening,” she teased him.

He responded by grabbing her buttocks and pulling her onto him.

“You know there’s only one woman for me, my love.”

She rocked her hips as he entered her and they soared away into that private world of pleasure.

Afterwards, they lay in companionable silence. Beatrice rested her head on William’s shoulder, the fingers of one hand toying gently with his chest hair. This was love, she mused, as much as the flaring passion of youth, perhaps even more. Familiarity had not deadened their appetites for each other, merely honed their appreciation. Certainly, they no longer exhausted each other, as they had in the early years, but quality had replaced quantity. She wished with all her heart that Phillip and Bethan might grow old together and experience the same long, gentle mellowing that she and William had discovered. His soft snores filled the velvet darkness and she smiled fondly. 

All three of them were rudely awakened later that night by the crump of bombs falling on east London. Another Zeppelin raid was in progress. Phillip pulled back the curtains and stared into the night sky. Searchlights fingered the darkness and he could hear the thud of anti-aircraft batteries. Phillip glanced at his watch and saw it was about one o’clock. As he looked back, he saw that a searchlight had picked out a giant, silvery shape. Two other searchlights joined in and anti-aircraft fire began with a vengeance. He thought he saw the tiny shape of an aeroplane, silhouetted against the glowing clouds, but it vanished before he could be sure.

He watched for a while longer. The searchlights lost the intruder and the barrage died away. He was on the point of returning to his bed when a sudden glow illuminated the night sky to the northeast. It was no more than two miles from where he stood watching and this time he was sure he saw an aeroplane turning away from beneath the glow. In what seemed like seconds, the fire had spread and he stared in awe as the giant airship described a fiery parabola across the night sky. He rushed to his parents’ room and hammered on the door and bade them come to look. A million Londoners watched as the first ever raider to be destroyed over London made its final descent.

The following day, the later editions of the morning papers were full of the story. Lieutenant William Leefe-Robinson of 39 Squadron, flying an elderly BE2, had shot down the German LS11. Crowds had flocked to Cuffley in Middlesex where the stricken airship had fallen. Strictly speaking, LS11 wasn’t a Zeppelin but an earlier type, although no one was bothered with such details. One of the hated intruders had been shot down; that was all that mattered to the civilians. 



*********************



Two days later Phillip reported to the RFC Flying School at Brooklands in Surrey. He had been spared the need to attend ground school because of his time as an observer. He now had over 500 hours in his logbook and had that priceless commodity, experience. Most of the other students were younger than Phillip; the majority came straight from school and they were in awe of the ‘veteran’ with the ribbon of the Military Cross on his well-worn uniform.

Basic flying training was carried out in ancient Farman ‘Longhorns.’ These venerable aircraft were slow but stable and, fortunately, immensely strong. The main drawback was that they were highly susceptible to crosswinds and flying was only permitted in near-perfect weather. The result was that almost all the training took place in the early morning before the wind got up, and in the evening, after it had died. This made for long periods of boredom. Phillip’s logbook from this time shows that he made a total of nine flights over a ten-day period. The average duration was something less than twenty minutes. 

There was a sewage treatment farm at the boundary of the airfield and more than one unlucky student ‘landed in the shit.’ After four and a half hours of dual instruction, Phillip was given the go-ahead for his first solo. He had never experienced that peculiar combination of elation and terror that comes when one first takes to the air alone. It was early morning on the 23rd September. As is quite common in England at that time of year, the weather had settled into a clear, calm, dry spell. The only hazard was a propensity for morning mists but these soon burned away once the sun was up. 

The mechanics had pushed the aircraft out onto the flight line and Phillip walked with his instructor over the dewy grass to the waiting machine. Phillip went through the routine of walking around the aircraft to carry out the ‘external check.’ He tested the bracing wires for tension and waggled the ailerons, elevators and rudder to satisfy himself that they moved freely. He did a visual check of the doped canvas wing coverings, looking for any tears or telltale sagging. He pronounced himself happy and climbed into the plywood nacelle. He pushed the handlebar joystick through its full range of movement; calling out to the attendant air mechanic who confirmed each control surface was working. At a nod from his instructor, he took a deep breath. His voice sounded unnaturally thin and high as he went through the engine starting sequence.

“Switches off!”

The mechanic standing by the propeller echoed his words.

“Suck in!”

The mechanic slowly turned the propeller to suck the fuel/air mixture into the French rotary engine’s nine cylinders. 

“Switches on!”

The echo came again. One final deep breath and:

“Contact!”

The mechanic swung the big two-bladed wooden propeller. The engine spluttered, coughed and then blared into life. Phillip opened the throttle slightly, made sure that both magneto switches were firmly in the ‘on’ position and waited for the engine to find a steady note as it warmed to the task ahead. He checked the oil pressure gauge once more – normal – and opened the throttle a little more. He waved to the airman standing near the front of the plane and heard his faint cry of ‘chocks!’ Another airman pulled the wooden chocks from beneath the wheels and the call of ‘Chocks away!’ was lost in the clattering roar of the engine as Phillip gave the engine more fuel. Then he was off, bumping over the damp grass.

He realised his knuckles were white on the joystick and he forced himself to relax his grip. The words of his instructor sounded in his head.

“Give her plenty of throttle. Don’t be in too much of a rush and don’t yank back on the joystick or you’ll stall, sure as eggs. She’ll start to come up when she’s good and ready.” 

The rumbling and bouncing increased as the Farman gathered speed. Phillip glanced at the pitot bubble that gave a crude indication of air speed. It worked by forcing air into a narrow tube that stuck out ahead of the cockpit nacelle. This forced a bubble of liquid up a glass tube that was marked with gradations in 5 miles per hour segments. He was doing about thirty; it shouldn’t be too much longer!


At last the rumbling and bouncing started to ease as the old aeroplane took to its element. Almost before he knew it, the ground was dropping away and he was airborne. He eased back lightly on the joystick and the Farman climbed. A quick glance told him that he was flying one wing low and he over-corrected and cursed himself. He forced himself to calm down and relax. The excitement was making him heavy-handed. After a few minutes, he estimated he had reached about one thousand feet and he made a few slow turns, concentrating on keeping the nose of the Farman steady, and a hand’s span above the horizon. He made a leisurely circuit and then it was time to land. 

Once again the fear welled up. He lined up his approach and began to descend. Too fast! Back on the throttle, the engine now a mere rumble. Ease the stick back. Damn! Too high. Nose down, gently. No! Too short. Open the throttle a bit. There, that’s enough! Over the field, cut the throttle, yes, she’s sinking. Round out, gently, now gently! Shit!!!

The old plane thumped out of the air and onto the grass, dropping the last six feet like the proverbial stone. The resulting juddering crash made Phillip’s teeth rattle and he winced as a second bounce and then a third slammed up at him through the wicker seat. He slowly taxied back to the flight line, muttering dark imprecations against himself as he did so. He cut the engine and climbed out. 

“Sorry about that! Bit of a heavy landing, I hope I didn’t break anything.”

A corporal fitter gave the underside of the plane a quick ‘once over.’ 

“Nah, right as rain, sir. Seen a lot worse than that, has this old kite, and still come back for more.”

The instructor gave Phillip a reassuring pat on the back.

“Well, you got it up and you got it down in one piece. Well done. Chapman and Wishart are waiting. If the weather holds, you can have another go after they’ve done. And next time, see if you can’t execute a turn better than a ruptured duck, there’s a good fellow.” 

But Phillip didn’t get to fly again that day. Wishart’s engine cut soon after take-off. He made the fatal error of trying to turn back. Even the old Farmans were not that forgiving. Wishart stalled in from 150 feet. He was crushed to death when the engine broke free of its mountings. He was the third fatality out of eighteen students on the course. Two more were to die before Phillip took his ‘ticket’ – the basic pilot’s licence – and two instructors. Small wonder the instructors referred to the students as ‘Huns;’ so many of them perished at the hands of their charges. 

Phillip left Brooklands at the end of October and was sent to the advanced flying training squadron at Gosport, on the South Coast. He was granted a three-day breathing space between courses and took the train to Winchester, post haste. He booked into the ‘Bull’ and walked up the lane to Bentley Hall. It was early afternoon when he presented himself at the door and enquired for Sister Hallam. A nurse he didn’t know soon fetched her.

“Mr Welford-Barnes, what brings you here, as if I didn’t know?”

“Ah, Sister Hallam. I was wondering if you might spare Nurse Meredith this evening. I promise I’ll make sure she’s back by ten.”

“Hmm. Well, I can see no reason why not. I understand you have proposed marriage to the young lady in question.”

“Yes, Sister, I have. But I still her await her reply.”

“I see. And you are sincere in this matter?”

“Of course! And my family approves of the match.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And so they should. Young Miss Meredith is a good’un, young man, and you should consider yourself most fortunate.”


“Indeed I will, if she consents.”

“That is a matter entirely for Miss Meredith but, for what it is worth, I would rest easy, if I were you. She may be too sensible to be rushed but neither is she so sensible that her head completely rules her heart. I cannot speak for when you may get your answer, Mr Welford-Barnes, but rest assured, I do know that she loves you. Now, do you wish to speak to the young lady or have you more to say?”

“I would very much like to speak with Bethan, please; if it is not inconvenient, that is.”

“I suspect my convenience will make precious little difference to either of you. And Mr Welford-Barnes?”

“Yes, Sister?”

“There will be no need to hurry back on this occasion. You may return Nurse Meredith at a time of her choosing.”

“Thank you very much, Sister, you’re an absolute brick!”

Sister Hallam snorted at Phillip’s last sally and went to fetch Bethan. Phillip was almost hopping with excitement as he waited. She caught sight of him in the hall and her face lit up. She had not been expecting Phillip and Sister Hallam had merely informed her that her presence was required in the main hall. She ran towards him and he seized both her hands in his and looked into those huge brown eyes. He thought he could tumble into their soft depths and be lost forever. 

“Phillip! Oh, there’s shocked I am, what are you doing here?” 

Her eyes went to the new pilot’s wings on the front of his jacket. A cold shiver passed through her and she looked back up at his face. He looked fit and rested. The pallor evident when she had last seen him was gone. He looked younger and his eyes were shining with wonder as he returned her gaze. 

“D’you know, I think I’d quite forgotten how utterly lovely you are, Bethan. Oh, it’s so good to see you! I’ve honestly thought about nothing else these past two months.” 

He told her of his conversation with Sister Hallam and was surprised to see her blush a little. She looked so beautiful that it made his heart lurch and pound and his head swim. Bethan couldn’t stay for more than a minute or two but they agreed to meet again at seven o’clock. They parted with a quick kiss that seemed, to Phillip, to hold the promise of greater things and he walked back along the tree-lined drive to the ‘Bull.’ The beech trees had turned from green to gold and there was a chilly snap to the afternoon that spoke of impending winter. 

There was fire in the parlour at the ‘Bull’ and Phillip ordered tea and muffins as he settled into an armchair with a back-copy of the ‘Illustrated News.” Two stories in particular caught his attention. One, a very short piece, reported with regret the death of Major Lanoe Hawker, VC. Hawker had been killed by a German pilot named Richtofen or somesuch. It appeared that the pair had fought for over an hour. Hawker’s machine was already damaged prior to the combat and its engine had periodically cut out. This Richtofen was making something of a name for himself although the story hinted that he seemed to specialise in finishing off aircraft that others had previously damaged. This struck a chord with Phillip who vaguely remembered hearing something of this sort back in August. Still, it was sad that Lanoe Hawker had gone. Phillip could picture the genial commander of 24 Squadron, head back and roaring with laughter as the side of the mess hut collapsed, spilling Phillip and a dozen other officers into the mud. It seemed such a long time ago. 

The second story concerned the first introduction of the ‘secret weapon’ described to him by Brian Redbourne. It was not necessary to read between the lines to see that another opportunity had gone begging. There was a stirring account of the successful attack on Flers on 15th September, where the tanks had shocked many German troops into surrender. Elsewhere, however, things had been muddled and chaotic, as usual. He was pleased to see his old regiment was reported as having assisted in the capture of Flers ‘with minimal casualties.’ He hoped this last statement was true. The fighting on the Somme was continuing but everyone was now resigned to the fact that there would be no breakthrough and no end to the war in 1916.


Phillip and Bethan dined by the light of candles. In other circumstances, this might have been for romantic effect but in the autumn of 1916, it sprang from necessity. The depredations of the German unrestricted U-Boat campaign were making themselves felt. Fuel oil was at a premium so many places had reverted to the use of old-fashioned tallow candles. These gave off a smoky sort of light and a slightly rancid smell, but one soon became used to it. It was just another facet of the war. Phillip had noticed a marked change in sentiment at home. The Newspapers stopped publishing casualty lists – there were simply too many. The enthusiasm of the early years had given way to something else: a grim determination to ‘see it through.’ 




Like Father Like Son Ch. 05



December 1916 The Real Thing

It was bitterly cold. Condensation droplets flew from the fuselage of the Avro 504 like icy needles, striking Phillip in the face, so he pulled his scarf a little higher. He opened the throttle and the plane began to rumble forward over the wet grass. The instructor’s voice sounded faint and tinny through the ‘Gosport tube’, a recent innovation that allowed conversation between the two cockpits. He gave the Avro a little more throttle and the speed increased. The 504 had originally entered service as a bomber but was now the preferred training aircraft of the RFC. 

Phillip felt the tail lift and the rumbling eased as the machine took gently to its natural element. They climbed slowly, flying over the Victorian brick edifice of Fort Rowner and turning gently out over the sea. Looking down to his left, Phillip could make out the lean shapes of a destroyer flotilla at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. The Grand Fleet was still away to the north at Scapa Flow: waiting against the day the Kaiser’s battleships braved the North Sea once more. The instructor’s voice came once more and Phillip altered course to take them out over the Solent. This was real flying, he thought. 

He had learned how the rudder gradually took on the work of the ailerons and vice versa as one steepened the turn. He had learnt to spin and recover, to execute ‘Immelmans’ and stall turns, to loop and then to roll off the top of a loop. He was confident now; his pilot’s logbook showed over forty hours, ten of them solo. Today he had to make a cross-country flight, navigating his way around a triangular course from Gosport to Portland, Portland to Oxford and then back to Gosport. If he completed the flight successfully and to his instructor’s satisfaction, he would only need to repeat it solo and he would be ‘passed out.’ Then it was a matter of joining a new squadron. 

He levelled off at 5,000 feet, checked his heading and glanced at the clouds to estimate his drift. The airspeed indicator, one of the new ‘clock’ models, told him they were doing 80 miles per hour. He pulled a folded map from the holder by his side and spread it on his knee. He picked up his first waypoint and reported the relative bearing to the instructor. He checked his watch and settled back, wiping a smear of oil from his goggles and stamping his feet against the cold. The sky was clear and bright and Phillip thought that he could see forever. 

The first hint of trouble came when he heard the engine miss a beat. He checked the oil pressure; it looked normal. He tapped the gauge with a gloved finger and the needle dropped alarmingly. The engine spluttered and then resumed its steady beat. He throttled back slightly, picked up the mouthpiece of the Gosport tube and spoke urgently into it.

“Oil pressure is way down and still falling. I think we have a major oil leak.”

“What do you propose?”

“Head for the land and look for somewhere to put her down before she seizes.”

“Good plan. Let me know if you want me to take her. You have control.”

“I have control.”

He could smell the stink of burning oil now and the pressure gauge was showing only 5 psi. The Le Clerget engines were robust but would not run for long without lubricant. He forced himself to stay calm and to concentrate. There was a small landing strip near Bournemouth. He checked the map, made a quick calculation and eased the throttle back another notch. The airspeed indicator dropped to 65. He eased one more notch, letting the engine revs drop back, nursing the sick motor. The burnt oil smell was more pronounced now and he thought he heard a different, harsher note to the engine. He pushed the nose down and throttled back, allowing the Avro to sink towards the coast. He was sure he could hear a sort of grinding noise ahead of him. His pulse was pounding in his ears and his bowels had turned to water. 


Then they were over the coast. He picked up the finger of Hurst Castle spit to his right and he levelled out at a thousand feet. He grimaced as he opened the throttle, but the Le Clerget picked up its beat. There could be no mistake now. The engine was definitely running rough. He made a long gentle turn to the west and searched ahead for the field at Hern. There it was! His relief was almost palpable. He spoke urgently into the Gosport tube and the instructor fired a red flare to alert the airfield. There was no time for a circuit. The motor was spluttering and Phillip knew it was moments away from giving up the ghost entirely. There was mighty bang from in front of him and he pushed the cut out button. It broke under his thrusting finger. He felt a momentary sense of panic then remembered the fuel tap. He turned off the supply from the tank and the engine died in a fit of coughs and protesting grinding noises. 

He knew he had one chance of getting it right. He pushed the stick forward, letting the speed build. The wheels brushed the treetops at the edge of the field and he eased back on the stick, willing the nose to come up. He held the Avro up as long as he could. Gradually she lost flying speed and settled gently onto the grass. The tail dropped suddenly and, for a moment, Phillip thought they were about to ground loop but the machine steadied and they ran slowly to a halt. There was a strong smell of hot metal and burnt oil that added to Phillip’s feeling of nausea as he climbed out of the front cockpit. The instructor had already dismounted and was standing at the side of the machine, a shaky grin sketched across his oil-streaked features.

“Not much to say, save ‘well done,’ old fruit.”

Phillip gave him a tight smile. He swallowed bile, coughed briefly, and turned his attention to the air mechanics, who were hurrying up to drag the stricken Avro off the landing area. 

“Lost oil pressure. I think we might have thrown a con rod.”

The NCO in charge nodded gravely.

“Not much we can do here, sir. It will probably need an engine change. Once they go, well, they really bloody well go, if you take my meaning, sir.” 

Phillip and his instructor found their way to the Flight office. A bored looking RFC Captain was sitting behind a desk, resting his feet on the scattered papers that covered its surface. He leaned further back in his chair as they came into the office and arched an eyebrow.

“Spot of trouble, chaps?”

“Bloody engine’s ‘napoo.’ D’you have a telephone?”

“Help yourself, old son.”

The instructor waited for his call to be connected to Gosport while Phillip looked idly around the hut. A blackboard gave the names of pilots and aircraft scheduled to fly that day. There were a number of unfamiliar types listed. He turned back to the bored Captain, who was half-heartedly shuffling a thick sheaf of notes.

“What do you do here?”

“Number Three Aircraft Evaluation Flight, at your service. We get to try out, and usually break, any old rubbish that some crackpot thinks is the answer to every good pilot’s prayers.”

“How does that work?”

“Oh, some ‘genius’ will come up with a new design for a Scout. They build a prototype or two and send it down here for us to play with. Most of them fly like bricks. If we do get a good ‘un, which isn’t often, the chances are it will never be taken up because the Royal Aircraft Factory has something worse.”

“Don’t you mean better?”


“No, old son, definitely worse. We had a lovely little Avro down here earlier this year, fast two-seater. Knocked the BE’s and FE’s into a cocked hat. Their Lordships up at Farnborough didn’t like that, I can tell you. We were all waxing lyrical about it but no go, I’m afraid. They stuck to the flying coffins instead. If we ever think that we’ve got a winner, they always come up with some excuse – can’t get the engines or the undercart isn’t strong enough, some sort of rubbish – it’s enough to make you spit at times.”

“Gosh. I would have thought that we would welcome anything that was better than what we have.”

“Well, one would think so, but it doesn’t seem to work like that. Too many vested interests higher up the totem pole, old son. Still, it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s a new machine that really looks like it might be rather good. I had a spin in one myself the other day and I was really impressed, which doesn’t happen often, I can tell you.”

“Oh? Which one’s that?”

“The Bristol F2. Two-seater but handles like a Scout. Could take a bigger engine but she flies like an angel even if you need muscles like a circus strongman to get the best out of her.”

“And do you think it will ever be built?”

