Beneath the Raging Sky: Heroes, Aces & Justice

By Richard F.A. White

During World War 2, Ireland remained neutral. It might have been very different if those opposed to the government, including the IRA, had succeeded with a plan for the Republic to support Adolf Hitler's invasion of Britain. In other words, there was a real possibility that Britain's hard pressed military forces would face engagements on two fro

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard F. A. White
• Release date: Apr 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838012731

Book preview

Beneath the Raging Sky

Richard F. A. White

Dedicated to the memory of all the men and women

who put their country and families before other

considerations in the conflict against those who would

try to end our independence.

First published independently in 2020 as a paperback

and ebook edition. Copyright belongs solely to the author.

Richard F. A. White has asserted his moral right to be

identified as the author of this work in accordance with

the Copyright and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording or by any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission from the author.

Every effort has been made to trace the copyright

holders of material quoted in this book. If an application

is made in writing to the publisher, any omissions will

be included in future editions.

ISBN: 9798618970631

Book Design including cover by Richard F. A. White

Typeset in 11/16 point Goudy Old Style

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1. First Encounters

Chapter 2. Tangmere Attacked

Chapter 3. The German Pilot

Chapter 4. September Onslaught

Chapter 5. The Battle for Britain

Chapter 6. Secret Operations

Chapter 7. Undercover in France

Chapter 8. Rough Justice

Chapter 9. Turning the Enemy

Chapter 10. The Irish Question

Chapter 11. Agents in France.

Chapter 12. From Tangmere to France

Chapter 13. Conflict in Amiens

Chapter 14. Return to Tangmere

Chapter 15. Dublin and Plan Kathleen

Chapter 16. Beware of the ‘Abhartach’

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Other Books by Richard F. A White

Prologue

During the 2nd World War, the Irish Republic remained neutral. It might have been a very different story if those opposed to the Fianna Fáil government under Eamon de Valera, including IRA militants, had succeeded with a plan for Germany to use Ireland as a western base in support of Hitler’s invasion of Britain. In other words, there was a distinct possibility of engagements on two fronts, but only if Hitler approved. This would have tipped the balance in favour of Germany where several top Nazi leaders had already expressed an interest in what eventually became known as ‘Plan Kathleen.’ However, Winston Churchill had other ideas. Using his newly formed SOE (Special Operations Executive), the Prime Minister and the War Office endorsed secret and very dangerous missions to infiltrate the German Abwehr (Military Intelligence) in occupied Europe and the IRA in the Irish Republic. The objective was to discover whether the latest plans were realistic and if so, dissuade agents and protagonists or eliminate if necessary those responsible for implementing ‘Plan Kathleen’.

This book’s story is mainly fictitious, although it frequently borrows incidents and names written into a history of the times, both in the air and on the ground. It begins with Flight Lieutenant Jonny Munroe, a principal character and an RAF Fighter Pilot Ace based at Tangmere and Westhampnett not far from Chichester in West Sussex. Later in the story, he is unexpectedly propelled into helping the SOE and the intelligence services with two missions, initiated when a German Luftwaffe pilot is shot down and escapes back to France using a stolen Hurricane. During his escape, he kills a popular ground crew engineer and, since he was not in uniform at the time of the incident, the German was not protected by the Geneva Convention. He was therefore accused of murder according to British law.

Churchill saw merit in the situation and demanded the German be captured and brought back to face British Justice at the Old Bailey. It was a perfect opportunity for the PM to bolster public morale at a time when prospects of a Nazi invasion had cast dark shadows across the land.

It is a tale that begins with the harrowing lives of the brave men and women of the RAF and in particular the frontline pilots, waiting each day for the telephone call and the scramble bell before facing the enemy in mortal combat. As the story unwinds, complexities develop when Britain faces the prospect of a war on two fronts. In the east, a frontal attack by the Luftwaffe supporting Hitler’s ‘Operation Sealion’ to invade the British mainland and from the west in the Irish Republic by elite Wehrmacht paratroopers. However, the Luftwaffe failed to gain any advantage thanks to the RAF. In early September 1940, Goering and Kesselring switched from attacking RAF airfields to bombing major cities into submission. This policy left Churchill with little option but to engage in a different kind of war. He needed to stop German plans by whatever means possible and this led to the formation of the Special Operations Executive (SOE) under Sir Hugh Dalton, but with the PM and War Office very much involved. MI6 and MI5 in particular, still finding their feet, were considered too tame for some of the missions envisaged by the top brass. The men and women who served in SOE were mostly Commando trained and hardened to withstand the harshest situations. They had orders to penetrate enemy cells, assist resistance groups and eliminate the enemy by stealth. They soon became known as Churchill’s Secret Army or ‘The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare’.

