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

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

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

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

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

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

"But…"

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

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

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

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

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

"But we can help if we try. That's why it's so important that we all do our bit."

"Enough! The subject is closed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Anyone particular in mind?"

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

"I didn't realise you were still in touch. Where is Sister Hallam these days?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ya got your chit, yet, Kiwi, man?"

"Yep, 264. Defiants. How 'bout you?"

"'Cross the road, man. 600 Squadron. More bloody gentlemen."

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, man, maybe you'll get somet'ing worse next time."

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

"Tell that to the officers."

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

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

Kiwi Braithwaite had stored this away and teased Michael mercilessly over the intercom.

"Tickle your arse with a feather, sir."

"What?"

"I said, particularly nasty weather, sir."

"Braithwaite, if you have nothing sensible to say, pipe down."

"Up yours, sir."

"What did you say?"

"I said, of course, sir."

And so it went on.

April 1940 Storm Warning

"Riley!"

Peter looked up from the 'plot' – a giant map of eastern and southern England - and drew himself up to attention. Wing Commander Adams stood in front of him, his eyes just about level with Peter's chest.

"Yes, sir?"

"The balloon has gone up, Riley. Norway is on."

"Very good, sir. I'll see to it right away."

Peter's heart sank. The government had been vacillating for weeks over whether or not to land a force in Norway to secure the iron ore deposits and prevent Germany from getting hold of this valuable source of raw material. From what Peter could gather, the idea was Churchill's. Chamberlain and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, had hesitated, afraid of the impact on world opinion of occupying a small neutral country.

"You should know, Riley. Intelligence reports that the Huns look like they've beaten us to it. We're getting reports of a large German force already on its way."

"That doesn't sound too good sir."

"Indeed it doesn't. Still, make sure we hold our end up, Riley, there's a good chap."

"Of course, sir."

Peter sighed inwardly. In the six weeks since taking up his appointment at 12 Group HQ, he had become increasingly aware that the country was still not on a proper war footing. It had more to do with the mentality than anything else. Too many people still believed that the Germans would wait for the British to act, would somehow oblige in conforming to the laborious British plans. Once again, it appeared, the enemy had anticipated British actions. Peter had no doubt that the Wehrmacht would be ashore in Norway before the British convoy carrying the troops had even sailed. For all Wing Commander Adams's sense of urgency, all Peter had to do was to warn 46 Squadron that they were now on standby for operations with the Royal Navy in Norway. He drafted the appropriate secure signal and handed it to one of the WAAF clerks for transmission. In due course, no doubt, someone would come up with an aircraft carrier to ship the Hurricanes to the battlefront. He checked the air movement orders – copies of signals sent to the various units of Fighter Command. 263 Squadron to embark HMS Glorious. Fuck! Gladiators! They were sending biplanes to take on the most powerful Air Force the world had ever seen! He felt the touch of despair.

Later that night, in bed, he spoke quietly while Bethan listened:

"Things have to change soon, love. We're playing at it. Bombers can't drop bombs; fighters aren't allowed to fight unless the Huns come over here. We seem to lack the will for real war. I bet the Hun high command are laughing up their sleeves at us. I bet they can't believe their luck! If the time ever comes when they do attack us, about half of our pilots will be totally new to the job."

"Like Michael and David, you mean."

"Uh, not so much Michael, he's got a fair few flying hours under his belt by now, but like David, fresh out of training certainly."

"So he doesn't stand much chance, is it?"

"No, no, I didn't say that. It's more that we could be preparing our pilots so much better than we are. Look at David. Straight out of training and straight to a squadron. We should have some sort of programme where the boys get to fly operational types before they ever see a real front line unit."

Bethan's silence was eloquent. The realisation slowly dawned on Peter that he had said the very words his wife least wanted to hear. He wanted to speak out, to reassure her but he knew instantly that the damage was done. David had recently joined 264 Squadron at RAF Martlesham Heath in Suffolk and was now learning to fly the Boulton Paul Defiant fighter. To his disappointment, he had been told he was too tall for Hurricanes or Spitfires. He soon reconciled himself to the Defiant, however. At least it was a fighter and that was what he had set his heart on – to be a fighter pilot. Peter had reservations about the Defiant as a concept. It was a two seater with all the armament concentrated in a hydraulic turret that sat immediately behind the cockpit. The turret carried four browning .303 machineguns. Delays in production meant that there were only two squadrons equipped with the Defiant. It was slower than the Hurricanes and Spitfires but faster and more manoeuvrable than the Blenheim F1s. From what Peter had seen and read so far, only the Spitfire was the true equal of the German Me 109.