“Absolutely. We’ve finished with her now and there’s an order been placed already. I think I heard they’re going to form a new squadron of them. Take a tip from me, old boy and wangle yourself a posting. Knocks spots off anything else we’ve got at the moment.”

The instructor returned with the news that a new engine was being sent over from Gosport with a mechanics’ crew to install it into the Avro. 

“Won’t be here until late afternoon so looks like we’re stuck here for the duration, I’m afraid.” 

On the advice of the captain, they made their way over to the Officers’ Mess and took an early lunch. They sat around in the anteroom afterwards and read the latest magazines and killed time with desultory conversation. It was almost dark by the time the crew from Gosport arrived and it was too late to do anything that day. They spent the night in the Officers Mess and Phillip heard again from the evaluation pilots just how good they believed the new Bristol F2 to be. Opinion was sharply divided as to whether it really was a two-seater fighter or a fast and well-armed reconnaissance machine. The majority were of the view that it could be flown like a fighter, whatever its eventual role in the war.

The next morning, Phillip and the instructor made their way to the flight line where the mechanics were putting the finishing touches to the newly repaired Avro. The crew were under the eye of a lugubrious sergeant who informed them that they were extremely lucky that the ‘whole bloody issue’ hadn’t exploded. 

“Don’t know how it managed to keep going so long, gentlemen. Two cylinders are completely shot and at least four of the pistons are scrap.”

They did their external checks and started the engine, running it up under the watchful eye of the crew. When all pronounced themselves satisfied, Phillip taxied the Avro out onto the grass strip and took off once more. They flew straight back to Gosport and landed, handing over the aircraft to the mechanics, who would now go over the new engine with a fine-toothed comb before the machine was returned to full service. Phillip had barely enough time to snatch a cup of tea before he was sent in a different aircraft to complete a solo flight to Bicester, returning the following day. A little while after he landed, the CO of the training squadron sent for him.

“Well, good news, my lad. You have been found ready, willing and able to join the ranks of the fully-fledged. Normally, it would be the depot at St Omer for you but something has come up. I think you expressed a preference for two-seaters?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Then you’re in luck. A new training squadron is being formed at Rendcombe in the New Year, Bristol F2s. I’ve never heard of ‘em, I might add, but they’ve asked us for our four best students. Harry told me how you handled that engine failure. Well done, by the way, so you get to be among God’s chosen. Suit you?”


“Yes, sir, very much. I talked to the evaluation chaps at Hern. They thought the new Bristol rather good.”

“So Harry said. Well if you’re happy, I am.”

“Thank you, sir. Who else will be going, if I may ask?”

“Wilkins, Horrocks-Brown and Cavanaugh. All right?”

“Topping, sir, thank you.”

“Good. I suggest you stick around here until Christmas and get as many hours in as you can. It’s an opportunity not granted to many. Now cut along and tell Harry to fix you up with some slots. Tell him I said you are to try the ‘Pup’ as well as anything else he can think of.”

“Thank you again, sir.”

Phillip spent the next few days cramming in as much flying as he possibly could. He was amazed at the difference between the training machines and the Sopwith ‘Pup.’ The Pup was a truly delightful aeroplane to fly. It was fast, responsive and would turn on a sixpence. Once or twice he played ‘follow the leader’ with an instructor, zooming in and out of the piled cloud formations; hurling down to skim the wave tops and soaring back to where the air was so thin and cold that every breath came as a painful, rasping gasp. He was exhilarated, overcome with the joy of flight in the cold vastness of the grey, winter skies. 

Flying the ‘Pup’ was a wholly different experience from the ponderous two-seaters. Phillip could easily understand why most pilots wanted to fly Scouts. It was as if the aeroplane had its own sense of freedom; it seduced you, sucked you in with its nimble agility. For the first time ever, he felt part of the machine, as if throttle and joystick were part of one organic whole with him, the pilot. It was, he told a colleague, as if you didn’t fly the ‘Pup’ at all; it was a co-operative thing. The aircraft seemed to demand that you flew it in a certain way; would somehow let you know what it wanted. It would sing to you, the bass of the engine as counterpoint to the grace notes of wind through wires. He had never felt so vibrantly alive.

Christmas almost seemed to come too soon. But there was a wedding in the offing and thoughts of Bethan filled his waking hours while images of her peopled his every dream.

***************************

January 1917 A Married Man

Christmas, in that year of 1916, was a muted, sober affair. The long agony of the British Army on the Somme had finally come to an end in November, leaving nearly half a million casualties. There did not seem to be a street in the land that had not experienced the cold hand of death. Black wreaths were more numerous than the traditional holly on the doors in cities, towns and villages. The nation seemed to have turned in on itself and there were few who felt like celebrating. 

Some good news did reach Pitton House. Pinky Harris had been posted back to England to form a new Bomber Squadron and had asked Peter to accompany him and be his senior Observer. This meant that both would be able to attend the wedding. Phillip had also invited Brian Redbourne but had received a warm letter expressing regret. The battalion was being sent to Palestine to assist in operations against the Turks. Redbourne had been his usual cheerful self and expressed his satisfaction that he, too, had at last found a way out of the mud but, as he put it, ‘without the daily risk of breaking my neck.’ 

Bethan had returned to her father’s farm for Christmas and she and Phillip spent the holidays writing long letters to each other, once, and sometimes twice, each day. It was agreed that the wedding should take place in Dorset and the banns of marriage were read for three consecutive Sundays in the little parish church. Beatrice was in her element, organising everything and everybody. If she had been allowed to have her way, the guest list would have run into hundreds. Phillip stood firm, however, and Beatrice had to settle for a much more modest gathering. She consoled herself with the thought there would be Christenings and birthday parties to arrange in due course. 


The weather smiled on them, the service went without a hitch and enough good wine flowed at the reception to keep even the Flying Corps contingent happy. Peter made an amusing speech, as befits the Best Man, and Bethan’s father entertained the company by delivering his oration, first in Welsh and then with the English translation. Pinky Harris rose to make a toast and gave a comical, if somewhat profane, account of Phillip’s RFC career. Bethan looked as radiant as any bride should and Phillip, as nervous as if it were his first solo flight all over again, had somehow managed to stumble through the responses. Sister Hallam drank too much sherry and became very giggly and was much taken with Pinky Harris. Pinky remained just sober enough to escape her clutches and set off on his own pursuit of one of Bethan’s nursing colleagues. All in all, it was accounted a great success. 

Phillip and Bethan were seen off in style and Peter drove them to the railway station in Dorchester to catch the London train. With only four days available for a honeymoon, London had seemed liked the best alternative and Phillip had booked them into the Savoy. Alone together at last, they were shy in each other’s company. The excitement of the day had taken its toll and they sat in the first class compartment, holding hands and smiling at each other, like children with a guilty secret. They said little but their eyes spoke volumes. Bethan, who had been all gaiety during the reception, was now quiet and a little subdued. Phillip, for whom the day had passed in a whirl, could only gaze into her eyes and wonder at his good fortune. His brain seemed to have stopped working entirely and attempts at conversation foundered after a sentence or two. It was a relief to both when the train pulled into Waterloo. 

Bethan watched over Phillip’s shoulder as he completed the guest register in the name of Lieutenant & Mrs Welford-Barnes.

“Oh, it does look funny, seeing it in writing, Phillip. I really am your wife now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, my love. You most certainly are!”

They were shown to their room overlooking the river and Bethan was delighted with the grandeur of it all.

“I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before. It’s absolutely lovely.”

“The loveliest thing in this city is you, Bethan.”

She looked at him, half afraid that he was mocking her. His face wore a wistful expression and he smiled gently and gave a self-deprecatory shrug:

“That’s what I think, anyway.”

Before she could think of a reply he crossed the space between them and enfolded her in his arms. He could smell the scent of her, a light, delicate perfume that evoked a deep feeling of warmth within him. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him close, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real and not some fleeting dream. He gently removed her hat and unpinned her luxuriant dark hair. A momentary feeling of panic flashed through her. She suppressed it ruthlessly, mocking herself for her fears. They were man and wife and would do what married people did; it was as simple as that.

Phillip felt her tense slightly and then relax. He correctly guessed the reason and lifted her face to his, cupping her chin softly with one hand and lightly stroking her hair with the other. He looked into her eyes and leant down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids and the tip of her nose. She looked up at him, wondering at the gentleness she saw reflected in his steady gaze. She also thought she could see a hint of nervousness that matched her own, but there was something else that made her melt inwardly. He loved her; of that there could be no doubt. Just as there could be no question that she loved him. So what was to come would be born of that love; a natural culmination, a fulfilment of everything they felt for each other. A spark of courage ignited in side her. Yes, the fear was still there, but now it had a delicious edge to it, a thrill. Emboldened, she reached up and pulled his head down, fastening her lips upon his, and kissed him passionately. Unconsciously, she ground herself against him, moulding herself to the contours of his body so that they touched from head to knee, yet still she wanted to get closer.  
Phillip’s heart soared as he felt her move against him. His arms went round her once more and he held her tightly, burying his face in the riot of her hair and mumbling his love in a barely coherent stream of half-finished phrases. Bethan had the sense of being wrapped in a warm glow; it enveloped her, soothed her and somehow engendered a heightened awareness, as if she had never known truly who she was before that moment. Then. With a rush of clarity, she knew what she wanted. It had to be now, that very instant; she did not want it hanging between them all the evening. She eased back a little and unbuttoned his jacket. Part of her was aghast at her boldness but another part burned with pride that her fingers did not tremble. Phillip caught the shift in her and fumbled to assist, his head spinning, intoxicated by her perfume.




Like Father Like Son Ch. 05



He led her towards the bed, yanking back the covers with one hand, eyes never leaving her face. She was flushed and her nostrils flared and Phillip saw the faint thrill of a pulse fluttering at her neck. Her pupils were enormous, fathomless dark pools that drew him and sapped every ounce of strength from his body. She watched him remove his shirt. She was struck by the contrast between the weathered tan of his face and arms and the milky whiteness of the rest. Somehow this made him look more vulnerable, less aggressively male, and she was glad of it. She knelt to pull off one gleaming boot and sat down with a surprised bump as it came off with a rush after the initial resistance. Her laugh was a merry sound, like summer birdsong in his ears. She took off the remaining boot more carefully, balancing on her haunches and looking up at him with shining eyes. Something in that look released the desire in him and he felt himself becoming erect.

Bethan stepped back, suddenly flustered. Phillip stood and peeled away the tight breeches, tugging down his underwear as he did so. His erect penis sprang free, jutting from the bush of hair, darker against the white of his belly. She could not restrain the involuntary gasp. It looked huge! But, somehow, it no longer threatened her. She fixed her eyes on his and summoned every ounce of her determination. She was scarcely aware of what she was doing as she struggled with the hooks and buttons that held her clothes in place. She shrugged out of her dress and it was Phillip’s turn to be enthralled as he saw the slight swaying motion of her full breasts as she rolled her shoulders. 

Still holding his gaze, she stooped and unrolled the silk stockings that encased her legs. A sudden feeling of shyness overwhelmed her and she turned her back at the last to remover her camisole, blushing scarlet to the roots of her hair. Hesitantly, she turned back, arms crossed over her now naked breasts. He saw a hint of dark shadow at the junction of her thighs beneath the white silk knickers edged with embroidered pale blue flowers. She took a deep breath and let her arms fall her side, looking anxiously at him for any signs of disappointment. Phillip was lost in rapturous wonder. He had never seen anything that moved him so. He worshipped her silently with his eyes. Her breasts were firm and creamy-white, each tipped with a small, brown coronet. With a final flourish of something close to defiance, she stepped out of the last remaining guardian of her modesty and stood physically, and emotionally, naked before him. 

He reached for her with outstretched arms and she flew to him. Something like a moan escaped him as he drew her down to lie beside him. She clung to him, almost cowering against the pale hardness of his body; one leg flung across his two, breasts pressed against his chest. He raised her face and kissed her with all the love that he could summon from the depths of his soul. He could feel her trembling and the warmth of her rapid breathing on his neck. Every sense seemed heightened, almost to the point of agony. He allowed the sensation of her skin against his to flood through him. Each contact was imbued with a rich sweetness of its own, as if the very essence of life was concentrated where they touched. 

Very gently, and with infinite tenderness, he rolled her onto her back. His kisses wandered where his eyes had rested; gentle, sucking kisses that sent jolting sensations through her. Panic returned and she wanted to rise up, to run away, but the insistent lips trailed cold fire across her skin, giving birth to newer, less familiar feelings. Her brain raced while her body acquiesced, moving languorously under his touch. Her mind screamed ‘No’ and ‘Yes’ with equal measure. He was kissing her nipples now, and bright flames danced across her, pulsing down her spine and settling in her groin. 

Then she felt his fingers, insistent, searching, and he touched her core. She jumped, startled and ablaze. His mouth was on the soft roundness of her belly and he breathed the scent of her arousal, salt and tangy. Then his tongue was in her and she stiffened in shock. He backed away slightly to plant a row of kisses on her thighs and she started to breathe again. Her mind seemed to have floated free and she thought could see them lying entwined, as if looking from a distance, far above the bed. Something snapped inside her head and conscious thought fled as his tongue slipped into her once more. Her fingers curled into his hair, unsure of whether to pull him away or urge him further in. A long, low sound rose out of her; a primordial sound, ancient as time. She stood at the edge of the void, blood pounding in her ears, breath coming in harsh panting gasps.  
Then she was over the edge, swirling away, a mote in the cosmos. She was not aware of the arching of her back or the rolling undulation of her hips. She did not hear his cry of joy; could not feel the hands grasping her buttocks, lifting her up as he pressed her to his eager mouth. She rode the lightning, feeling only the pulsating ecstasy keeping perfect time with the beating of her heart. 

She became aware of his weight, moving above and over her and the slow glide of his body as he his lips traced a return journey of kisses. Each press of his lips sent tingles through the sensitised nerve fibres. When she finally opened her eyes she could see his face was alight with love. She was floating now. Little aftershocks of pleasure still made her gasp. She sensed heat and pressure at the junction of her thighs and her eyes went wide as she felt the first presence of that loving intrusion. She bit her lip, tensing in anticipation of the pain to come and he hesitated, torn between need and concern for her. Her hands went to the hard muscle of his buttocks and she lent him encouragement. He slipped a little further into her. She felt a delicious fullness punctuated by a stab of pain, sharp as grief, and then he was moving within her.

She was filled with love for him. It transcended the discomfort. His movements were gentle, controlled. The pain receded slightly but she still felt raw. The last mists of her own pleasure dissipated. He thrust faster, his breathing quickened and his muscles rippled under her fingers. Instinctively, she urged him on, ignoring the scratchy irritation, lost in her desire to please, to give herself to him utterly. His whole body went rigid and he gave a sharp cry that was a mixture of wonder and release and a deep sense of contentment surged through her as she looked at his contorted face. He collapsed upon her with a shuddering sigh and she held him, crooning softly, rocking her body against his. They lay joined together for a while, until his wilting penis slipped from the slick embrace and he rolled onto his back. 

“ I love you, Bethan.”

“And I love you.”

“Was it all right for you? Did it hurt so very much?”

“No so much. And it was wonderful. I’d never dreamed it could be – you know, so beautiful.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. I love you, Phillip. I want to be a wife to you. It felt so, I don’t know, so right to have you there inside me. That’s part of being in love, isn’t it?”

“It felt so right to be in you, to feel you all around me like that, it was the most amazing feeling ever; like coming home for the very first time in my life.”

She smiled at his words and the strong feeling of pride they awoke in her. Now she really was his wife, his woman. And he was her man.

********************

February and March 1916 The Fighter Pilot

The four days flashed past. All of the plans for sightseeing and visits to the theatre vanished as there was little else they wanted to do but simply be with each other. They made love several times each day; on waking, in the afternoons and then again at night. Bethan endured the residual soreness but it prevented her from reaching true fulfilment when Phillip was inside her. He pleasured her in other ways and secretly blessed again his chance encounter with Anne-Marie. Without her gentle teaching, he admitted to himself, it would have been hopeless. Bethan grew in confidence as a lover. She opened up to him, blossoming and unfolding. On the couple of occasions that she was too sore to take him inside, she used her hands, experimenting with different caresses, playing with him as if he was a musical instrument. He lay quiescent under her touch, glorying in the beautiful creature who loved him and made love to him with such thrilling, tender intensity.


Then it was time for them to part once more. Bethan returned to Bentley Hall and Phillip made his way to Gloucestershire to join the training squadron. Rendcombe was a hive of activity. A new fighter Squadron was being formed with SE5s and a bomber squadron, just re-equipped with DH4s, was preparing to leave for France. The first four Bristol F2s had been delivered and another four were awaited eagerly. Bad weather prevented much flying but on the couple of occasions Phillip did get airborne, he was delighted with the Bristol’s performance. It was a big aeroplane, almost exactly the same size as the DH4 bombers with a wingspan of nearly forty feet. The engine was a Rolls Royce Falcon, which produced 190 horsepower, making it the most powerful machine Phillip had encountered to date. It was also the heaviest aeroplane to fly. He soon appreciated the evaluation pilot’s comments about circus strongmen. The ‘Biff,’ as the new plane was soon christened, was a handful. Phillip couldn’t help contrasting it with the lightness of the Sopwith ‘Pup.’ Still, he thought, it was strong, fast and responsive and one did get used to the heavy controls after a little while. 

The camp was buzzing with rumours of a new offensive in the spring. The more experienced aircrew greeted this news with barely concealed cynicism. Another offensive meant another period of intense air activity, as the RFC would be tasked with keeping the German reconnaissance machines away while carrying out their own photographic and artillery-spotting duties. It was obviously not going to be the best of times to return to the front. Hours were spent discussing how the new Bristol should operate in a fight. It was armed with a fixed, forward-firing Vickers machine gun and either a single or double Lewis for the observer. The body of opinion appeared to be that it was a fast two seater and should fight as such.

The favoured tactic was the so-called ‘Lufberry Circle.’ The two-seaters would circle almost nose to tail, relying on the combined firepower of the Lewis guns to keep the enemy at bay. Phillip found this thinking slightly puzzling. The Vickers machine guns would be of no use in such a formation and it was the Vickers guns, which had the greater rate of fire and carried the most ammunition. He was prepared to accept that he had no experience of flying a Scout in combat and that all his experience as an observer had been in relatively ponderous aircraft. It appeared to Phillip that too many of the pilots were ignoring the agility of the Bristol, accepting it as a merely another two-seater, albeit faster than most. He mentioned the comments of the Evaluation Flight pilots at Hern but his intervention was given an airy dismissal. 

At the beginning of February, Phillip received formal notification of his posting to 48 Squadron. The squadron was to be re-equipped with the new fighters as soon as production of the Rolls Royce engines caught up. Phillip was delighted to find that his Flight Commander was to be none other than William Leefe-Robinson, the pilot whose victory over the German Airship Phillip had witnessed the previous year. If Phillip expected greater tactical awareness, he was to be disappointed. Leefe-Robinson also subscribed to the ‘Lufberry Circle’ tactics and was firmly of the opinion that the Bristol was too big to be ‘chucked about like a Pup.’ 

The weather in February was uncharacteristically settled and 48 Squadron were able to fly almost every day. The squadron practised formation flying until Phillip was seeing Bristol Fighters in his sleep. The Bristol proved to be a very easy aircraft to fly, beautifully balanced and stable. There was a general belief that it was too big to be structurally strong and there were strict orders about avoiding violent manoeuvres. Phillip found this very much at odds with what he had heard from the evaluation pilots but his natural diffidence ensured that he kept his thoughts to himself. 