Jonny Munroe, when not at Tangmere, worked secretly within a team of five including a mad Commando Major, a Spanish Nationalist Saboteur, an Irish pilot with Republican sympathies and two people acting as double agents seeking revenge against the IRA. Along with the others he volunteered to undertake dangerous operations in France and Ireland, where his skill as a pilot would be required for the success of the missions. Along the way, he experienced danger, romance and heartbreak.

Chapter 1.

First Encounters

T

he pilot ran towards his Spitfire. His heart was pounding fast, but he was composed and confident. Clutching a leather helmet and goggles in his left hand, he expertly adjusted his Mae West life jacket with his right hand and then hauled on the straps of a parachute pack, bouncing awkwardly against his lower back. On either side, five others scampered across the withered, oil flecked grass towards their waiting aircraft. It was unusually warm in the afternoon on Wednesday August 14th 1940, after a particularly indifferent summer. The pilot was already perspiring in his Irvin flying jacket and fur-lined boots as he climbed onto the port side wing, aided by two friendly ground crew. Ignoring the clammy warmth, he knew that before long it would become much colder up above in the heavens. He slid the hood back until it was fully open. The aircraft’s engine was already running as he reached to open the cockpit’s side door. Strong air currents from the propeller’s back draught whipped into his face as he slid down into his seat. He glanced up and across at the other Spitfires, briefly watching their rotating props trace perfect ghostly circles. The familiar echo of Rolls Royce Merlin engines filled the air bringing a smile to his face. Pilots and ground crew often described the sound as ‘exhilarating and powerful’, often comparing it to the equally glorious exhaust note of a 4.5 litre supercharged Bentley at full revs.

Pre-flight routines had become second nature, requiring no analysis or delays. He quickly glanced at the dials and reached out for switches and levers as well as tapping reluctant gauges. He checked the instruments and the cockpit’s surroundings before buckling up the two Sutton Harness leg and shoulder straps, making sure they were tight and secure. One of the ground crew waved and mouthed good luck before retiring, leaving the two others ready to pull out the wheel chocks. He adjusted his helmet once more, picked up the R.T. cable and oxygen supply, fitting them quickly into the right side of his helmet. Seat height and rudder pedal settings were perfect, as nobody had moved them since his last flight. The other pilots and ground crew knew better than to readjust anything at all. The squadron had an unwritten rule where each pilot formed a personal relationship with his own aircraft. In this way they became fully aware of all the unique differences that would ensure familiarity, efficiency and capability. Each of them knew that with these settings in place, they would be able to concentrate better on their job when dealing with the enemy which could save their lives.

At the age of twenty-two, Flt. Lieutenant Jonny Munroe was already an ace. He’d accounted for three ME109s and two ME 110s, confirmed during the early months of 1940, over the English Channel and the French Coast during the evacuation from Dunkirk. As he sat in the cockpit waiting for no more than twenty seconds, he looked at the vast sky above him and pondered the approaching grey clouds occasionally broken with glorious shafts of sunlight on the horizon. He momentarily felt alone and vulnerable but dismissed any negative thoughts that could so easily overtake a fighter pilot’s mind. The temperature gauge was ideal at 35F, but he had to tap the rev counter, which hesitated before adjusting to 1200 revs. The other gauges were spot on, including brake pressure at 135lbs. Last but not least, he checked the magnetos by opening the engine throttle to increase revs before turning them off and back on in quick succession. For a few seconds he occupied himself, by fiddling with the vibrating cockpit side door and hood locks, until a voice came over the RT confirming all was clear for take-off. The two ground crew responded to his hand movements indicating ‘Chocks Away’ and the Spitfire rolled a few feet, requiring a small adjustment to brake pressure. He made sure that the elevator trim and rudder bias were set, fuel mixture turned down from a rich setting and he pulled out a directional knob to uncage the gyro. As he glanced to his right, Jonny noticed one of the Spits had dropped onto its port side. There was obviously some sort of problem with the undercarriage, causing the left wheel to collapse. Jonny swore quietly to himself hoping that the rotating prop on the unfortunate Spit would not tear into the ground. Pilot Officer Dicky Storrie suddenly broke RT silence.

‘Sorry Skip, undercart failed. Hell of a bang. Maybe it’s a blown hydraulic pressure seal.’

‘OK Dicky. Tough luck old boy. Hand her back to Ground Ops and see if those nice chaps can sort it out.’

‘Reading you loud and clear Jonny. Good hunting!’

A few minutes later, control tower broke silence again. ‘Flight Leader One, you are clear for take-off. Stand by for further instructions. Good luck Jonny and give ‘em hell!’