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

An improvement in the weather meant that David was able to spend every possible moment getting to know his new aircraft. Like most RAF Fighter squadrons, 264 had an establishment of twelve aeroplanes but sixteen crews. It was squadron policy not to match crews on a permanent basis so any pilot could fly with any air gunner. As luck would have it, David's first pairing was another new arrival to the squadron, Sergeant 'Kiwi' Braithwaite. David had made a couple of flights 'in the back seat' and had spent hours poring over the 'pilot's notes' for the Defiant. Like the Spitfire and Hurricane, it was powered by a Rolls-Royce Merlin Engine, and was fitted with the De Havilland three-bladed variable pitch propeller. It was undoubtedly the most powerful machine that David had flown to date and was a further step up from the Harvard trainer. His flight commander assured him that the Defiant was a well-mannered aircraft, easy to fly and lightly responsive on the controls. The time had come to put it to the test.

David took his time over all the pre-flight checks. They were as yet unfamiliar to him and he was conscious of the sergeant gunner's scrutiny. David recognised that he was being weighed up – that was entirely to be expected. He just hoped he wasn't found wanting. He gave the 'thumbs up' to the waiting ground crew and he heard the clunk as the starter trolley was engaged. The Merlin coughed a couple of times and the cockpit filled momentarily with blue exhaust fumes. The engine picked up and he heard the sweet snarl of the V12 Merlin. He checked the magnetos and oil pressure and temperature, gave another 'thumbs up' and stood hard on the brakes as the chocks were removed from the undercarriage.

The 'plane eased gently forward out of its blast pen and David waved away the two airmen guiding the wingtips. He spoke briefly to the controller:

"Harper, this is Blue two. Single flight air test, over."

"Blue two, Harper. Clear to climb angels five, steer zero-ninety to clear the coast, over."

"Roger, Harper. Any aircraft in the vicinity?"

"Negative, blue two. You're on your sweet little ownsome."

"Roger, Harper, Blue two out."



David selected 'fully fine' on the pitch control and opened the throttle. The Defiant accelerated forward and David had the impression of the earth rushing by as they hurtled down the strip. He was dimly aware of Kiwi Braithwaite humming a tune to himself. He ignored the gunner for the moment and concentrated hard on the controls. The torque from the propeller threatened to push the nose to one side and he applied a touch of opposite rudder to keep the machine straight. He felt the control surfaces bite increasingly as the speed increased. He deliberately held the 'plane down until he was ten knots over the minimum take off speed before easing back on the stick and letting the Defiant gently take to the air. He climbed slowly; there was no rush and visibility was very good, for a change. He reached the designated height of 5000 ft and throttled back, made sure he was now in coarse pitch, and started to relax.

"Nicely done, Skip."

David almost jumped. He had entirely forgotten that there was someone else aboard.

"Thank you, sergeant. What should I call you, by the way?"

"Well, Skip, you could call me Sergeant Braithwaite but that might be a bit of mouthful if we ever get busy. Most blokes call me 'Kiwi.' It's 'cos I'm from God's own sheep farm, see?"

David chuckled. "Right-O, Kiwi it is then."

"Suits me, Skip."

Once clear of the coast, David called control again and received permission to climb to 10,000 feet and start his test. He eased the Defiant through a variety of manoeuvres, slowly intensifying them as he got used to the machine. His flight commander was right; it was responsive and didn't seem to have any vices that he could find. Like most propeller-driven aeroplanes, it would turn slightly quicker one way rather than another, favouring the direction of the propeller's rotation, but it wasn't unduly marked, as the Harvard had been. David executed a half-loop and roll off the top followed by a slow roll and then a few really tight turns. Kiwi was singing happily in the rear and when David finally levelled out to head back to Martlesham, he asked if David wanted to test the guns. David readily agreed and they went around a few more times, swinging the turret left and right and firing short bursts into the sea.