The pilots often flew together, one flying the plane and the other acting as the observer. This soon gave rise to a kind of daredevil game. The ‘observer’ would climb out of his cockpit, edge forward until he could reach in the pilot’s cockpit and take the joystick. The pilot would then climb out the other side and edge backwards to take the place of the observer, leaving this latter to climb into the front seat and take over as pilot. It became something of a competition to see how many times two aviators could swap places during the course of a single flight. The game would probably have gone indefinitely had not Wilkins and Cavanaugh overdone it. They quite simply forgot which one of them had originally been the designated pilot. They took off with Cavanaugh flying but landed with Wilkins in the front seat. The eagle-eyed Leefe-Robinson spotted this instantly and then there was some explaining some to do! Squadron Standing Orders were amended to ban the dangerous practice with any further occurrences punishable by dismissal from the squadron. 

Phillip was finding it difficult to fit in. Even though he was only twenty-two, he felt like an old man beside the youngsters in the squadron. Also, he was still only a lieutenant, despite having been in the war from the start. This was due to his transfer from the infantry – had he stayed with his regiment he would almost certainly be commanding a company by then – and the fact that he had been an observer, rather than a pilot. With 14 Squadron, there had been a greater sense of teamwork. 48 Squadron seemed to have more than its fair share of powerful egos. The senior members were very experienced pilots and often, like Leefe-Robinson, highly decorated. It did bother Phillip that few appeared to have any experience of conditions in France. Leefe-Robinson had spent the past year in a home defence squadron and, for all his obvious gallantry, he appeared to Phillip to be out of touch with current conditions at the front. 



Phillip’s greatest frustration stemmed from being viewed as ultra cautious. In his own mind, he felt that he was the only one who was prepared to take a chance on the Bristol’s true potential. One day he was slated to fly with Leefe-Robinson acting as observer and he resolved to bring matters to a head. He climbed to 12,000 feet and cut the throttle, pulled back on the stick to bring the plane to the point of stalling, and then deliberately crossed the controls to initiate a spin. The Bristol snapped into a vicious spin almost instantly but recovered equally quickly once Phillip centred the controls and applied the power. 

For ten exhilarating minutes, Phillip threw the machine into every aerobatic manoeuvre he could think of, looping, rolling and spinning. He was concentrating so hard he was unaware of the storm of protest coming from Leefe-Robinson in the rear seat. When the angry voice finally did make itself heard, Phillip was ordered to land forthwith.

Leefe-Robinson clambered down, white faced with fury.

“What the Hell do you think you’re doing? Are you a secret Hun, trying to kill us all?”

“I was just trying…”

“I know what you were ‘just trying,’ Welford-Barnes, you were trying to make me look a fool, weren’t you?”

Anger rose hot inside him and Phillip took a step towards his Flight Commander.

“It seems to me that you can manage that without any assistance from me. I was merely trying to demonstrate what this machine is really able to do. I was hoping to convince you that it is perfectly strong enough to be flown like that. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with it at all.”

“Oh, don’t you, now? And precisely when did you become an expert on aircraft design? Or are you an engineer, perhaps? No? Didn’t think so. Now listen here and listen good. Until someone sees fit to give you command of a Flight, you will obey orders. You will fly in the manner prescribed by your superiors. If there is any repetition of this morning’s antics, I’ll have you posted out so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. I regret to say, however, that does not prevent you from being wrong. I only hope we all live long enough for you to find out. Good day to you!”

Leefe-Robinson stared after Phillip’s retreating back. Had this reaction come from another pilot, he might have dismissed it out of hand. Phillip had always struck him as a serious type; keen enough but no madcap. Now, as his anger began to cool, he started to think about what Phillip had done with the Bristol. Perhaps it was stronger than they all thought, perhaps Welford-Barnes was right? But how could he be? Two-seaters could simply not be flung around like Scouts, particularly two-seaters that big. Maybe he should have a word with someone at the Evaluation Flight. Yes, that was it. The next opportunity he got, he would do just that. Funny it should be Welford-Barnes, though; he was normally as quiet as a mouse. 

On the positive side, Phillip was able to get away and spend a couple of weekends with Bethan and they renewed their joy of each other whenever the chance arose. His happiness seemed complete when he was granted a three-day leave prior to the squadron’s departure for France. Once again, Sister Hallam came up trumps and Bethan travelled to London to meet him for the whole of the leave. 

She was waiting in the hastily arranged hotel room when he arrived, a picture of radiance and happiness. 

“Oh Phillip, it’s so wonderful to see you!”

He silenced her with the first of many kisses. She struggled and pushed him away laughing.

“Plenty of time for that later. I’ve got the most exciting news. No, Phillip, I mean it; listen to me, now. I’m going to have a baby!”

Surprise, wonder and concern chased each other across his features as he stared at her. 

“Oh, Bethan, is it true? Are you sure? Are you feeling all right? Oh, I say, how absolutely splendid. Uh, when? I mean when did we? Oh, you know what I mean.”



“On our honeymoon, of course. I bet it was the very first time, wasn’t it? Are you pleased?”

“Of course! It couldn’t be more topping! But how about you? D’you feel well, er, not getting sick or anything?”

“I feel absolutely wonderful, darling. Never better. Oh, I get a little queasy in the morning but I don’t think I’ve felt so alive before. I love it!”

They went out to celebrate that evening and returned, clinging to each other, at about midnight. Phillip was feeling the effects of the champagne he had ordered. Bethan had scarcely touched her single glass and it had fallen to him to do the vintage justice. He climbed into bed and waited for her. His head was spinning slightly but the euphoria of the evening had not deserted him. He counted himself the luckiest man alive. He was somewhat shocked when Bethan slipped naked in beside him.

“Oh, I say, old girl, what about the baby?”

“There’s silly you are, Phillip. I’m only two months gone, we won’t hurt him, you know.”

“Uh, are you sure? I mean, is that right. We won’t hurt the little fellow?”

“Of course I’m sure, now come here.”

Phillip moved over her. He carefully inspected her stomach, as if he expected her to be bulging already. She laughed at the puzzled look on his face.

“I won’t really show for a little while yet.”

He grinned, a little sheepish.

“Well, it’s all a complete mystery to me. Good job you know what you’re doing.”




Like Father Like Son Ch. 05



He did think her breasts were a trifle bigger, though, and he soon discovered that her nipples were a lot more sensitive. She started to twist beneath him as he nibbled and sucked. Her eyes were closed and her face wore a serene expression of contentment. His hand slipped between her thighs and he felt the wetness of her. She spread her legs wider to accommodate him and he gently manipulated her bud until she climaxed convulsively, trapping his hand and thrusting against his palm. He rose up to enter her but she pushed him onto his back. She straddled him, taking his engorged member in her hand. He felt her ease herself down onto him, encasing him in the moist, velvet heat. She rocked forward, offering her breasts to his kiss and she began to move with a slow, undulating rhythm, dancing to music that only she could hear. 

Phillip caught her swaying breasts in both hands, cupping them, rubbing her nipples and gently kneading her flesh. She gave an almost inaudible little moan, swooping down to kiss him and trailing her hanging hair over his face and shoulders. It smelt of freshness, like the meadow after rain. A little knot of urgency had gathered at the base of his spine and was sending darts of pleasure through the fork of his crotch. Bethan seemed to sense this and increased her tempo. She gave a sharp intake of breath and began to grind herself against his pubic bone. A subtle pink flush crept over her creamy skin and her breathing grew harsh and rapid. She flung her head back, her eyes opened wide and she gave a short, shrill scream. He felt her spasm, clasping and fluttering about him as she rode the wave of her pleasure, clamping and relaxing in time to his upward thrusts. Then he was hurtling towards his own release, pummelling himself into her and sucking frantically at her breasts. She hit another peak seconds before he exploded and he rode it with her in a series of wild thrusts that left them delirious and spent.

Afterwards, she curled against him, humming to herself and preening inwardly. That had been special, the very thing she wanted. She had almost given up hope of reaching fulfilment with him inside her. Now she felt complete. Phillip drowsed beside her. She looked at his face. The tension had fallen away leaving him young and vulnerable looking. She smiled to herself. This was what love should be. Each one giving to the other the thing they needed the most. Each one taking that which was freely given, with no place for self or petty concerns of modesty. Love demanded everything, nothing should be held back; for was not the source of that love infinite? Inexhaustible? That was what she believed and she fervently prayed she was right.



April 1917 Bloody April

The squadron arrived in France on 8th March and took up residence at Bellevue. Preparations were well advanced for the new spring offensive and nobody was surprised when the opening artillery barrage began about ten days later. Low cloud and strong winds kept the RFC on the ground for much of the month and High Command bemoaned the lack of reconnaissance. New aircraft were starting to appear on both sides. The British introduced the SE5 as well, of course, as the Bristol F2. On the German side, a new Albatros, the DIII, and a new Roland fighter were making their presence felt. 

Phillip did his best to settle into his new squadron. He was teamed with a Second Lieutenant by the name of Henry Jardine. Henry was a cheerful youngster with a mass of sandy hair and a rash of freckles. He was fresh from the Observers’ training school and was full of enthusiasm and had, to Phillip’s mind, that vital ingredient, a willingness to learn. Phillip passed on everything he could from his own experiences as an observer and Henry was soon hand-loading his Lewis drums just as Phillip had done. On the rare days in March that flying was possible, Phillip took every opportunity to get airborne. They practiced firing at ground targets and Henry showed himself to be an adequate gunner. They also practiced navigation and became familiar with the lay of the land on their side of the front.

By the end of the month the Squadron was declared ready for operations. The ground crew had been brought up to strength and a supply of spares and equipment had arrived from England. The biggest worry was over parts for the engines. Demand far outstripped supply and only a resourceful adjutant was able to get the squadron what it needed. Bad weather kept them on the ground until the morning of April 5th. Leefe-Robinson’s Flight was detailed to undertake a reconnaissance in force in the Douai sector of the front. They were in high spirits as they left the briefing. Two months of training with the new aeroplanes was to be put to the test at last.

Phillip and Henry were the fifth aircraft to take off and climb slowly into a patchwork sky. The patrol was to penetrate far behind the German lines. Phillip felt that familiar lethargy, which always seemed to precede imminent action. He did not feel unduly concerned. The ‘Biff’ was a much better aircraft than the old BE2s or even the RE8s. The Flight ascended through broken cloud before levelling off at the designated patrol height of 13,000 feet. As usual, it was bitterly cold in the clear air and Phillip was grateful for the deep cockpit of the Bristol. Behind him, Henry crouched down, checking their progress against the map and ensuring that the modified 97 round drums for his guns were stowed securely. Phillip issued a sharp reminder to be on the look out for HAs – hostile aircraft.

The first sign of trouble came when the rearmost aircraft waggled its wings. Phillip craned his neck and saw the pilot pointing upwards into the glare of the sun. Then the red Very light arced ahead of the formation as the observer fired a flare to warn the others. True to their drill, the ‘Biffs’ began to circle, each aircraft flying as close as possible to the one in front. The dots, initially barely visible against the sun, grew rapidly larger as the German planes plunged towards them. Tracer bullets began to flash through the formation and the stuttering of Henry’s Lewis guns sounded suddenly behind Phillip. He felt strangely calm and concentrated on getting as close to the plane in the front as he could. 

A red-painted Albatros shot by, pulling up steeply and climbing away out of range. Bullets ripped through the wing fabric a foot from Phillip’s head and he yawed the Bristol wildly with the rudder. A gap appeared in the formation as one of the British machines rolled onto its back and fell away, smoke gouting from the engine. The remaining planes closed up. Phillip counted five enemy aircraft. The leader’s machine was painted bright red and all the others had some part of their fuselages or wings in the same livery. They were good. Attacks came in coordinated waves, two or three at a time, approaching from different angles to divide the British fire. 

Another Bristol fell, spinning out of control. Phillip could make out the figure of the pilot slumped forward over the controls. Behind him, the observer continued to fire even though he must have known he was doomed. Leefe-Robinson was the next to go and then a fourth: a flamer. The remaining two aircraft separated. Phillip stood the Bristol on a wing tip and turned towards the attackers, getting in a raking burst at one red Albatros as it hurtled by. He was beside himself with rage and frustration. The ‘Lufberry Circle’ had been a disaster. He flew with a savage intensity. Henry kept the enemy planes away from their tail with the Lewis guns while Phillip threw the big ‘Biff’ into a series of evasive manoeuvres. He seemed to have the undivided attention of all five German fighters and felt sure that he would soon fall victim to their combined assault.  
The other surviving ‘Biff’ was heading for home, a thin plume of smoke bearing witness to the punishment it had taken. Phillip spotted a gap in the circling enemy planes and smartly reversed his turn. He slammed the stick forward and the Bristol dived away from the combat. The Germans took up the pursuit but the speed of the dive had taken them by surprise. Phillip muttered a quick prayer that the evaluation pilots had been right about the strength of the Bristol and steepened his dive, heading for the shelter of the broken cloud. The wires thrummed with the speed and the tattered fabric began to strip away where the enemy bullets had pierced the wings. The pursuing enemy planes were falling back, unable to match the Bristol’s speed in the dive. Then he welcomed the moist grey embrace of the clouds.

It took all of Phillip’s strength to pull the plummeting ‘Biff’ out of its hurtling descent. A glance at the airspeed indicator showed him that they had touched 200 miles per hour. Phillip closed the throttle and the roar of the engine subsided. The controls were unbelievably heavy and the airframe seemed to groan in protest as he hauled the stick back into the pit of his stomach. It seemed like an age before they had sloughed off sufficient speed for the plane to respond. The nose came up with agonising slowness and at last the shrieking of the wires began to diminish. Some of the weight came off the stick and they levelled out, the speed dropping away. Phillip looked back at Henry. He was still crouched over his guns, white-faced but watchful. 

They crossed the British lines at 4,000 feet, dodging between the sheltering banks of cloud. Phillip took the opportunity to do a visual check on the damage. The starboard wings were riddled with bullet holes. Patches of fabric had stripped away leaving the wooden ribs exposed. There were holes, too, in the fabric of the fuselage behind Henry’s position. Phillip thanked their stars that the engine had not been hit. The Rolls Royce Falcon was running sweetly. Apart from the stiffness of the ailerons, the plane seemed to be reasonably all right. Even so, he was mightily relieved when the familiar shape of Bellevue came into sight in the patchwork of green below them. He fired a flare to indicate they were damaged and eased the Bristol down onto the sweet grass.

Phillip cut the engine and sat for a few moments in the cockpit feeling utterly drained. The other survivor had already landed so the squadron already knew the bad news. He hauled himself out of the aircraft like a bent old man. Henry waited anxiously for him to dismount.

“Are you all right, old man?”

Phillip nodded. His mind had gone blank. He tried to think of something to say to his young observer, something that might ease the pain of what had happened, but no words came. The squadron commander and the adjutant were beside them, worried faces hovered in Phillip’s vision. He waved a hand, a gesture of desolation. Pushing back his goggles, he rubbed his eyes like a man who hasn’t slept for days. Henry gawped at him, concern and bewilderment chasing each other across his freckled face. Suddenly, the rage and frustration flared in Phillip once more.

“Like fucking sitting ducks!”

He glared around him, seeing the faces recoil in shock at his vehemence.

“We were like fucking sitting ducks up there. Flying around in a nice little circle, made it even easier for them, didn’t it? But they couldn’t fucking well hit us when I actually flew the bloody thing, could they, Henry?” 

“How did you get away, Phillip? Andrew Cavanaugh says you were surrounded by Huns when he had to head for home.”

Phillip laughed, a bitter, savage sound. 

“Gravity! I put the kite into a steep dive and headed for the clouds. Do you know, we touched two hundred on the ASI before we pulled out?”

“Impossible! You’d have pulled the wings off!”

“No. Not impossible. That’s the whole point! The ‘Biff’ is as strong as they come. You can really fly this plane.”

Henry supported him, his eyes huge in his youthful face.

“Phillip certainly chucked it about up there, sir. And I reckon we hit at least one of them with the Vickers. Only four chased us down, the other headed for Hunland.”  
The squadron commander exchanged glances with the adjutant.

“You were out before, weren’t you, Phillip?”

“Yes sir, I was, as an observer last year.”

“And you used the ‘Lufberry’ then?”

“We did, sir, we didn’t have a choice. But it stopped being effective when the Albatros first appeared. They get high and dive on you, sir. Two or three come at you at once and then the others follow up as they zoom away. They divide the defences and pick you off one at a time. The only hope we’ve got, sir, is to use what the ‘Biff’ can do. It can fly like a Scout, sir. It isn’t weak at all. I would never have got away with what I did in most kites.”

“Andrew said it was Jasta 11, that bloody man Richthofen.”

“I suppose so. One of them was painted all red and the others all had some red on their machines. Anyway, the red plane got two of us and the others got another two, including the Captain.”

“You’re quite sure they all went down?”

“Sorry, sir, but yes. No doubt at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what Andrew said. Bloody business, Phillip.”

“You can say that again!”

Four replacement crews arrived two days later. Another two Bristols were lost, again trying to fight in the ‘Lufberry Circle.’ Phillip raged and seethed that they were still so reluctant to trust the aircraft. His own machine was repaired and he and Henry were sent out on a ‘contact patrol’ on the 9th, the first day of the Arras offensive. Flying low over Vimy Ridge, they were attacked by two Rolands. Phillip flew like a man possessed, throwing the ‘Biff’ around like he had once flown the Sopwith ‘Pup’ at Gosport. They drove down one German out of control and the other fled, trailing smoke from a damaged engine. That was Phillip’s first victory as a pilot. 

Day after day, the skies over the front were filled with aircraft. The RFC suffered horribly. The outdated BEs and FEs, that still made up the majority of the aircraft at their disposal, were no match for the Albatros DIII. Another Squadron of Bristol Fighters arrived at the front. They, too, learned the hard way. Flying the ‘Biff’ like any other two-seater was to surrender the advantage to the enemy. Gradually, other pilots started to follow Phillip’s lead. When flown aggressively, the Bristol was a match for any Hun. The observer’s Lewis guns could protect the tail while the forward firing Vickers could be used to take the fight to the enemy. Phillip shot down a second German, an Albatros this time, and Henry claimed a share of the destruction of another. A Canadian ‘Biff’ pilot on 11 Squadron shot down three enemy planes in a single patrol. The High Command, which had been on the point of withdrawing the BF2 as unsuitable, started to take notice. 

48 Squadron’s morale, so severely dented after that first disastrous patrol, recovered quickly once the new tactics were approved. The losses slowed rapidly and the ‘Biffs’ were soon giving better than they got. Confidence in the strength of the machine replaced the previous doubts. It was soon apparent that the Bristol could take a lot of punishment and still get you home. Elsewhere, however, the carnage continued. Manfred von Richthofen alone was to shoot down thirty British planes during April 1917; the majority of these were the elderly types, totally outmatched by the Albatros Fighters. The RFC hung on grimly. As always, it was the inexperienced pilots and crews that suffered the heaviest casualties. Life expectation for an RFC pilot was a paltry nine days during that bloody month. 

April 23rd 1917

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the telephone call came from 4th Army Head Quarters. An urgent reconnaissance was needed; the advance had stalled near Quincy. Phillip had already flown two patrols that day. He was desperately tired and his head ached abominably from the accumulated strain. When the adjutant called him and asked him to undertake yet another mission, he groaned inwardly.  
“Terribly sorry, old chap. ‘B’ Flight have been told off for an evening patrol and yours is the only ‘A’ Flight machine ready to go. Go and round-up young Henry and get back here pronto, there’s a good chap. HQ are in a bit of a flap.”

Phillip and Henry climbed wearily into their plane. The adjutant’s briefing had been short and to the point:

“Get over there, have a look-see at what’s holding them up and get back here sharpish.” 

They made their way northeast, pushed along by a stiff westerly wind. For this patrol, they were carrying a dozen twenty-pound Cooper bombs in racks under the lower wings. Once over the target area, the reason for the delay became obvious. A German strongpoint, heavily armed with machine guns, had succeeded in enfilading the British advance. The Machine gunners were able to sweep the open ground with deadly effect and Phillip could make out the all too familiar ragged khaki bundles that bore witness to the failed attack. He wished that his aircraft was equipped with a radio so he could call up an artillery strike on the Hun defences. As this wasn’t possible, he decided to attack the strongpoint with the Cooper bombs and machine gun fire.

