Like Father Like Son Parts six to eight

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 hand-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 himself 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 direction 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 stile. 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. Whose 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 – lots 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. 
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, 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 concerned about what will happen 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.