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.’