Phillip dived the plane towards the German position. He levelled out a scant hundred feet over the battlefield and began to rake the strongpoint with the Vickers. When he judged they were about fifty yards short of the target, he pulled the bomb release wires and rippled off the Coopers just as he pulled back on the stick to send the ‘Biff’ into a climbing turn. Henry opened up with the Lewis guns as they climbed away, watching for the flashes of the bombs as he did so. Only two out of the twelve bombs actually struck the German position, the remainder falling short of the target. He shouted this information to Phillip who promptly decided on one more pass before returning to base.

This time the Germans were ready for them. As he turned back towards the German lines, a storm of anti-aircraft fire burst in the air ahead of them. The big Bristol was thrown about like a leaf in a gale. Shrapnel peppered the machine from nose to tail. Henry thought he heard Phillip cry out and the plane lurched alarmingly for a second, one wing dropping low. Then it was back under control. Phillip became aware of a warm feeling and glanced down to see the front of his flying coat turning black with his own blood. He was taken completely by surprise, he had not been aware of being hit. He tentatively felt under his coat with one hand. He appeared to have been wounded in the left side, just above the hip. Nothing serious, he thought. He pulled the scarf from round his neck and pushed it under his coat against the wound. There was no pain yet but he knew that would come later.

He dived once more towards the Hun position, firing a long burst from the Vickers towards the huddled grey figures below. Once more the plane was seized by a giant hand and flung on its side as another ‘archie’ shell burst directly beneath it. This time Phillip felt the shell fragments smash into his legs. Pain seared through his every fibre as he kicked the rudder to skid the machine left and right in an attempt to confuse the gunners. Henry, too, had been hit in the arm but he still managed to get off a final burst one-handed as the ‘Biff’ staggered away. 

Phillip’s world contracted to a dim hazy centre surrounded by a tunnel of black. There was a dream-like quality to the flight home. The ‘Biff’ seemed to be floating in a darkening sea, rocked gently by unseen waves. The field at Bellevue appeared as if at the bottom of a well. He felt peaceful as he angled down towards the landing ground. His arms were heavy and he had to concentrate hard to keep his eyes open. The urge to dip into sleep was almost overpowering. He tried to push the rudder bar but his feet would not obey him. His eyelids drooped. The big plane skidded in its final turn. The watchers on the ground knew instantly that the pilot was wounded. The ‘Biff ‘ was crabbing sideways, undulating slightly as Phillip tried to line up the landing strip. They landed heavily, rounding out about six feet too high and simply dropping to the earth as the plane lost flying speed. It bounced twice before the undercarriage collapsed. The wooden propeller snapped off with an audible crack and the plain lurched to a halt.




Like Father Like Son Ch. 06



February 1920 Bethan and Peter

“Of course it’s the war, it changed everything.”

William Welford Barnes looked up from the newspaper and gazed at his wife.

“What do you mean, my dear, precisely?”

“It’s Bethan and Peter, of course. They want to get married. At least, Peter does. I’m not quite so sure about Bethan.”

“Good God! When did this happen?”

“Oh, William, have you been blind these last months? Ever since Peter came out of the Air Force, or whatever they call it these days, he’s been hanging around here like a lovesick puppy. I’ll not deny that it’s been good for Bethan but I really don’t know. I’m not at all sure how I feel.”

“I’ll have a word with him. Tell him to lay off, or something.”

“My dearest husband, you can be obtuse at times. That is not what I said. They want to get married. I’m terribly afraid we shall soon lose little Michael. Oh, I don’t blame Bethan; she’s still a girl, really. One can’t expect her to wear widow’s weeds for the rest of her life. And I don’t exactly blame Peter. I know he’s a good man and he was Phillip’s closest friend…”

Beatrice broke off, her voice choking. William, as always when confronted by his wife’s tears, was utterly discomfited. He sighed, put down his paper and rose to place his arms about her.

“Come on, old girl, that’s enough of that. Chin up, now. You know we said that we wouldn’t remember Phillip with weeping and wailing. He wouldn’t want that, now, would he?”

“No”

She shook her head but still the tears came. Why did it have to be him? But she knew the answer. It was the War. In many ways Phillip had been fortunate to survive as long as he did. A year in the trenches and then eighteen months in the Royal Flying Corps, much of it spent at the front. How much worse had it been for those mothers whose sons had lasted only a day or two? Or even worse, for those who had almost seen it through, those who had died in November 1918. She shook her head. It didn’t actually matter. Dead was dead and the ‘when’ of it didn’t come into the equation. She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry, William. It’s silly of me, I know. Peter must marry Bethan. We’ll just have to make the most of our grandson when they visit.”

“Why can’t they live here?”

“No. That wouldn’t do at all and Peter, quite rightly, wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Why ever not? The place will go to Michael once I’m gone. I’ve put it all in trust for him. Bethan is quite entitled to live here with the heir to the estate.”

“Yes, my dear, but Peter is not. And I would think less of him he proposed such a thing. And so would you, once you think about it.”

“Would I? If you say so, my dear, I probably should. You’re usually right about such things. Where shall they live, then?”



“I don’t know. I haven’t thought it right to raise the subject until they did.”

“Well, we’ll just have to ask ‘em, won’t we?”

Peter Riley was deep in thought. The last thing he’d ever expected when he promised Phillip that he would look after Bethan and the boy was that he would fall in love. It had happened, though. Not quickly. Peter was a far more worldly individual than Phillip had ever been. Somehow or other, Bethan had crept up on him. Not literally, of course. She hadn’t meant to do it. They had been thrust into each other’s company. Peter was the boy’s Godfather, an office he took very seriously, not out of any great religious conviction; the War had shattered such faith as he possessed; it was more a sense of duty to Phillip’s memory. Peter often wondered why he had been lucky enough to survive without so much as a scratch from enemy action. His only injury had come in a crash. Better men than he had perished. It left him with a lingering sense of guilt that no application of his strongly rational nature could quite overcome. 

Now he had asked Bethan to marry him and she had accepted. It was strange. They had never been intimate on any level, had never even kissed. He knew that he loved her, desired her; that went without saying. She was a very beautiful young woman. Motherhood suited her. He loved the way her body moved, the round curves and mane of thick, dark hair. He wasn’t sure whether she loved him or was simply seeking a less cloistered life than that allowed by convention to a widow. He also suspected that she found the atmosphere at Pitton House oppressive since the child had been born. She had had to give up her work as a nurse, of course. Beatrice had insisted on hiring a Nanny for the child and had then thrown herself into the role of doting grandmother. As a result, Bethan had little to do and her own maternal instincts were often frustrated by the arrangements Beatrice had imposed.

Peter supposed it would have been different had Phillip lived. They would have built their house on the hilltop where Phillip’s grave now lay. He didn’t doubt Phillip would have been master in his own home and that Bethan would have enjoyed considerably more freedom that she did at present. Thereby lay the problem. He could see that Bethan might be viewing a marriage to him as a means of escape. He wanted more than that. 

Peter had left the new Royal Air Force the previous summer. He had been asked to stay in; thought about it briefly and then rejected the idea. He was an engineer by profession. He’d abandoned his studies at the outbreak of war in 1914 and been commissioned into the Royal Engineers. The transfer to the Flying Corps had been almost an accident. In a strange way he enjoyed the war. The expectation of being killed at any moment had somehow liberated him. He felt no sense of responsibility to anybody but himself. Everyone dealt with fear in his own way. Peter’s way was to indulge himself at every opportunity. Now it was over. Like many of his contemporaries, he felt a great sense of restlessness; of something unfulfilled. He watched the peace process at Versailles with horror. The French were indulging in a petty sort of revanchism. Europe, the old Europe of certainties, had been stood on its head. Russia had dissolved in bloody revolution. The maps had been redrawn; entire new countries had sprung into uneasy existence. It boded nothing but trouble. 

Unknown to Peter, Bethan was thinking along similar lines. She had accepted his proposal instantly; maybe a little too quickly, she felt now. She didn’t know how she felt about the tall, gangly man who had been Phillip’s closest friend. She was attracted to him; she couldn’t deny it. What gave her pause was whether this was simply because he was the only eligible male she had seen since Phillip died. She was also worried that she had agreed simply to escape from the overbearing affections of Beatrice. Even thinking this made her feel guilty. Beatrice had been a rock; had comforted her and provided for both her and her son. Thinking of Michael made her smile. He was two, now and, like all two-year-olds, a proper handful. Sometimes she thought the only word her little boy knew was ‘no!’ 

Of course, she could back out of it. Peter would be disappointed, possibly heartbroken. Yet he was too much the gentleman to hold it against her. Part of her wanted to do just that but another part, a more seductive part, wanted the comfort of a man of her own again. The lack of any intimacy to date didn’t bother her. She could tell by the way he looked at her that Peter desired her. No. She had made up her mind. Marry Peter she would. It only now remained to break the news to Beatrice and William. She got to her feet, her back straight, emphasising the thrust of her bosom. She would go and find Peter right this minute. Together they would confront Phillip’s parents. 

“I really don’t know quite how to tell you this, and I do sincerely hope that you won’t be mortally offended but, you see, I have asked Bethan to be my wife and she has agreed.”

To Peter’s ears, the silence seemed to stretch out for ever. He saw William’s eyes slide towards Beatrice, looking for a cue to follow, and then back. Beatrice sat very erect, her face devoid of any expression. He felt, rather than saw, Bethan wince beside him and he responded to the pressure of her hand in his with a gentle squeeze of reassurance.


William roused himself and cleared his throat.

“Congratulations, old man. I must say this isn’t entirely unexpected, at least to Beatrice, what? Um, we will need to talk about the boy, of course. He is now the only heir to this place and we would both hate to lose touch, if you see my point.”

“Of course, William. Bethan and I discussed this very point. I intend to take a house in the village, or, at least, close by. I have been fortunate enough to inherit a modest amount of capital. It seems the war was good for business and I am now in the position to start a firm of my own.”

“Oh? What sort of thing do you have in mind, if you don’t mind my inquiring?”

“Not at all, it’s only right that you should know. Motorcars, they’re the coming thing. I’m considering premises in Dorchester.”

“Motorcars? Well, if you say so. I don’t think they are much more than a novelty, myself, but I expect you know best.”

“I think the novelty days are long gone. Without motor transport, I believe we would have lost the war. One day, every family in the land will have a motorcar. I want to be on hand to sell them, repair them and all the rest. I’m an engineer. Things mechanical are what I understand. I’d be hopeless at farming and there is really nothing else I know.”

“So be it, old chap, so be it. I say, I imagine this calls for a celebration. I think we still have a few bottles of the ‘widow’ about in the cellar.”

They toasted the engagement with Veuve Clicquot from the 1908 vintage but it was no more than a formality. Conversation was stilted and there were heavy silences. The impression was more that of a wake than a joyful celebration. Peter and Bethan were glad to slip away after an hour or so.

“My God! Wasn’t that excruciating? Beatrice looked like a Hanging Judge and William gave a fair impression of the condemned man. I’m sorry they’re taking it so hard.”

“I didn’t expect any different, Peter, did I? They’ll come round. Anyway, it’s only Michael that they’re really concerned with, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right, my love. Still, I thought they might have put a better face on it.”

“It’s Phillip, see. Beatrice still can’t really accept that he’s gone.”

“And what about you?”

“I know he’s dead, Peter, and there’s sad I am because of it. I loved him very much but he’s beyond anyone’s reach now. You mustn’t be jealous of the dead, you know. I will always love Phillip but that won’t prevent me from loving you, too. It will be… different, that’s all.”

“I’m not jealous of Phillip. Really, I’m not. How can one envy a friend like that? I never realised how fond I was of the old thing myself until he was gone. I don’t mind your talking about him either. Of course you must always love him. As long as there is a little room in your heart for me, I’ll be perfectly satisfied, I promise.”

Bethan and Peter married in a quiet civil ceremony at Caxton Hall in Westminster. They honeymooned in Italy. As the train sped down through France they couldn’t help but notice the fields of neat white crosses that marked the graves of the fallen. Both found it a sobering experience.

“I never realised there were so many, Peter. How does anyone find their loved ones?”

“I think they are setting up a register. One can enquire and they will tell you which cemetery, which row and which plot. Of course, there are tens of thousands who simply disappeared, vanished in the mud or literally blown to bits. It doesn’t bear thinking about, really.”


“I’m so glad Phillip isn’t somewhere like that, aren’t you?”

“I’m told they are very special places with a great air of tranquillity about them. I don’t suppose they care, one way or the other, but I’m glad Phillip is where he would have wanted to be. Can we talk about something else, please?”

Bethan saw the look of bitterness on Peter’s face. He had explained to her his feelings of guilt at having survived when so many others had perished. Now, seeing the sheer scale of the Imperial War Graves Commission’s cemeteries, she began to understand. 

The Roaring Twenties

Bethan gave birth to a son, whom they named David, in the summer of 1921. Two years later, a daughter was born and they called the little girl Phillipa. Peter’s business prospered and soon he had not one but four garages throughout the county. They bought a bigger house in a nearby village, honouring Peter’s promise to William and Beatrice that Michael would remain within easy reach. Michael, now aged five, reacted badly to the arrival of his younger siblings and this worried Bethan. There was something in her eldest son’s character that bothered her. He seemed to have a cruel streak and more than once she suspected him of hurting the younger two when her back was turned. Beatrice, of course, could find no fault with her grandson and claimed Bethan was imagining things. Michael was always on his best behaviour in the presence of his grandparents and appeared to sense the friction that he caused and revel in it. 

“I don’t understand the child and that’s a fact. I just don’t know what to do about it, Peter.”

“Oh, it’s probably a passing phase. He’s used to being the centre of the Universe and now he’s got a couple of other claimants. It’s a little jealousy, he’ll grow out of it.”

But he didn’t and Bethan felt a sense of guilty relief when William suggested, and Peter agreed, that Michael should attend the same Prep School as had Phillip. Bethan had expected tears and tantrums when the decision was announced to a seven-year-old Michael. She was surprised that he responded with something like glee to the news.

“Good! That means I get away from rotten old David and that smelly baby”

“Michael, that is not the way to talk about your brother and sister!”

“Not my brother and sister!”

“Yes they are!”

“Grandmama says they aren’t, so there!”

Life was considerably easier once Michael had gone away to school. Beatrice’s constant interventions all but ceased and Bethan was able to enjoy her children in her own way. She was an uncomplicated young woman and her approach to child rearing was similarly down-to-earth. In Bethan’s view, children needed a combination of love and firm guidance. What they did not benefit from was over indulgence of their every whim and this was a major source of friction between Peter and Bethan on the one hand and William and Beatrice on the other. 

It was a constant source of disquiet that Michael would be, by turns, sullen or rebellious at home and exude sweetness and light in the presence of his doting grandparents. By contrast, David was a happy child and Phillipa was a placid little girl with her mother’s huge eyes and dark colouring. The two younger children held no interest for Beatrice and it was difficult to explain to someone so young why this should be. Bethan found herself increasingly confused. She loved Michael dearly. He was all that remained of her love for Phillip but she was not so blind as to fail to see he was atrociously spoilt and possessed a very pronounced mean streak. It was easy to lay the blame at Beatrice’s door and it was equally easy to understand how it had come about. Peter did his best but was constantly reminded in ringing treble tones that he was not Michael’s father; something for which, he confessed to Bethan after a particularly trying day, he was heartily glad.


In September of 1925, with Michael ensconced at Prep School, Peter was invited by one of the motor manufacturers that he represented to attend a day’s motor racing at Brooklands. The former RFC flying school had reverted to its pre-war use as one of the premier venues for auto sport in Europe. The banked oval track was the scene of many time trials as well as circuit racing. It attracted the leading names in European motor sport and not a few from the USA and the British Empire. Quite a number of the drivers were former RFC pilots and Peter knew a number of them, if not personally, at least by reputation.

The event was to change his life. The day consisted of speed trials and he was drawn to the thundering machines like a magnet. It was not so much the sheer thrill of the thing, more it was the engineering challenge that held him in thrall. He knew he lacked the finesse to be a racing driver in a competitive, wheel-to wheel situation but his mind buzzed with the possibilities of making a car go faster - faster than anyone had ever been before. That very summer, Malcolm Campbell had raised the land speed record to over 150 miles per hour and was now reported to be preparing a new ‘Bluebird’ with his sights set firmly on the 200 mph mark. Also in the running were Henry Segrave and John Parry Thomas in the UK and Ray Keech and Frank Lockhart in the USA. Peter decided that he, too, would join the fun and spent a restless night in the Angel Hotel in Guildford, planning the outline of a strategy.

He decided he would need a driver but reckoned there would be no shortage of volunteers. He would oversee the engineering side and he thought that he knew just the person to assist him. He made some telephone calls and was able to track to down someone who might know the whereabouts of one Albert Armitage, a former corporal in the Royal Flying Corps and, to Peter’s mind, a mechanical genius. Peter’s informant placed Corporal Armitage in a very upmarket motor dealer in the West End of London. So, the following morning, Peter motored north. 

He located the place without too much difficulty. The line of Rolls Royce cars was something of a giveaway. It also didn’t take him too long to spot the distinctive figure of Albert Armitage standing, arms akimbo and head to one side as he listened intently to the purr of a straight six. Peter had seen him many times in a similar pose in the grey dawn of some French landing strip as Armitage would listen, consider and then pronounce his verdict on an engine’s health. He had an unique talent for being able to identify a fault or a worn bearing just by hearing the sound an engine made. Peter had never known Armitage to be wrong and no pilot or observer would take a plane that Armitage had grimaced or sucked his teeth over. 

Albert Armitage registered Peter’s presence but his expression never changed. His whole attention was on a very small sound – a bum note in the orchestra. At length he was satisfied. He turned to a waiting mechanic.

“Change the timing chain, Chalky, it’s on its way out.”

Only then did he walk towards Peter.

“Mr Riley, sir, good to see you.”

“Good to see you corporal – or should I say Mister – Armitage.”

“Come about your motor, sir?”

“No, the car’s fine. It’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Me, sir? What on earth for? I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but it ain’t likely that one of the officers would come and see the likes of me for a chinwag about old times. I’ve seen a few of the old squadron through here and there’s not one in ten that recognised me.”

“I have a job for you, Mr Armitage. I have a little project in mind and you’re the only man in England that fits the bill.”

“Well, it’s very nice of you to say so I’m sure, Mr Riley, but I’m quite well situated here, thank you.”

“It’s Albert, isn’t it? May I call you Albert?”

Armitage shrugged.

“Right-ho then Albert. I’ll put it as plainly as I can. I mean to build a car to challenge Campbell and Segrave for the land speed record. I would like you to be the chief mechanic on the team. I can pay well. What would you say to ten pounds a week?”

Armitage’s slightly wizened face broke into a slow grin.

“I’d say you were bloody mad, Mr Riley, that’s what I’d say but if you want to pay me a fortune, I’d be happy to take it off you.”




Like Father Like Son Ch. 06



“Right then, that’s settled, when can you start?”

“Two weeks from today?”

“Splendid. Here’s a fiver. Catch the 8.40 train to Dorchester and I’ll meet you at the station.”

Armitage’s face fell.

“Dorchester? You didn’t say nothing about being out in the sticks. What would my missus say? We got a nice flat in Battersea, Mr Riley, and a sprog on the way. I couldn’t go leaving her in London while I gallivant off to Dorchester, could I?”

“Nothing simpler, Albert old son. You bring the lady with you. I’ll fix you up with a nice cottage. What could be better than fresh country air for her and the young Armitage?”

“Well, I don’t know, Mr Riley. She’s a London girl, born and bred here like meself. I ain’t too certain that she’d take to the country, like.”

“Well, you can but ask her, Albert. Ten pounds a week and a cottage, she might like the sound of that.”

They agreed that Armitage would telephone him the next day and Peter drove back to Dorset in high spirits. He had totally failed to consider Bethan’s reaction in all this. She stood silently throughout his exposition of the great project, the hiring of Albert Armitage and the welter of technical details he threw at her. He looked, she thought, like an overgrown schoolboy. His face shone with enthusiasm and his expansive gestures threatened to knock over the ornaments on the mantle. Part of her regarded him with fondness but another part felt icy cold. How dare he jeopardise their life together for the foolish, meaningless pursuit of speed? She was just about to launch into a tirade of truly grand proportions when she heard him say:

“Of course, I’ll have to find a good driver.”

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her greatest fear was to lose Peter in some ghastly accident. Losing Phillip, she had once confided to Beatrice, had felt like the end of her life as well. Now, and it had been a slow, gradual process, Peter had insinuated his way into her heart, the thought of another death was too much for her to bear. She grasped one of Peter’s flailing arms and pulled him towards her. Raising one hand, she placed her finger lightly on his lips to silence him then drew him into a deep and passionate kiss. Deep down, she recognised that they had grown too comfortable in their marriage. It was not so much that she did not love him, she truly did. It was more the case, she now realised, that she had never really let herself go with Peter in the way that she had with Phillip. The ghost of Phillip had always accompanied her to their marriage bed. It was time, she decided, to change all that.

She led an uncomplaining but somewhat puzzled husband up the stairs to their bedroom. She sensed that something that she had believed dead inside her had, at last, sprung back to life. He started to ask about the children but she silenced him with another kiss, her hands already busy removing his clothes. He gazed at her in wonder. Peter felt his brain had stopped working sometime around the point she first seized his hand. He co-operated in the process of being undressed but didn’t seem able to grasp precisely what was happening to him. He yelped in surprise when her hand gripped his tumescent penis and squeezed gently. Her eyes never left his face as she stood and slipped the dress from her shoulders, stepping out of the pooled white cotton at her feet like Aphrodite from the foam. 

Still holding his somewhat stunned gaze, she stripped herself naked, standing in front of him with huge eyes and a half smile on her face. She felt deliciously wicked. Peter looked at his wife’s nakedness and felt his breathing constricted. His heart hammered at his ribs. He was stunned. Bethan had never acted like this – not even on their honeymoon. His shock was complete when she knelt beside him and took his rigid erection gently into her mouth, sliding her tongue over him and sucking very softly at the head. Bethan nibbled at him, savouring the slightly salty taste, she felt herself grow wet. There seemed to be some direct connection between the jerking prick in her mouth and her own flowering desire. She bobbed her head, sliding him in and out of her mouth, alternating swirling her tongue around the contours of his prick with more vigorous sucking. She heard him groan and felt his hips pushing himself back at her.


She felt powerful and fulfilled. She sensed he was close to climax and speeded up her efforts, one hand snaking around to knead his balls. His breathing was rapid, harsh. Her sex was now dripping; she could feel the juices running down the top of her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, rocking her pelvis to increase the delightful sensations that flooded her as she sucked him. Then, unbelievably, she felt her own orgasm welling up inside. Now she needed him to come, to make it perfect. Her hand left his balls and pumped at his shaft; she sucked harder, slowing the movement of her head as her hand picked up the tempo. She heard him gasp. His prick seemed to swell momentarily between her sensitised lips and then she felt the first powerful spurts hit the roof of her mouth and she moaned, a deep, guttural sound that sent Peter wild. He thrust at her, undulating his hips frantically and pumping his seed into her mouth. She swallowed convulsively and her own climax hit her like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. She spasmed, her body shook with the fierceness of her orgasm. A hand flew between her legs and she pushed her fingers in her sopping sex, squeezing her clitoris between her palm and her pubic bone and rocking against the sweet pressure as wave after wave of white fire seared through her veins. 

At last the super-heated sensations began to recede and she became aware of Peter’s softening penis still within her mouth. She sucked at him gently and licked away the last of his semen. It seemed to Peter that she purred as she did so. His head spun in a mixture of love and confusion. Bethan had never shown such passion before. In truth, it was something that had bothered Peter. He loved her dearly and, although she had never been frigid, their sex life had previously been, well, not that exciting. Now something had been released in her and he wasn’t sure why or even quite how to respond. Her eyes were deep pools of brimming mystery and he felt himself drawn into them. He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting himself and he did so. He found it strangely arousing and began to stiffen again. She wriggled in his arms, her nipples tracing fire across his naked flesh and he slid into her.

This time it was slow and gentle. Peter revelled in the sensation of liquid heat that clasped him and the slow undulations of her hips in time with his deliberate thrusts. He bent forward and sucked gently on her nipples, catching first one and then the other between his lips. Bethan giggled; a delicious, wicked sound that spurred him on. He picked up the pace and she matched him thrust for thrust. Her hair was a dark storm of sex and thunder against the white of the sheets. Peter felt suspended in time and space, linked to reality only by the sweet muscles that grasped his erect cock and drew him deeper inside. 

“Oh, God, Bethan, I love you so much!”

She heard his voice from far away as she voyaged among the stars, floating free, liberated from her past and her grief for the first time. Orgasm lapped at her in wavelets, each one higher than the last until she could stand it no longer and it swept her away her, crashing into the ocean of fulfilment. Lost in her own passion, she was only vaguely aware of Peter’s sharp cry and manic pumping as he reached his own climax. The dim awareness of his pleasure warmed her; reaching through the fog that wrapped her and bringing her gently back to the shore of misty contentment. 

Peter felt the change in her and in a vivid flash of enlightenment, saw that she had been freed at last from the long shadows of their past. He stopped himself from speaking with difficulty. He suddenly realised that to acknowledge the change would also be to acknowledge the problem. No words were necessary. It was sufficient that she had finally come out of the ice that had trapped her heart for so long. He knew that from that moment onwards, their life together had changed, become richer and more intimate. There was nothing to say that could add one iota.

1928 The Record Breaker

It took Peter two years to build the car. Parry Thomas died in a crash at Pendine Sands and Lockhart perished at Daytona Beach. Campbell had raised the record yet again and all the while Peter and Albert Armitage suffered setbacks and frustration. At first, they had followed the fashion for using giant aero engines. They fitted a 350-horsepower Rolls Royce engine onto a reinforced and stretched Mercedes chassis and found a madcap young Irishman named Connor O’Driscoll to drive for them. The tests at Pendine were disappointing. The car couldn’t seem to get past 140 mph, for all Albert’s loving ministrations. They took it home and fitted a supercharger but while this increased the power, real speed eluded them.


O’Driscoll soon lost interest and went off to join the ‘Bentley Boys,’ where his dashing style and ability to party for days without a break soon made him a popular member of the racing team. Peter and Albert, meanwhile, slogged on. It was Albert who changed their fortunes. He had settled into country life as if born to it and his wife had become a sort of unofficial nursemaid to David and Phillipa while looking after their own child, a boy named Peter, in honour of their benefactor. Albert always claimed that it was his wife who had given him the idea. She had told him one evening about the children playing together and how Phillipa could always ride a tricycle faster than her older brother. 

“It’s cos he’s so much heavier. She ain’t nothing like as strong but she wins every time.”

Something clicked in Albert’s fertile mind and the next day he approached Peter.

“The problem with those bloody great motors, Boss, is the all the rest of the gubbins that you have to reinforce to take the weight. Look how much we had to put into the chassis and the drive train. Now, how would it be if we could build a really lightweight car that still had enough grunt to fly? Let them others keep getting bigger, I say. We haven’t got Campbell’s money to throw around so I reckon we need to come at it a different way.”

Albert’s revelation became the plan for a new car. The huge Rolls Royce engine was ditched and a much smaller car emerged. They acquired a 200-horsepower Hispano engine and married this to a custom-built chassis. Peter then decided on an aluminium body to further reduce weight. Albert worked his magic on the Hispano and extracted an increase of almost 50% in the power output without any increase in the weight. The resulting car, named ‘Bethan II’ was about half the size of Campbell’s Napier-powered ‘Bluebird’ and about a quarter of the weight. No driver was available so it was Peter who climbed into the cockpit on 4th March 1928 to test the new machine.

The body of the car was narrow, so much so that Peter’s legs straddled the prop shaft, but the overall design was entirely new. The aluminium fairing was formed in a series of graceful curves that enclosed the widely spaced wheels before sweeping into a body shaped like an elongated teardrop. A low fin swept back from behind the driver’s head to blend smoothly into a boat-shaped rear end. The radiator had been angled back to a 30-degree incline to allow a low-slung front and their one real concern lay in the propensity for overheating that this might cause. There was no battery or starter motor so the engine had to be fired by a huge crank that took two men to swing, such was the compression. The real breakthrough was in the fuel system. Between them, Albert and Peter had come up with a direct injection system that did away with the need for carburettors. 

Peter sat quietly, repeating the starting drill to Albert who stood by the cockpit as two burly mechanics grunted at the starting handle. His mind was racing and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the engine crackled into life.

“Take it easy on the first couple of runs, Boss, get the feel of her before you open her up.”

“Right-ho, Albert.”

“Keep a weather eye on the temperature gauge, we don’t want her seizing up on you.”

“Will do.”

“Right, Boss. Ready when you are.”

Peter eased the car into gear and slowly let out the clutch. The car snapped forward and threatened to stall. He depressed the clutch pedal slightly and fed it some more gas. This time it picked up smoothly and accelerated out onto the test area. Somewhere out there, Parry Thomas’s car, ‘Babs,’ was buried under the sands. The long sweep of the huge tidal beach at Pendine stretched out before him and Peter began to concentrate solely on the machine around him. He moved swiftly up through the gears, keeping always below 3000 revs – the figure agreed with Albert. As the car moved faster the vibration increased and he could barely read the dials that seemed to dance in front of his eyes. He hit the marker post for the measured mile and gave her three quarter throttle. The car seemed to leap forward, rushing towards the horizon. The quarter mile markers flew by and then he was braking gently, easing off to turn for the return run. ‘Bethan II’ had touched 180 mph! 

He was more confident this time and pushed a little harder on the way back. The speedometer climbed, 180, 190, 200! Then it was time to brake again and he brought the car back gently to the waiting Albert.


“By Christ! I think we’ve done it this time, Albert. She absolutely flies! What a beauty!” 

“Wonderful drive, Boss, I reckon you must have hit 210 at the back end. All we got to do now is hit that at the front and we got the record!”

The mechanics were busy stripping off the bodywork encasing the front end and Albert listened intently to tick over of the Hispano.

“Sweet as a nut, Boss, sweet as a nut.” 

“When do the scrutineers arrive?”

“Day after tomorrow, so we still got some time to get her perfect for the big day.”

At 10.33 am on 7th March 1928, Peter Riley became the fastest man in history. ‘Bethan II’ clocked 218.6 mph on the measured mile on the first run and 216.2 mph on the return, setting a new world record at 217.4 mph, eclipsing Campbell’s mark of almost 206 mph set the previous month. The press photographers clamoured around them and the reporters shouted questions as Peter and Albert hugged each other and danced a circular jig on the Welsh sand. 

The newspapers the following day were full of it. There was even a gracious quote from Malcolm Campbell and a more robust and frank admission from Henry Segrave who was reported as saying ‘Good God! In that little runabout?’ Peter and Albert returned to Dorset in triumph and were feted as heroes by all but Bethan, who was beside herself with fury that Peter had actually driven the car. The hero was soon reduced to a tongue-tied wreck, shifting uneasily from foot to foot in the full glare of his wife’s wrath.

Worse was to follow. Two weeks after the record-breaking attempt they received official notification that their record would not be ratified. ‘Bethan II’ lacked a reverse gear – something that had recently been introduced as a requirement by the FIA for all cars attempting speed records. They were crestfallen. Albert was drunk for two days and refused to come out of the garage where he sat, nursing a bottle of whisky. Bethan relented and comforted Peter who had simply sat in stunned silence after reading the letter. He felt cheated. He was the fastest man on land in the world and he had lost all official claim to that title on a technicality. ‘Bethan II’ had been completed a scant three days after the new rule came into force. 

Peter and Albert had one further try at Pendine at the end of 1928 and a modified ‘Bethan II’ was timed at 221.65 mph on the first run. Disaster struck on the return. The engine overheated and a radiator hose blew. Peter had the presence of mind to put the car into neutral and coasted to a stop, his dreams in tatters. Twice he had broken the world land speed record and twice he had been denied. Also, if we was honest with himself, it was simply too expensive to compete. It was over. He had promised Bethan he would quit after one last attempt and now he had to honour that commitment. The following year Ray Keech officially claimed Campbell’s record but that was soon eclipsed by both Henry Segrave and later, Campbell himself, who pushed the mark up to 246 mph.

The one good thing to come out of all the frustration was the publicity that Peter Riley and Albert Armitage received. The garage business boomed as people came from far and wide to buy their cars from the world-famous driver. Other racing enthusiasts started to bring their own cars for Albert’s magic treatment and soon, the preparation of racecars was a lucrative sideline to the thriving sales side. So it was something of a bombshell when, in early 1929, Peter announced to Bethan that he was selling out the car dealerships. He had received a very tempting offer from a major London firm and had accepted it.

“But why, Peter? The business is really doing well now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my love. Profits have never been better. I don’t know why but I’m very uneasy about the state of the economy. Everything is going mad and yet it’s only a couple of years or so since the General Strike. I have a nasty feeling about things and this offer is just too good to pass up. We’ll clear about half a million after settling with the banks and I really think I’d be a fool not to take it.”

“But what will you do?”

“Part of the agreement is that I become of a director of their firm. They’ve offered a good salary and I only have to work for them twelve days a month. The rest of the time, well, Albert and I have some ideas and, no, they don’t involve driving, before you ask.”


What they did involve was the design and manufacture of a brand new racing engine and the Riley Armitage engine, with its revolutionary direct fuel injection system, was to become the power plant of choice for racing teams from all over Europe for the next decade. The great crash of 1929 left Peter and Bethan unscathed. They had cash in the bank and the rest they invested quietly in Government Stock. Peter lost his directorship when the big London firm went bust but he found this something of a relief. His job he had likened to that of a performing seal. He’d been trotted out at receptions and promotional events and been asked to say why the latest XYZ Tourer was the best car he had ever driven and so forth. He also disliked the time he had had to spend away from Bethan and the children.

1933 Shadows at the Margins

The small party on the hilltop shivered in the freshening breeze. Two graves of amber marble lay before them. One was weathered, the gold lettering dulled; the other, obviously new, bore the words:

William Augustus Worrell Welford-Barnes

1861-1933

Peter stood silent. He glanced around at the little family gathering. Beside him was Bethan, holding his hand tightly. On the other side was his daughter, Phillipa, the image of her mother even down to the way she gripped his other hand. His son, David, tall and fair-haired like himself, although lately there had been more and more silver among the gold in his own case, was standing a little apart. Next came Beatrice, leaning heavily on her grandson, Michael, but determinedly dry-eyed. Michael; Bethan’s son from her marriage to Phillip; Michael, who on learning that Peter’s world land speed record had not been recognised had said, ‘ well, of course, you can never do anything properly, can you?’ Michael, whom, Peter suspected, was behind the bullying that David had to endure at Stowe School where both were boarders.




Like Father Like Son Ch. 06



Peter sighed inwardly. He caught Michael looking at him through lidded eyes, a look of faint curiosity, almost of appraisal on his face. With William dead, Michael was now the owner of Pitton House and all that that entailed. Of course, he would not inherit in his own right until he reached the age of twenty one but, like it or not, Michael Jonathon Welford-Barnes was a wealthy young man of almost sixteen. 

Despite Peter’s best efforts over the years to build bridges with Phillip’s son, he had failed utterly. Their relationship now was one of open dislike on Michael’s part and strict neutrality on Peter’s. Wherever possible, Peter avoided his stepson’s company. Even Bethan found Michael a trial. He was an extremely good looking boy, fine featured with his mother’s dark colouring and piercing blue eyes; eyes that always struck Peter as being far too cold and calculating for one so young. Michael excelled at sports, something that David found difficult, and was sufficiently bright to do reasonably well academically. With his money and family connections, he had set his sights on a place at Oxford when he finished at Stowe in two years’ time. By contrast, David was clumsy; still at the gawky stage of puberty where his feet seemed too big for him and co-ordination impossible. 

David excelled at school. He was always top of his class, the perfect target for the bullies. Peter could never prove it, of course, but he was certain that Michael was the instigator. Michael was too clever to ever be directly involved. He knew only too well that Peter could deliver a sound thrashing when called upon to do so, something Michael had experienced on one or two occasions, the last only recently for calling his mother a ‘Welsh cow.’ Peter still believed the problem lay largely with Beatrice. She indulged Michael totally; would hear no word spoken against him. It was Beatrice, now the grieving widow, who supplied the expensive presents, who insisted on taking Michael on holidays to France and Italy. Peter felt powerless to intervene. Had it not been for David’s obvious unhappiness, he would have been heartily relieved to see them back to school at the end of Easter. Something would have to be done.

Once the little ceremony at the graveside was over and Beatrice had been escorted back to Pitton House, Michael took the opportunity to slip away while the rest stayed for tea. He was glad to get away from the stultifying air of gloom and that bastard Riley and his precious brats. Besides, he had a rather interesting appointment; at least, he hoped it would be interesting. The girl was a trollop, of course, but she was pretty enough, for all that. What was her name again? Meg, yes, that was it. The daughter of one of the estate workers with artful, knowing eyes and a fine set of tits that just begged to be squeezed. And he was just the very fellow to oblige. 


Perhaps he might go further, get his hand into her knickers and finger her juicy cunt. He felt himself becoming aroused as he imagined it. She wouldn’t be the first, of course. That privilege belonged to his housemaster’s wife who had initiated him into the mysteries of sex last term. Christ, she was hot – even if she was old enough to be his mother and her tits sagged down to her belly. That had given him the confidence to try elsewhere and Meg Horniblow – Christ, what a stupid name – seemed a likely sort. 

He met her at the back of the orchard, as arranged. She simpered at him – silly little bitch. He pulled her roughly to him and kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She spluttered a bit at first but soon got the hang of it. His hands moved to her coat and he almost tore the buttons off in his rush to undo it. She squeaked a bit when his hand found her tit and muttered something like ‘not so hard, Michael, you’re hurting me.’ He exulted in her pain and squeezed some more, rubbing his thumb roughly over her nipple as he felt its firmness through her blouse. He sensed he was losing her and panicked for a second or two before easing off just a little and she settled down and accepted his kisses once more. He’d have to be more careful if he was to get what he wanted. 

She wriggled a little in his arms, her back against a gnarled old apple tree. He was gentler now as he eased her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. Damn! She was wearing some sort of bodice. He pushed it up to expose the skin of her stomach and the underside of her breasts. She was mumbling a protest of sorts into his mouth but he knew it wasn’t serious, as she didn’t push his hands away. At last! He had freed her breasts and he feasted his eyes on them. They were gorgeous! Perfectly conical, jutting towards him in their pink-nippled glory. He swooped and took one into his mouth, sucking hard on the perky little tip and teasing it with his tongue, just as Mrs Swainson had shown him, back at school. Meg’s tits were much, much nicer than old Mrs Swainson’s. Meg’s were firm and weren’t ruined by stretch marks. Meg was beginning to enjoy it, he could tell. He switched breasts, sucking on the other while rubbing the slick, wet nipple between his finger and thumb. This was better. The silly little tart was begging for it! 

He relinquished his hold on Meg’s breast and his hand dived under her skirt, forcing its way between her thighs. She clamped his hand for a moment then gave way, letting her legs part as he insinuated a finger under the leg of her pants. He caught the sharp smell of her sex and it intoxicated him. He almost shoved her down onto the damp ground, only just remembering to spread out his overcoat under her. He didn’t see the look of alarm in her eyes; he didn’t hear her protests as he hiked up her skirt and tugged her panties down to her knees. He half fell on her, pinning her down with his weight and superior strength. He took her struggles for enthusiasm. Then he had his finger sliding into her. God! She was tight; tight and hot and wet. He jammed another finger into her, rotating his palm against her mons as he did so. He didn’t notice she was crying now. 

He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, shoving them swiftly over his hips and letting his massive erection spring free. He didn’t think his cock had ever been so hard, not even when he’d buggered that pretty little first year boy who liked to suck off the prefects at school. He pushed against her. She lay still, eyes wide like a rabbit hypnotised by a poacher’s lamp. He wasn’t looking at her face though. He leaned forward and bit her nipple hard. It was a mistake. She screamed and somehow found the strength to throw him off. Freed from his weight, Meg was suddenly able to move and move she did. She stepped out of the restricting panties and ran for her life, away from that cruel, thrusting hand, those sharp, hurtful teeth and most of all, away from those mad, mad eyes. 

Later that night. Michael faced Peter in his stepfather’s study.

“I didn’t do anything. We were just messing around a bit, I swear!”

“That’s not what Mr Horniblow says. The way he tells it, Meg came in near hysterics, yelling that you’d tried to rape her.”

“Then she’s a lying little cow. I admit that I felt her up a bit but she was game for that, game as anything. On my honour, I swear to you that was all it was.”

“Her father tells me that she has a very pronounced bruise on one breast; a bruise that looks very much like a bite mark.”

“Well I didn’t put it there. Anyway, who’re you going to believe, me or some common little skirt from the village?”

“Michael, is that really the best you can do? That common little skirt, as you so delicately put it, is only thirteen years old. Her father wants to go the police. You are in a lot of trouble, my boy.”


“Sorry, stepfather. I didn’t mean it, of course. It’s simply that I’m upset about being accused of something I didn’t do. I bet Grandmama offered him money, didn’t she. There! You see? The whole things trumped up so they can get their hands on some lucre. And I didn’t know she was thirteen. She looks a lot older and she said she was nearly sixteen, just like me.”

“Do you still maintain you did nothing at all to hurt this girl?”

“Nothing. We were just messing about and she went along with it, loved it in fact. She couldn’t keep her hands off me. I bet it’s not the first time as well. You know what they’re like, these peasants, at it like rabbits, I dare say.”

Peter shook his head. He knew Michael was lying but he knew also that was absolutely nothing he could do. Mr Horniblow had been angry and apologetic at the same time. Had said he didn’t want to intrude at a time of grief etc but he wanted some satisfaction for the hurt done his little Meg, who, as everyone knew, was a good girl. Beatrice had harrumphed at this and he had had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Beatrice had simply gone to her room and returned with twenty crisp £5 notes. As soon as Horniblow saw the stack of white paper, his demeanour changed. He’d tried to disguise the avarice but confronted with something like five or six months’ wages for an agricultural labourer, he became conciliatory, suggesting perhaps it was a misunderstanding after all and making no further mention of the police.

When he left, one hundred pounds to the good, Beatrice had been loftily dismissive of the whole affair.

“I know that girl and she is trouble. I suspect that she was fooling around with Michael and got found out; invented the rest to shift the blame, little bitch. My grandson is a young gentleman and far too innocent in the wicked ways of the world, Peter. I have no doubt she lead him on. Peter, you will really have to a talk with a Michael – explain to him about the birds and the bees – you know what to do. We can’t have him getting trapped by some little gold-digger, you know.” 

Peter had been rendered speechless and made his exit. He was fuming inwardly but now, confronting Michael, he found he just felt tired. He got up from behind his desk and moved closer to the offender. Stooping slightly, so that their faces were on a level, he stared into Michael’s eyes, saying nothing. Michael blanched. Peter continued to hold his eyes until Michael was forced to look away.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her. You must believe me. I just sort of got carried away. And she didn’t ask me to stop. I was a bit clumsy, I suppose. I wouldn’t have raped her. Please, say you believe me! I mean, she lay down on my coat, didn’t she?”

Michael’s voice trailed off in the face of Peter’s silence. He looked at his stepfather’s face and saw the contempt written there. It made him shrink inside. Peter slowly straightened, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. When he spoke it was in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone but his eyes never left Michael’s face.

“Michael, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been a little shit. Now, it appears, you have become a shit of the first water. There is little I can do about that and less that I care to do. You must go to Hell your own way. I would just ask you to consider this. Your father was the gentlest man I have ever known. He was also one of the bravest. I am so proud to have known him and to have had him as my friend. If he was alive to see what he helped bring into the world today, he would be ashamed. I am ashamed for him. I am ashamed for your mother and your grandparents but, most of all, I’m ashamed for you. For whatever reason, the Good Lord alone knows why, you have been blessed with more than your share of advantages in this life. Yet, continually, you choose to abuse them.

“How do you think your father would react to learning his son was a little animal who cannot control his more beastly urges? Do you think he would approve? By God, I think not. I believe he would have wept, as your mother is doing as we speak. Does that make you proud of yourself? That’s two women you have reduced to tears in the space of one afternoon. What an achievement, eh, Michael? What a hero, what a tough lad you are.

“It is high time, young man, that you stopped acting like a spoilt brat. You may be able to pull the wool over other people’s eyes but not mine. I know you for what you really are: a despicable little shit with no saving graces. Once again, you have appeared to get away with it. Now, mark my words, if there is ever a next time, it will be curtains. I won’t hesitate to go the authorities myself and see you put away as, I believe, you richly deserve. 


“And while we’re having this little chat, let’s just talk about your brother for a moment. I know you’re behind the bullying and ragging he suffers at Stowe. It stops now. Do I make myself understood? Good, because tomorrow, I’m going get a signed statement from young Miss Horniblow and I am going to keep it as an earnest of your future behaviour. Now get out of my sight and stay there for the rest of the holidays. Your very presence makes me nauseous.”

Michael stood in stunned silence for a moment then ducked his head in brief acknowledgement before fleeing from the terrible presence of his stepfather. He was staggered. It was the total lack of anger in Peter that had impressed Michael above all else. His stepfather had stood there and judged him, coldly, dispassionately. No one had ever done that before. And it was really unfair to bring his father into it. Part of him wanted to scream ‘I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’ while another part was burning with anger. How dare that big bastard speak to him like that, how dare he threaten him? 

He spent a sleepless night, wrestling with himself. It was light before he reached a resolution. Let them win for now, he thought. I’ll play along. I’ll toe the line. But just you wait! Revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I’ll have my revenge and savour it, just wait and see. And as for David, I’ll leave the little brat alone and tell my pals to do the same. Much good it would do! I’ll be gone in a couple of years, thank God, and a whole new lot of seniors will find David Riley an irresistible target. And even if they don’t, my chance will come. I’ll have them all, one day.

Michael wasn’t the only thing occupying Peter’s attention that year. On 30th January, Germany appointed a new Chancellor. His name, although few people outside that country knew it, was Adolf Hitler. By May, the rest of Europe was looking quizzically at the new German regime. Book burnings, the ostracism of German Jews and the ruthlessness with which political opponents were dealt with were widely reported in the newspapers of the time – in some cases, not entirely unfavourably. Peter felt a strange sense of despondency as he read of what was happening. A vague sense of unease, almost of alarm, pervaded his thoughts although in this he was very much in the minority. Peter’s unease solidified later in the year when he read in Flight that the German government had ordered the formation of a new air force and had plans for an air fleet of 1000 aircraft. In Britain the government did nothing and military spending was reduced further.

Peter found himself drawn to the views of the maverick politician, Churchill. He read a piece in The Times reporting Churchill’s speech to the House of Commons and nodded in accord at the words:

"The rise of Germany . . . to anything like military equality with France, Poland or the small states, means a renewal of a general European war."

Worse was to follow when Germany withdrew from the League of Nations. He confided his fears to Bethan one evening:

“It’s all starting over again, my love. I fear for the future, for our children.”

Bethan, too, caught some of Peter’s unease. After his prescience in selling the motor business, she had come to regard his feelings as well founded. She started to take a more active interest in what was happening in the world and what she read confirmed her husband’s gloomy view.

1934-1936 The Shadows Lengthen

Paul von Hindenburg, war hero and President of Germany, died on 2nd August 1934. Hitler took the opportunity to unite the offices of Chancellor and President, a move approved by 88% of German voters. Winston Churchill and a few others, Peter and Bethan among them, looked on in dismay. German re-armament gathered pace; in Britain, there was little response. Fascism was on the rise throughout Europe. Anti-Semitism was socially and politically acceptable everywhere. Hitler echoed the pronouncement of Henry Ford that ‘75% of communists are Jews’ and still managed to reconcile this with an assertion that Germany was the victim of a Jewish/Capitalist conspiracy. 

At home, things seemed to have settled down. The bullying that David had endured at school had ceased and Phillipa started at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Peter celebrated his 40th birthday with a party. Beatrice was too frail to attend. 

The last Bristol Fighter was withdrawn from Royal Air Force service.


In March the following year, Germany repudiated the arms limitations imposed by the treaty of Versailles. Churchill urged the British government to rearm more vigorously. France completed the Maginot Line. The National Government fell that year and the Conservative Party won the 1935 General Election. Stanley Baldwin became Prime Minister and re-armament appeared on the political agenda. Encouraged by this, Peter and Albert spent a fruitless period trying to sell the idea of using direct fuel injection for aircraft engines to the Air Ministry. The proposals were referred to a committee and vanished without trace.

Michael completed his education at Stowe. There had been no further hints of scandal but Peter was left with the feeling that the school were not sorry to see Michael leave. His Housemaster appeared to be particularly relieved. It was agreed that Michael would go up to Oxford that autumn and Peter was pleasantly surprised when Michael sought his approval to join the University Air Squadron and learn to fly. David was green with envy. 

David spent every moment of his spare time and every penny of his allowance on model aircraft. He built and flew model SE5s, Hawker Harts and even a Bristol Fighter, which he painted in the colours of 48 Squadron. He constantly badgered Peter to take him to air displays and could recognise every military aircraft silhouette. A copy of Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft was the birthday present of choice. His bedroom was covered in pictures and posters of aeroplanes of every nation. His joy knew no bounds when Peter arranged a Christmas treat to see the new Hawker Hurricane monoplane fighter that made its first flight that year.

Now aged 15, David had outgrown some of his previous clumsiness. Peter recognised that his son had a strong engineering bent and encouraged this as much as possible. Albert would spend hours with the boy talking about compression ratios and even helped to build a miniature aero engine to power the model Supermarine S6 that was David’s pride and joy. 

Pinky Harris showed up during the Christmas holidays. He had remained in the Royal Air Force and was now a Group Captain on the staff of Bomber Command. David spent every waking moment in Pinky’s company, demanding details of the geodetic construction of the new Wellesley Bomber. Pinky confessed to Peter and Bethan that David seemed to know more about the arcane mysteries of Barnes Wallace’s new design than he did. 

Conversation turned to more sombre subjects as they discussed the prospects for peace in Europe. 

“At least we’re getting some proper funding at last.”

“Too little, too late, Peter, old fruit. The Huns are well ahead of us in both Bomber and Fighter construction. OK, I grant you that we have some good new machines on the drawing board and on the stocks, but I still have my doubts.”

“Don’t you think that bombers make another war unthinkable? I mean, all that destruction, any country would flattened in days, wouldn’t it?”




Like Father Like Son Ch. 07



October 1938 A Piece of Paper

Peter sat in the darkened cinema staring in anguish at the flickering images on the screen. It was the newsreel before the main feature – the latest Alfred Hitchcock thriller – and he had decided to take Bethan to see it on the spur of the moment. The giant black and white figure of Neville Chamberlain danced before his eyes. Of course, it was old news. Chamberlain’s return from Munich and his proclamation of ‘peace with honour… peace for our time’ had filled the newspapers for the last few days. Now, confronted with the moving image and reedy voice of the narrow-shouldered Prime Minister, Peter felt again that sense of cold outrage. The clapping and cheering of the audience drowned the scratchy soundtrack. Bethan gripped Peter’s hand in the darkness. She found herself horribly confused. Her heart wanted to believe the pinstriped little man but her head told her it was disaster he brought back from Germany, not a triumph.

They had first heard the news on the BBC. Peter was aghast.

“So that’s it, then. Czechoslovakia is going to be surrendered without so much as a whisper of protest. Dismissed as a ‘squabble in a faraway country between people of which we know nothing.’ My God, Bethan, it makes me sick to my stomach!”

“What will happen now, Peter?”

“Hitler will get the Czech armaments factories to add to the Krupps and Thyssens. The Czechs will get the shitty end of the stick and Saint Neville will probably get the Nobel Peace Prize for selling them out.”

The Germans marched into Czechoslovakia unopposed, past some of the best-equipped troops and strongest frontier defences in Europe. Even Peter admitted the idea of peace was seductive – especially to a nation that not long since endured the long agonies of the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele and too many others. There did not seem many who agreed with Churchill when he told Parliament:

"I think you will find that in a period of time, which may be measured by years, but may be measured only in months, Czechoslovakia will be engulfed in the Nazi regime.”

Peter believed him, though, and so did Bethan, even if her heart bled for it. Mostly she feared for her sons. Michael was now in the Royal Auxiliary Air Force and spent his weekends with his squadron. Regular officers like Pinky Harris might dismiss the Auxiliaries as the ‘best flying club in the world’ but still acknowledged that the rich young men, who indulged their passion for flying while still pursuing careers in the City, would soon be in the firing line in the event of war. Her younger son, David, was in his last year at Stowe School and was intent on joining the RAF as soon as he finished. He had secured a place at the RAF College, Cranwell, and couldn’t wait to matriculate in a few more months.

The family saw little of Michael these days. When he did put in a rare appearance he was sarcastically superior to his brother and sister and coldly polite to Peter and Bethan. David had wanted Michael to tell him all about the Auxiliary Air Force squadron. Michael had simply stared at his stepbrother and then turned away. He never missed an opportunity to sneer at David and the frank stares that he gave Phillipa made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. Phillipa was approaching sixteen and quite self-conscious about her ripening figure. When Michael was at home she took to wearing loose and baggy clothes in an attempt to disguise herself from his hot eyes. 

“I hate the way he looks at me, Mummy. It’s like he can see through my clothes,” she told Bethan. Bethan had noticed it too and she knew Michael was trying to make his sister feel awkward. He revelled in inflicting little, spiteful wounds on David and Phillipa and never seemed to miss their vulnerabilities. There is a perverse talent in such cruelty and Michael possessed this in abundance. Bethan had long since given up hoping that it was a phase he would outgrow. She could recognise him for what he was but loved him in spite of it. Only Beatrice, now elderly and frail, was oblivious to Michael’s failings. She saw her grandson as a paragon of all the virtues and still indulged him constantly. It was she who had bought him a new Aston Martin drophead and, unbeknownst to either Bethan or Peter, had paid his gambling debts on more than one occasion. 


The more Bethan thought about Michael, the more depressed she became. David and Phillipa weren’t – had never been – one tenth of the trouble. She could not begin to understand why Michael was so different. It surely couldn’t be just jealousy – not after all this time. It wasn’t as if he’d ever known his real father. He appeared to hate Peter with a rare passion when that good man had never been anything other than fair to all his children. Well, yes, she would acknowledge that Peter had no real feelings for Michael but it wasn’t for the want of trying. Michael had rebuffed any advances from an early age and never even bothered to conceal his dislike for Peter. Small wonder, then, if Peter wasn’t as warm towards him as to his own children.

David revered Albert second only to his father. Now that Albert was wealthy in his own right, he had moved to a larger house nearby and Albert, his wife and, by now, numerous children were constant welcome visitors. Albert’s oldest boy, Peter, was extremely bright and David’s boon companion in the model aeroplane making that still consumed all David’s free time. They had long since graduated from shop-bought construction kits and now designed and built their own machines. It had taken a long while for young Peter to abandon his preference for biplanes and embrace David’s enthusiasm for the modern monoplane but once he had, his ingenuity and eye for detail had impressed both their fathers. At first Albert had been reluctant but with persuasion from both Bethan and Peter and faced with the pleas of his son, young Peter had also been placed at Stowe.

Albert’s main concern, that his boy would be a ‘fish out of water among the toffs’ proved happily groundless. With a modicum of support from David and owing much to his natural ability, ‘Young Peter,’ as the boy was universally known, had settled in well and was exceedingly happy at school. Michael’s prediction that others would soon find David an irresistible target for bullying proved mercifully wide of the mark. His long frame had filled out and, while his prowess werewas still more in the academic field than the sporting, his relaxed nature and unassuming manner made him popular with both staff and pupils. Both boys were aware that Michael had left something of an unsavoury reputation behind him and rumours abounded of dark goings-on. Young Peter was untouched by this but David always felt that he needed to atone for Michael’s misdemeanours. That was the only cloud on his youthful horizon.

Peter Riley’s horizon was all clouds. He was certain now that war would come and come soon. His contacts with the Air Ministry remained fruitless and when the new Supermarine Spitfire joined the Hurricane at the front line of Britain’s air defences, it would still be equipped with carburettors and suffer from the same handicap – the engine cutting after seven seconds of inverted flight as the carburettors flooded. He had written to Kingsley Wood, the Air Minister, and received a stony rebuttal. He wrote to Churchill, a deeply passionate but reasoned missive, explaining the situation. Churchill had responded with characteristic energy and enthusiasm but had been equally fobbed off when he had raised the matter in the House of Commons. Peter received an apologetic and richly humorous letter from Churchill: 

I assailed the pygmies on yours and the Nation’s behalf, Mr Riley. The difficulty one encounters during any dealings with pygmies is the latter’s profound inability to see higher than the knees of proper men. Like me, Mr Riley, you must not become discouraged or downhearted. Once we are clear of the entangling forest, the pygmies shall not survive for long. And while the lions devour their short rations, we longer legged men may make it safely to the uplands.”

Peter framed the letter and displayed on the wall of his office. His only worry was the lions might not be respecters of leg length. He read every book and article on the subject of air warfare he could lay his hands on. He made a nuisance of himself to politicians, journalists and military men alike, bombarding with them with demands that they support rearmament on a significant scale. The newspapers of the day were singing a different tune with the honourable exception of William Connor, ‘Cassandra,’ of the Daily Mirror. He visited Germany regularly and wrote in April of 1938:

“Before this visit to Germany I always had a sneaking feeling that there was a strong undercurrent of opposition to Hitler. I am now certain that I was wrong. I now know that this man has the absolute unswerving confidence of the people. They will do anything for him. They worship him. They regard him as a god. Do not let us deceive ourselves in this country that Hitler may be dislodged by enemies within his own frontiers.”

The country as a whole appeared to be more prepared to believe Chamberlain rather than heed the warnings of Connor and Churchill. 

Peter’s anger and frustration grew. In part it stemmed from the recognition that his countrymen were hiding from the truth. He simply couldn’t understand why this should be. He had thought, after the utter destruction of the Basque town of Guernica the previous year, that the powers-that-be would awaken from their self-imposed slumber. In a little over two hours, German and Italian bombers had reduced Guernica to a blazing pyre. The town had burned for three days. Peter noticed with a jaundiced eye that the commander of the raiding forces was one Wolfram von Richthofen, cousin of the Red Baron. 

The bombing of Guernica produced two almost diametrically opposed reactions. The ‘prophets of doom,’ like Churchill and Peter, saw it again as evidence that Britain should start to rearm as rapidly as possible. The ‘appeasers’ used it as an argument to demonstrate that war was impossible to prosecute successfully in this modern age. Guernica proved that a country would be overwhelmed in next to no time by the hideous power of the bomber fleets. There was simply nothing that could be done. Peter discussed the situation with Pinky Harris on one of the latter’s visits to Dorset.

“The way I see it, Pinky, and of course, you will know far more than me, the bombing of Guernica was easy for the swine because it was daylight and they were utterly unopposed. I can’t help but think that any Air Force couldn’t achieve that sort of result in the teeth of disciplined opposition.”

“Well, yes and no, Peter. Our calculations show that if you can put enough aircraft in the air at any one time, you can literally overwhelm the defences. Our problem is that we simply don’t have enough aircraft to do this to an enemy.”

“What about these new types?”

“The ‘Whitley’ is too slow. The ‘Blenheim’ is a good aircraft but doesn’t really carry much of a load and isn’t exactly over-endowed with speed compared to these monoplane fighters the Huns have got. The ‘Wellesley’ is a joke, even if it did set a long distance record. The ‘Wellington’ is a good aircraft but is probably underpowered. There’s a new one that will be entering squadron service next year called the ‘Hampden.’ I don’t have great hopes of it, personally. On top of that lot, we have a disaster waiting to happen called the Fairey Battle. God knows what possessed the Air Ministry to buy that one. I suppose it might be all right bombing recalcitrant wogs on the North West frontier, but it ain’t up to much else, and that’s a fact.”

“Good God, Pinky, you make it sound as if we haven’t a clue what we are about.”

“We, in the Air Force, know. The problem lies with the politicians. They issue specs to the manufacturers that are out of date before they even begin. Things are changing so quickly, Peter, you wouldn’t believe it. There’s an ‘ex- brat’ called Whittle who seems to have designed a new engine that won’t need a propeller – but that’s a long way off still.”

“Ex-brat? What’s that?”

“Sorry, Peter. Ex-apprentice. Those who joined as boy entrants are ‘ex-brats.’ Silly really, but – you know - the Air Force has it’s own language, like the RFC used to. Anyway, the important thing is that things are developing very quickly and we seem to be wandering about with our thumbs up our bums and our minds firmly in ‘neutral.’neutral. All I can say is thank God for these new fighters – they really are the right drill.”

The first Supermarine Spitfires had entered RAF Service with No. 19 Squadron that year. There were also two squadrons of Hawker Hurricanes. These new fighters had already captured the public’s imagination and were greeted with rapturous cheers at any air display at which they happened to appear. As usual, Peter thought, they were too little, too late. 

January 1939 Reasons to sleep soundly

The New Year’s celebrations were in full swing. David Riley, not quite eighteen and achingly self-conscious as he danced, was doing his best to ignore the insinuating press of soft breasts against his chest. He was terrified of getting an erection and thus insulting the angel currently filling his arms. Her name was Johanna Hepworth-Lloyd and David thought it the most heavenly sound he had ever heard. Johanna was the daughter of Dr and Mrs Hepworth-Lloyd. The doctor was the local physician and the couple had become friendly with Peter and Bethan over the past couple of years. The two women shared a passion for rose growing and had been frequent rivals at the village fetes and flower shows. Their husbands, neither of whom was remotely interested in floribundas or hybrid teas, had struck up a conversation at one such event and things had developed from there. 

David could scarcely believe he had been blissfully unaware of the existence of their daughter all these years. Of course, she was away at school most of the time, as he was. Johanna boarded at Roedean in Sussex. She was a tall girl with lively green eyes and carrot-red hair, which she hated. She was teased a lot and was very sensitive, blushing the brightest shade of red at the least provocation. There was still something unformed about her; she was the type writers describe as ‘coltish’; long in the limbs and slim, but with curves in all the right places. When David had screwed his courage to the sticking point and finally asked her to dance; as stammeringly anxious as it was possible to be without being totally incoherent, her first reaction had been a flash of anger. She was quite convinced that this tall young man was mocking her in some way. It was only when she looked into his desperate eyes that she realised he was utterly sincere and, which was more, gazing at her in undisguised admiration. 

Something had lurched in her breast at the realisation and she studied him more closely. She decided she liked what she saw. He was tall, above six feet as far as she could judge. He had what she would call an ‘open’ face. His eyes were blue and framed by ridiculously long lashes – wasted on a boy, she thought. His hair was obviously blonde and curly but had been mashed into a nondescript light brown submission through the over application of a copious amount of brilliantine. His hands and feet were enormous, which instantly made her blush scarlet as she remembered a conversation in the school dormitory that had equated the size of a man’s extremities with the size of something else. She forced herself to smile and rose to her feet, accompanying him onto the dance floor. 

They were now on their third successive dance. Each was reluctant to sever the contact between them but, and at the same time, they were both painfully aware of the approving looks of both sets of parents, which was pure mortification. The band was playing popular tunes. David was familiar with only the waltz and the fox trot but was intimately acquainted with neither, so they danced whichever most closely approximated to the rhythm of the number being played. Johanna was a good dancer and helped David out, using her skill to avoid having her feet crushed as he stomped mechanically around the floor, counting the movements in his head. When the music came to an end with the susurration of brushes on a snare drum, he took the opportunity to lead her from the floor towards a small table in the corner. 

“I say, would you like a drink? The punch is pretty beastly but there isn’t much else.”

She smiled at him and nodded and he slipped up to the bar, returning with two glasses of punch of a vaguely urinous colour in which floated unidentifiable fragments of fruit. Johanna took a sip of her drink and pulled a face:

“You were right, it is pretty beastly.”

They regarded each other in silence. Johanna could see the frantic mental activity going on in David’s mind as he desperately searched for something to say. Sympathy welled up in her. She sensed his difficulty stemmed from the need to engage her attention – to not make a fool of himself. He was turning pink under her steady gaze. She decided to release from his agony.

“It’s quite all right you know. You don’t have to try to impress me.”

David shot her a pained smile.


“I’m sorry. I never know what to say when I talk to girls.”

“What would you talk about to a boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know, anything. Whatever was happening at the time.”

“So, here we are, it’s New Year’s Eve. In half an hour it will be 1939. What do you hope the New Year will bring?”

“I’m not sure. Peace, I suppose, but that wouldn’t be exactly right. I know it sounds terrible but part of me wants there to be a war.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Why? War is terrible. Daddy was in the Great War and it was so awful he won’t talk about it even to this day. That’s a hateful thing to wish for.”

David looked miserable.

“You’re quite right. War is horrible. My father was in the RFC in the last one. It’s not that I want war for any kind of cheap thrill. I’m not that stupid. It’s, well, it’s a question of doing what’s right. We can’t go on giving in to Hitler. Sooner or later someone will have to stand up to him. Of course I want peace, but I don’t think it should be at any price.”

“So you agree with that Mr Churchill? Daddy says he’s just an opportunist who will change parties at the drop of a hat to further his own ends.”

“I don’t much care for politics, Johanna. All I know is that Hitler wants to rule the world and won’t stop until he does. I hate everything fascism stands for, I hate them all: Hitler, Mussolini, that ridiculous man, Moseley. It simply isn’t right to attack people simply because they are different from you. When I saw the pictures in the paper of Moseley’s Black Shirts in Brick Lane, it made my blood boil.” 

She was amused by the passion in his voice and yet it also touched her.

“David, I agree with you. I don’t want to have a war but I really think we might have to – to stop all those horrid little dictators from taking over everything. Moseley won’t manage it here, though. We are far too sensible, not like the Italians or Germans. Do you really think it will be this year?” 

“I don’t know. My Godfather is a Group Captain in the Air Force. He says we simply aren’t ready for it yet. He doesn’t think we’ll be ready until 1942 but he also says he doubts we’ll have that long.”

“But you would be in it, if it happens, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I’m to go to Cranwell this summer. Flying training takes a while, you know.”

“Gosh! You’re going to be a pilot, then. I wish girls could to do exciting things like that.”

“They can! Look at Amy Johnson and Amelia Earhart. If it does come to war, I expect there will be lots of things that girls will have to do because this time, everyone will be in the front line.”




Like Father Like Son Ch. 07



They both fell silent as the implications of David’s assertion sank in. They were interrupted by a sudden stir within the room. Colonel Williams, Master of Fox Hounds and prime mover behind the New Year Ball, had taken over the microphone from the crooner. The band fell silent. The Colonel was nearly seventy but straight as a ramrod and still riding to hounds as befitted a retired cavalryman or ‘donkey walloper,’ as 


Peter irreverently called him. There were spots of colour on the man’s cheeks and his nose glowed like one of the new Beleisha beacons that had recently appeared on the streets to mark pedestrian crossings. Even so, his voice was steady and there was no hint of drunkenness as he announced the countdown to the New Year in clipped, martial tones at a volume that rendered the microphone redundant.

The crowd joined in:

“Eight! Seven! Six!”

David and Johanna moved from their table into the centre of the room to join in the singing and clasped handshand-clasping of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ For a little while, at least, everyone forgot about the storm clouds gathering over Europe and sang lustily, wishing each other ‘all the best’ for 1939. Handshakes and kisses were being exchanged all around them. David stood awkwardly then thrust out his hand. Johanna almost laughed out loud but instead, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips, giggling when his eyes went wide in wonder. Then they both blushed furiously as shouts of encouragement from one or two of the less sober members of the party reached them. 

All too soon for David, the Ball came to an end. The ‘last waltz’ was played and he forgot some of his earlier shyness as he danced with Johanna. He was no longer conscious of her body; simply her presence in his arms and the strange, warm feeling that she engendered in him. He asked her, hesitantly, if they could go walking together the next day. She smiled and said she would love to and they made hasty arrangements to meet in the village square at noon before she was swept away by her smiling and somewhat unsteady parents.

David had to endure some gentle ribbing from his father as he made himselffor ready for meeting Johanna. Bethan, amused but feeling a tinge of sadness, watched her younger son blush and stammer while protesting Johanna ‘was just a friend.’ David would be eighteen in a couple of months and Bethan sighed inwardly at the thought that she was now something of a matron. Phillipa didn’t help matters by giggling every time she looked in his directions and David was glad to get out of the house. He strode out into the crisp clear air of a bright morning and walked briskly the three or so miles into Beaminster. He had been so anxious to avoid the comments at home that he left early and found himself entering the square some twenty minutes before midday. 

He was surprised to see Johanna already there, sitting on a stone bench under the market cross and kicking her heels as she looked around her. She saw him coming and jumped to her feet. 

“Hello, you’re early!”

“My father was being a bit of a rotter and I couldn’t wait to escape. Didn’t really look at the time to tell you the truth.”

“Yours too? I had to put up with ‘I suppose my little girl is all grown up.’ I think they think it’s funny.”

“I know. Parents can be so embarrassing at times. I thought we’d walk up past Pitton House and over to Netherbury. Are you game?”

“Absolutely! And, David.”

“Yes?”

“Oh nothing, really. It’s just nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Johanna.”

“Oh, do call me Jo. Johanna sounds so familial – it’s what my father insists on calling me and I hate it – the name I mean.”

“I think it’s a perfectly lovely name, for a perfectly lovely girl.”

They stared at each other and then looked away, each overcome with shyness and the recognition that something quite unknown was beginning. David opened his mouth to speak but found no words, so he gave a slight gesture and they walked off down towards the Church, turning left towards the river then turning right, taking the lane that led to the open fields. A few curious cows stared as they passed through a couple of fields and then they were into the sunken pathway that ran along the back of Pitton House. It was here that they encountered Beatrice. 

“Peter? Peter, is that you? Where’s Phillip?”

“Oh, hello, Mrs Welford-Barnes. I’m David, Peter’s son.”

“Peter, you’re very naughty, playing games with an old lady. I’m looking for Phillip and Miss Meredith. They went out for a walk and will soon be late for luncheon. If you see them, Peter, be sure to tell them to hurry home.” 

“Uh, yes, Mrs Welford-Barnes, I’ll be sure to tell them if I see them.”

They walked on in silence, leaving the frail, distracted figure behind them.

“David, who on earth was that?”

“Mrs Welford-Barnes. My half-brother’s grandmother.”

“She thought you were your father. And who are Phillip and Miss Meredith?”

“Phillip was her son and my mother’s first husband. He was killed in the Great War. He was dad’s best friend. My mum’s name used to be Meredith.”

“Oh golly! How sad, sort of Dickensian, really – a bit like Miss Faversham!”

David shook his head and climbed a styile. He paused to help Johanna and then headed up the hill. They climbed out of the trees and came upon the hilltop graves. 

“Phillip’s buried there. The other grave belongs to his father, the old lady’s husband.”

Johanna turned and surveyed the view from the hill. She was about to pass some comment but caught herself as she noticed the dark look on David’s face.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Sometimes I hate this place. All my life, somehow, we’ve been under their shadow. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well I can’t if you don’t explain it, David. Who’se shadow have you been under?”

“Mostly it’s my half brother, Michael. He’s a beastly swine. Always rubbing dad’s nose in it. He’s been rotten to Phillipa as well.”

“But not to you?”

“Oh, he tries, but I ignore him, these days.”

She sensed the hurt concealed behind these casual words and her heart went out to him. In the very little time she had known him, she had come to realise that he was a gentle, sensitive soul and although she had never met his half-brother, she was more than ready to dislike him intensely. 

They spent the winter afternoon walking the hills and talking. David could not suppress the feeling that, somehow, he had known Johanna all his life and said as much. She smiled shyly back at him and hugged herself, only partly against the cold. She, too, felt this sense of connection with him. She was a down-to-earth sort of girl and harboured few illusions about herself. She knew she wasn’t beautiful or even conventionally pretty but David made her feel as if she was the most gorgeous creature who’d ever walked the earth. Whenever he looked at her, she could see the admiration writ large upon his face and it made her glow inside to know that she had this effect upon him. There was something of the overgrown puppy about David, she decided; one of those large, friendly, loyal dogs like a Newfoundland or something. He didn’t move at all gracefully and his feet were far too big but there was an endearing quality to his awkwardness. 

Sometimes he would turn to her to say something but caught himself simply gazing at her in wonder. He had absolutely no experience of girls apart from his sister and, of course, she didn’t count. Phillipa was nearly sixteen now and seemed to delight in teasing him and he was always at a loss how to respond. He felt safe in the company of men and was happiest when, hands covered in grease, he was working at something to do with aeroplanes with Albert or Young Peter. Now Johanna had come into his life and he kept slipping into a state of wonder bordering on catatonia. When this happened, and it was obvious from the slightly vacant expression that settled on his face, Johanna enjoyed his discomfort, well aware that she was the root cause of it. There had been moments when she had been tempted to tease him, to see the flush of embarrassment colour his face, but something held her back. It was as if she sensed that these embryonic feelings of mutual attraction were too fragile for such rough handling. Far better to stay on safe ground; to accept the occasional wordlessness as if it were simply her due. Intimacy would come in time.

She liked it best when he talked about his life, what he wanted to do. At such times he became animated and she could feel the fierceness of his passion for flying and flying machines. Her father, the good doctor, had initially dismissed the Rileys as a family of mad eccentrics, the father something of a speed-demon and the boy – well, he was always to be seen dragging some fantastic model aircraft up to the open fields behind the village, a smaller boy at his heels. Then her parents had got to know David’s family better and Peter was pronounced a ‘sound man.’ Dr Hepworth-Lloyd would never agree with Peter’s politics, of course, being a staunch supporter of Chamberlain and the party of appeasement, but he learnt to respect the sincerity of Peter’s views. Even then, at the beginning of 1939, Peter was in a small minority of the British people. Hadn’t the Daily Express, that very morning, published a leader giving ‘ten reasons why we should all sleep soundly in 1939?’ Johanna was no longer convinced either her father or the Daily Express had it right.

David and Johanna spent as much time in each other’s company as was possible over the next few days. David took her to the workshop and introduced her to Albert and Young Peter – the latter had stared at her round eyed, as if she were some exotic species he had never encountered before. Albert had paid her the compliment of taking her entirely in his stride. He hadn’t made any facetious comments to David and made no attempt to patronise her, asking her questions in the same considered and deliberate manner as that which he used to address David or Peter. Johanna liked him instantly, just as she liked Bethan. Bethan recognised the fragile signs of first love in her son and went out of her way to do absolutely nothing about it. She didn’t talk to David about it or tease him as Peter did. While David resembled his father physically, he lacked Peter’s self-assurance. Bethan dimly remembered the hesitant, shy girl she had been and her heart went out to David in his awkwardness. Some instinct told her that Johanna was exactly the right girl for David at this time. Johanna was smart, confident enough without being brash or overwhelming and well, plain sensible, a quality Bethan approved of most heartily. 

When the time came for them both to go back to school, David felt a keen sense of impending loss. How could he bear to be parted from this paragon? They walked together on that final day on the downs at Rampisham. 

“You know, Jo, I’m going to miss you most awfully.”

“I know. And I shall miss you too. We can write to each other you know.”

“Yes, of course, and we shall. But it’s not the same as talking, is it?”

She smiled at him then and reached forward, putting one arm about his neck and pulling him down, offering her face for a kiss.

He was clumsy, of course. His lips were hard upon hers and his arms squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. She made herself relax and drew back slightly. As he, in turn, eased off, she leaned forward once more and kissed him gently, darting her tongue into his astonished mouth and closing her eyes. When she opened them once more she saw his eyes were about to pop out of his head and he was flushed and wild looking.

“Oh My God! Wow! Oh, Jo!”

She smiled at him and skipped away.

“That’s so you don’t forget me in a hurry.”

“Oh Jo, I will never do that! How could I? I uh.…”

“Don’t say anything. It won’t be that long ‘til Easter.”

“Too long!” 

His voice held a note of desolation that made her laugh out loud. She stepped back and hugged him close, loving the way it felt as her breasts crushed against his chest and the solidity of his arms as they hugged her. She was suddenly conscious of a hard lump pressing against her abdomen and it was all that she could do to stop herself jumping away in surprise. She tentatively pushed back against him and he groaned in her ear. She felt deliciously wicked. A voice at the back of her mind shrilled a protest and she reluctantly yielded to its censure, backing away from him and taking his hand to lead him forward once more. 

“It’s going to be a busy term for us both, what with the exams this summer. You’ll see. Time will fly by.”

He nodded dumbly, too shaken by the recent physical closeness to trust his voice. He took a deep, shuddering breath and grinned at her.

“It still won’t fly nearly quickly enough for me.”

They walked on in silence for a while. Johanna felt physically light, as if her feet were barely in contact with the rough grass of the hill. Her soul seemed to be singing inside her. She wasn’t in love, she thought, at least, she didn’t think she was; but she acknowledged the possibility of love to come; a seed to nurture through the coming weeks. For his part, David’s mental state was akin to delirium. He was used to the empirical, the factual, measurable world of machinery. Over the past few days he had been made forcibly aware of another world, one which was soft and feminine, mysterious, alluring and quite scary at the same time. At the centre of this other world was Johanna. It made him feel funny even thinking about her. When she was there, her physical presence seemed to shut out all rational thought. And when she’d kissed him! His brain had shut down entirely. That other world had usurped the natural order driving away the real version with its schools, families and impending wars. He was confused, ecstatically happy and consumed by a sense of loss all at the same time. He shook his head to clear it.

“I suppose we ought to be heading back. I’ve still to pack my things for tomorrow and the parents are taking Phillipa and I out for ‘the last supper.’ It’s something we always do on the last day of the hols.”

They retraced their footsteps back down the hill. A sharp wind brought a blustery shower but they didn’t notice.

March 1939 The Millionaire

Pilot Officer Michael Welford-Barnes, Royal Auxiliary Air Force, was in a foul mood. He strode away from the Blenheim F1 he had just landed without a backward glance at his crew. He had spent a good half of the last two and a half hours completely lost. He had sworn richly and filthily at his navigator, cursed the wireless operator/air gunner and then called himself a number of particularly vile names under his breath as it became clear that the mistake was entirely his. Eventually, dropping out of low cloud over Cambridge, they had been able to get a fix on their position and had flown home in silence.

The sortie had been ordered to assist with the training of operators for the new ‘Chain Home’ system. Twenty ‘radio direction finding,’ or RDF, stations were dotted along the east and south coasts of Britain, from Scotland to the Isle of Wight. The 360ft towers had been placed at intervals to allow the Royal Air Force Fighter Command early warning of any incoming aircraft. Michael had taken off from Hendon with instructions to fly out over the North Sea and approach the coast near Bawdsey in Suffolk. He had strayed too far north in thick cloud. He didn’t trust his navigator, had called the man a ‘dud’ to his face, and had followed his own ‘plot’ instead. Now he was in for a royal bollocking from the squadron commander. The worst of it was, he knew, that the radar station at Bawdsey would have followed his aimless wanderings. It would have been quite apparent from the sudden descent and straightening of his course precisely what had happened. 

The ‘Chain Home’ system had grown out of experiments conducted by Robert Watson-Watt and his team at Daventry in 1935. Radio Direction Finding, or, as the Americans called it, radar, was the one significant advantage that the RAF had over any potential enemy. The system was still quite crude with separate towers for transmitting and receiving the radio pulses that would ‘echo’ off an inbound aircraft. It wasn’t perfect by any means but it would allow for ground-controlled intercepts. Commanders on the ground would be able to direct their fighter aircraft to where the threat was. It would no longer be a case of fighter pilots ‘stooging around, looking for trouble.’ Of course, the modern single seater monoplane fighters wouldn’t have the fuel to do that anyway. That was another cause of Michael’s bitterness. His squadron had been re-equipped in January with the fighter version of the twin-engined Blenheim Bomber. The Mark I Blenheim with its short, greenhouse-like nose, had grown out of a private initiative paid for by Lord Rothermere, the proprietor of the Daily Mail. 

Michael’s squadron was more like an exclusive gentlemen’s club than a military formation. There was a liberal sprinkling of titles among the pilots and the rest, like Michael, were wealthy bankers or stockbrokers, pursuing their careers in the City of London from Monday to Friday and indulging their passion for flying at the weekends. They did not enjoy a high reputation and were viewed with a great deal of reservation by the professional airmen of the regular Air Force. Even the squadron’s nickname – The Millionaires – had been bestowed with some bitterness. Incidents such as Michael’s most recent adventure added few laurels to their already dull crown. 

The mood within the squadron was bleak. Only the previous autumn they had thrown a spectacular party in honour of the Munich Agreement. It had seemed as if their life of well-heeled hedonism would continue unabated. Now, though, the picture was far less optimistic. Hitler had gobbled up the remaining part of Czechoslovakia and now the world waited to see where next he would turn his hot eyes. Those who still believed there would be not be a war were in the minority but most still felt that it was a couple of years away. The government, of course, were wedded to the policy of appeasement and clung to their tattered faith more in hope than realism. Michael didn’t doubt Mr Chamberlain’s sincerity but increasingly, he questioned the Prime Minister’s judgement. Maturity had made him more cynical and surely there was no more cynical bunch than the Millionaires.

His flight commander was waiting for him as he stormed into the flight hut. 

“Ah, Michael, the boss wants a word. The Stationmaster’s been on the blower and he’s not a happy chappy. Seems you put up a black with Group.”

Michael bit back a reply and made his way to the squadron commander’s office. 


The bollocking was savage but predictable. 

“What were you doing poncing about over the Wash and most of eastern England when you were supposed to be out over the North Sea? No, don’t bother to answer, I can guess. You thought you knew better. How many times do I have to stress the importance of teamwork? But you’re not a team player are you?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so. Now look here, I cannot allow this to continue. Group have been onto the Stationmaster and he’s been on my back. This squadron isn’t exactly everyone’s cup of tea as it is and idiots like you aren’t exactly helping the cause. You’re a good pilot, Welford-Barnes, but a bloody useless officer. Unless you buck your ideas up I’ll have to post you to another squadron – if anyone will have you, which I doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. You’re grounded until further notice and Orderly Officer for the next three weekends. That should give you time to consider the error of your ways.” 

“Yes, sir.”

Michael left the office still seething. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t his fault that his crew were all duds. Perhaps he should request a posting to a single-seater squadron? That way he wouldn’t have to fly with idiots. The only problem was that the Auxiliary Air Force Squadrons could take their pick of volunteers – lot’s of young men wanted to learn to fly at the tax-payers’ expense. Added to that, a lot of the single-seater squadrons were still flying Gladiators, biplane fighters that had been obsolete before they entered regular service. He decided he needed a drink and some female company. 




Like Father Like Son Ch. 07



Without a word to anyone he slammed out of the flight hut and got into his Aston Martin. He drove furiously, letting the back end slide through the bends as he raced back into London to his flat. He took a shower, changed into civilian clothes and considered his options. The Black Cat Club, that was the ticket! But first he needed to eat. He made his way to Soho and wandered along Frith Street looking for a likely place. He chose a pub, the Dog and Duck, and went into the warm, smoky atmosphere. Ordering a pint of bitter and a steak and oyster pie, he found himself a table in a corner and drank morosely. He drank his beer, ordered another and, when the food came, ate without tasting. 

“On your own, love? Fancy some company?”

Michael looked up. The girl in front of him was obviously a tart, too much make up and a smile that never reached her eyes. She was pretty, though, and he felt a thrill somewhere between fear and lust creep into his groin. He looked at her closely. She was skinny and her skin was bad but somehow she exuded a sense of sexuality that was potent in the extreme. He nodded and indicated a chair. She sat and gave him that professional smile again. 

“I’m Maisey, what’s your name?”

“Michael.”

“Well, hello, Michael.”

She said his name like an indecent suggestion and his balls twitched.

“How much?”

“Thirty bob for a quickie or a Bradbury for all night in.”

There was something sharp and calculating in those eyes and he felt that she had appraised his likely wealth and set her rates accordingly. Five pounds for the night wasn’t that bad though, and he didn’t think a quickie would solve his problems.

“All night it is, then.”

“Suits me. Aren’t you going to buy a girl a drink?”

He bought her a gin and another beer for himself. She kept up a stream of chatter – rubbish about the weather and how bad the smog was getting these days. At the same time she insinuated herself closer to him and placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. It had the desired effect and he felt the first stirrings of an erection. No need to try his luck at the Black Cat. They finished the drinks and he led her out into the cold of the London evening. She was right about the smog. The air smelt faintly sulphurous and there was  a yellowish tinge to the tendrils of damp fog that swirled about the street lamps. It caught at his throat:throat, made him cough and his eyes smarted. He hurried her back to his flat.

Once inside, she looked about, taking in the expensive furnishings and the original paintings on the walls. No doubt about it, Maisey, my girl, you’ve caught yourself a proper gent tonight. He took her coat and she stood uncertainly for a moment, slightly overawed by the opulence of her surroundings. He indicated the bedroom with a terse “In here.” She followed him through and he sat in a over-stuffed armchair. 

“Take your clothes off,” he said.

She shrugged inwardly. Gent he may be but he’d no manners, didn’t know how to treat a lady. She felt his eyes upon her as she stripped off her dress and underwear with practiced movements. Michael gazed at her. She felt she was being evaluated with the same dispassionate detachment as a butcher might give to an animal carcase. She found it vaguely amusing; they were two of a kind. 

Michael was pleased with what he saw. She was skinny and her ribs and breastbone showed but her small breasts were high and tipped with large nipples. He thought she was about his age but there was just a hint of loose flesh on her stomach and slight stretch-marks on her thighs that told him she had had a child. That pleased him. Women’s nipples were always bigger after childbirth. She mocked him slightly by performing a slow pirouette. A thick fleece of black hair covered her sex and her buttocks were small and slightly dimpled. She teased him then by bending over, straight legged, to pick up her discarded clothes and affording him a view of long, prominent cunt-lips. She held the pose for a few seconds and looked back at him archly, raising an eyebrow and giving a broad wink. 

“Enjoying the view, are we?”

Michael grunted and stood, stripping off his clothes quickly but without haste. He had all night. She folded her clothes meticulously; she’d paid good money for them. Michael sat down again, knees spread and she knelt between them.

“Start with a little French?”

He ignored the question, as she had known he would, and pushed her head down towards his groin. She took him in her mouth, her mind elsewhere, as always. At least he was clean. And young – that helped. His hand twisted in her hair and it hurt; made her eyes water. He was shoving his thing into her mouth, butting it against the back of her throat and she fought the impulse to gag as he came off like a fountain – Christ! – That was quick! She eased her head back and surreptitiously spat into a handkerchief balled in one hand. It was then that he slapped her.

“Bitch! Who said you could spit it out?” 

She saw the rage in his eyes and was frightened.

“I only…”

He slapped her again, a wide, swinging, open-handed blow that spun her head round. He was smiling, a twisted, contorted sort of smile. His prick had swelled again and he stood. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her across the room to the bed and flung her across the blankets, face down. 

Her world was now solely pain. He rammed into her violently. After a half dozen vicious strokes he pulled back and adjusted his position slightly, spreading her buttocks with one hand and forcing himself into that other opening. She screamed and was rewarded with another ringing slap. She tried to struggle but he was ready for her, twisting one arm up between her shoulders.

“Push back, Bitch, or I’ll really hurt you.”

There was no escape. Fear and pain contained her as surely as his strength. He was pumping into her and she could hear him mumbling as he did so. It sounded like he was calling a name but she couldn’t make it out. He let go of her arm and grabbed her by the hair again; lifting her head and slamming it back repeatedly into the pillows. He seemed to be swelling up inside her and she told herself to hold on, it would soon be over. He reached his climax with a roar and she heard him clearly through the agony that filled her:

“Peter! Peter, you bastard!”

He didn’t look at her as he threw her out of the door, still naked. He didn’t look at her as he flung her clothes onto the landing after her. He didn’t even look at her as he thrust two white five-pound notes into her hand. He didn’t even notice when she spat him, didn’t seem to feel the gob of bloody spittle hit his chest. Then his knee came up and cracked into her chin and it was her turn not to feel as he kicked her senseless body. 

When Maisey Dawkins woke up she was cold. There was no light on the landing as she dressed painfully. She explored her swollen mouth with a bloody tongue, noting the loose teeth. Her ribs felt broken and her stomach hurt. Bastard! The fucking, bloody bastard! She’d have the law on him! But she knew, even as she thought it, that she wouldn’t. The law didn’t care about whores – never had. Oh well, put it down to experience. She wouldn’t be working for a few days, that was for sure. Still, a tenner was better than nothing. Christ, what a nut-case! Maybe she’d been lucky. Still, she’d better warn the other Frith Street girls. No telling what that bastard might do! First time anyone called her by a bloke’s name, though. He must be a queer, that one, as well as a fucking nutter.

August 1939 – No war this year!

David Riley surveyed his surroundings. For all the imposing frontage of the Royal Air Force College, Cranwell, the interior of Hut 144 in the South Brick Lines was austere in the extreme. At the entrance were the ‘ablutions’ – deep sinks, a couple of open showers and the toilets. The dormitory area was dominated by a pot-bellied cast-iron stove that gleamed black. He already hated that stove with some venom, as it had to be cleaned and polished until it shone for each morning inspection. Six beds stood around the room, each with its blankets ‘boxed’ into neat squares. A Lee-Enfield rifle was strapped to the side of every bed. There was also a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers in every bed-space. The floor was of dun-coloured linoleum and had to be buffed each morning and evening. The hut smelt permanently of coal dust and polish, mixed with stale farts. 

In the three weeks since David had arrived, he seemed to have done nothing but clean and polish, iron and scrub and drill, drill, drill. The only aeroplanes he had seen were like distant dreams. His cadet entry was not considered fit to be allowed near a plane until they could march in step, shoulder arms and all the rest of it. In spite of this, as he wrote to Johanna in those rare moments permitted for such things, he was blissfully happy. He was eighteen years old and a ‘gentleman cadet.’ He fought back a smile. No time for such daydreaming, the morning inspection was due and the officer in charge of the new cadets, accompanied by two white-gloved NCOs, seemed to have an unfailing instinct for hidden dirt or grime. David sighed and pushed harder on the floor polisher. Only another three weeks until basic flying training would begin. Three more weeks and he would realise his greatest ambition – to become a pilot! 

The hut was filled with the subdued grumblings of his fellows: he thought them all good chaps. He had made one close friend by the name of Aubrey Maitland – the hon. Aubrey Maitland, youngest son of an impoverished peer. Aubrey was presently engaged in dusting the pipe work while trying to preserve the razor-sharp creases in his ‘working blues’ – the everyday serge uniform cadets wore. This involved trying to scrub at the pipes with his arms straight, a sight that had David chuckling and then ducking the duster hurled at him by the object of his amusement. 

“I say, Riley, you’re far too cheery. Just wait until Sergeant Rutter sees that ‘orrible floor, you ‘orrible little man.”

“If I were you, Maitland, old bean, I’d be more concernedw about what will happened when our esteemed sergeant runs his snow white mitts over those grimy pipes. What are you doing, rearranging the dust or trying to clean them, you scruffy little gentleman?”

It had not taken long for the cadets to mimic the voices and expressions of their instructors. All agreed that Aubrey was the best and more than once his impressions of Sergeant Rutter had had them all springing to attention before recognising the true culprit. David and Aubrey recognised the basic training for what it was – a method of forging them into a team - and had responded with more enthusiasm than some. One of their number, a highly intelligent boy called Mark Chapman, railed against the mindless repetition and was always in trouble. David liked Mark but had his doubts as to whether he was really cut out for service life. To David, there was no point in kicking against the system. It was there and had to be endured; the more one fought it, the more onerous it would become. Mark refused to grasp this. He insisted that he had a right to his own individuality. David agreed but accepted that this must be subordinated to the common good – something Mark was either unable or unwilling to do. Aubrey regarded Chapman as an idiot and rarely concealed his opinion.

The inspection passed without major incident. As usual, Mark’s personal kit was found wanting and he was put on another ‘fizzer.’ That would mean at least an hour of extra foot-drill on his own, under the watchful eye and sharp tongue of the duty Senior Cadet. Mark could not be persuaded that the said Duty Cadet would be as fed up with having to march him around the parade square as Mark himself was doing the marching. The other cadets had exhausted their supply of sympathy for their recalcitrant roommate and ignored his ‘binding,’ the newly acquired RAF slang for moaning. Their vocabulary had changed in the past three weeks without their really noticing. Aeroplanes had become ‘kites;’ girls were now ‘popsies.’ It was all part of belonging to Britain’s youngest service. It set them apart, identified them as clearly as the RAF blue uniforms they wore. 

Thoughts of Johanna helped to sustain David, not that they had been able to spend much time together. Their meetings had been limited to school holidays and, with David at the RAF College, there would be no opportunity this summer. David was convinced that opportunities to meet might be even more limited soon. His father’s belief that war was coming had rubbed off on the younger man and he had already earned the nickname ‘Jeremiah,’ frequently shortened to ‘Jerry,’ for his gloomy prognostications. The headline in the Daily Express that morning had him bellowing with rage at anyone who would listen. It said, quite simply, ‘No War This Year.’ David could only imagine his father’s reaction; Peter Riley would be incandescent with fury. Even David’s friend, Aubrey, didn’t seem to disagree. 

“Don’t get in a flat spin, old chum. I don’t think the Huns are any more ready than we are.”

“Don’t be an ass, Maitland. They are more than ready enough. Let’s face it, they’ve been practicing in Spain and it’s all bloody ‘guns before butter’ over there in Hunland. We could do with a bit more of that attitude here but will we get it? Not a chance! We’ve grown soft and idle and.…”

“Riley, I do believe you’ve listening to that Churchill chap!”

David whirled at the new voice and saw Mark Chapman staring at him with an intense expression on his face. 

“Oh, it’s you, Chapman. Shouldn’t you be marching up and down or something?”

“No. Forsythe is ‘Duty Dog’ and he can’t see any more point in it than I do. I said you sound as if you agree with Churchill.”

“As it just so happens, Chapman, I do. War is coming and coming bloody quickly, mark my words.”

“Well, Riley, it just so happens I agree with you. God, I thought that everyone here was clinging to the mistaken belief we have a few years ahead of us. I honestly think it’ll be weeks rather than months. That pact with the Russians was just clearing their path. That’s why I hate all this ‘bull’ so much. They should be training us to fight and fly, not bloody march and salute by numbers – we’re not ‘brown jobs’ after all.” 

“Don’t knock the army, Chapman. I’ll have you know that both my brothers are in the Guards.”

Chapman shrugged. He liked David but the hon. Aubrey Maitland irritated him in a major way. Chapman was a shy young man and found Aubrey’s confidence unnerving and his supercilious manner when speaking to him was a constant source of annoyance. Chapman lacked the confidence to respond in kind so David often found himself defending the other boy to Aubrey. 

“Just as well your Pa had ‘an heir and two spares,’ then, Maitland,“ David said with a smile. 

Aubrey snorted and Chapman concealed a small smile. He was quite aware of David’s defence of him and was grateful for it. Chapman’s own father had died when he was young as a result of wounds received in the Great War. As a result, he had been raised in genteel poverty, lacking the advantages of most of his comrades. He was of average height and slimly built with dark hair and blue eyes. He was all quick, nervous gestures and jerky movements. He spoke rapidly and there was just a trace of a regional accent in his voice. Aubrey believed that Chapman was a socialist or, even worse, a ‘bolshie.’ The contrast between Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman could not have been greater. The former was languidly confident, athletic and spoke with an aristocratic drawl. Chapman was introverted, driven, almost desperate in his need to be taken seriously. David found it surprising that he liked them both so well. 

September 1939 – Consequently this country is at war

Peter stood by the radio. Bethan sat very upright in a chair. It was 11.15 on Sunday, September 3rd 1939. Peter had been expecting some announcement for the past two days. Germany invaded Poland on the previous Friday. Britain and France had issued an ultimatum. Peter had little doubt as to Hitler’s response. The BBC announcer’s voice tailed off and was replaced by the clipped, reedy tones of the Prime Minister:

"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street.

This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

“I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

“You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed. Yet I cannot believe that there is anything more or anything different I could have done and that would have been more successful. Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it…”

Chamberlain’s voice droned on but Peter had stopped listening. He examined his feelings. He should feel vindicated but instead he felt only a deep sense of emptiness. He looked fondly at Bethan who remained rigidly upright, her face white, and he sighed inwardly. She would know again the fear and anguish that springs from having loved ones where the fighting would be hottest. Thank God David was just a sprog cadet and hadn’t even begun his flying training. 

David stood in silence with Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman listening to Chamberlain’s broadcast. As the dry, thin voice ceased there was a wild outbreak of cheering from the cadets. Only David and Mark did not join in.

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.



Like Father Like Son Ch. 08



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.





Like Father Like Son Ch. 08







Like Father Like Son Ch. 08



The clatter of the guns seemed strangely muted to David although Kiwi did assure him it was 'bloody deafening' back in the turret. The recoil of the guns made the airframe shudder and the 'plane seemed to twitch slightly each time the turret swung. Kiwi reassured him that this was normal for a Defiant. They were both well satisfied when the Defiant touched down back at the base. David's landing was a little bouncy but safe enough. They taxied back to the blast pens and handed the machine back to the tender care of the ground crew. David and Kiwi walked together to the flight hut. Kiwi pulled out a packet of Players and they both smoked contentedly as they walked. 

"So, what do you think, Skip? She's a good old bus, ain't she?"

"Lovely, Kiwi, just lovely."

"First squadron, Skip?"

"Yes, how about you?"

"Posted in from the 'Toffs' at 601. Didn't need any peasants once they got their 'Hurribacks,' did they? I wasn't sorry, mind."

"My half brother's on 601, Michael Welford-Barnes, do you know him?"

David sensed Kiwi Braithwaite stiffen beside him. The sergeant's demeanour changed instantly.

"Yes, sir, I was on his crew."

"Bad Luck, Kiwi," David kept his voice light. "The man's a total shit."

"You may say that, sir, I can only think it."

"I preferred 'Skip,' Kiwi. As I said, he's my half-brother. We aren't at all alike."

"Well, Skip, you certainly don't look like him and, from what I can tell, you don't act like him, neither."

David laughed. "Kiwi, if I ever start to act like Michael, turn the turret round and blow my bloody head off, won't you? Put me out of my misery!"

"Roger, Skip, will do!" It was Braithwaite's turn to laugh.