Five Spitfires from Flight A faced into a north westerly wind as each pilot increased revs and taxied across the runway following their leader. The familiar vibrations, bangs and bumps, were strangely exhilarating as they accelerated to 90mph, feeling the aircraft level up as the tail lifted and the ground fell away. Each Spitfire climbed rapidly, leaving behind the jolts and bounces from uneven concrete runway sections before retracting the undercarriage and climbing steadily towards 10,000 ft. They were in a hurry having taken just eight minutes from the ‘scramble’ alert to being airborne and now they were heading towards the English coast. The Sussex Downs and the Seven Sisters near Eastbourne were less than ten minutes away as they gradually climbed into bright sunlight at speeds around 200mph. They left behind unfinished games of table tennis, cards and chess, upended chairs were left scattered across the grass in front of numerous tents and an old wooden Nissen hut. Cigarettes still burned in ashtrays. Untidily thrown newspapers, along with books, playing cards and mugs of still warm tea added to the hastily abandoned scene. In the background, a wireless played the BBC’s Home Service, broadcasting Charles Trenet’s song ‘Je Chante’ during the much loved ‘Music While You Work’ programme.

The RT crackled into life. ‘Come in Flight Leader One, enemy sighted, 12 bandits, range sixty-five miles on a bearing heading North West at 16,000 ft.’ Jonny Munroe immediately switched frequency and calmly informed the other four pilots to be vigilant, requesting ‘stand by’ for radio silence until further instructions. Amongst the others, two were relative newbies with only two weeks and twenty hours in Spitfires after graduating from various Flying Schools. One of them, Pilot Officer Jamie Southgate from Maidstone in Kent, was only nineteen and, although an intelligent flyer, he lacked combat experience. The other, Pilot Officer Terrwyn Alexander-Forbes from Llantrisant in the Rhondda, nicknamed ‘Taf’ from his initials, had already undertaken twenty-five hours in Hurricanes when stationed briefly at RAF Hornchurch. He had never fired an aircraft’s machine guns in anger. The remaining two pilots were more experienced and had flown with their leader for something close to three months.

Jonny Munroe was fully aware that his two newest pilots needed experience. Once they had cleared the coast south of Eastbourne, he broke RT silence by requesting Jamie and Taf to try their eight Browning machine guns with two three-second bursts. After a further fifteen minutes, they climbed to 22,000 ft having been warned that enemy bombers were in the area escorted by fighters. All five pilots were now on high alert. Jonny was well known for his clever manoeuvres and his insistence that they should attack from above and behind. He also allowed them to use the RT sparingly if they spotted danger or a colleague in trouble. The remaining Spitfire, piloted by Flt. Sergeant Patrick Donnelly, an Irishman with Republican sympathies, was looking for a fifth kill to claim his ‘Ace’ status. 

‘Enemy sighted. Stay alert, check 6 and high/low. Good hunting chaps.’  All five Spitfires dived towards what initially seemed like a distant flock of birds. That comparison soon evaporated as they rapidly closed up on ten Heinkel HE111s. Mike Warren, acting as Jonny Munroe’s wingman, attacked the nearest Heinkel from above and saw twin lines of tracer demolish the upper gun turret and shatter the aircraft’s distinctive large cockpit. The aircraft jumped and lurched but a second burst from Taf, who’d arrived from below, tore off the port engine causing the Heinkel to flip sideways before dropping into a steep dive, trailing black smoke and flames.

‘Watch your tail no 2, bandits closing in.’ Jonny’s voice crackled as he warned Mike Warren that two ME109s were chasing his tail. ‘Break right Mike, break now, do it man!’

There was more urgency in his voice. The wingman dived too steeply causing his carburettors to flood and he lost speed. Within seconds, one of the ME109s, realising what had happened, closed up for an easy kill. Whilst Jonny was attacking a second Heinkel and Pat Donnelly hurriedly rolled away from the bomber’s upper turret cannon fire, Jamie, the unbloodied rookie, had approached the German fighter who was attacking Mike from below. He had not been detected and released two five second bursts from his eight Brownings. The ME109s engine burst into flames and Jamie saw the German pilot fold back his cockpit hood, haul himself out amidst fire and smoke and bale out. Jonny, having despatched the Heinkel, was hugely impressed with the rookie’s ability and at that moment wanted Jamie to become a permanent member of his team. He hoped that the genial man from Kent would survive long enough to make significant contributions. Mike’s Spitfire engine still unresponsive, continued to lose height and disappeared.

After ten minutes of crazy zig-zagging to avoid four other ME109s as well as tracer from the other Heinkels, three of the five Spits had destroyed or damaged four bombers and two fighters. The remaining German escort fighters turned for home as they only had enough fuel to reach base in Normandy. The Spitfire piloted by Taf was lagging behind and in trouble. Pale grey smoke trailed from his engine. 

‘Well done chaps. Has anyone spotted Mike?’ Jonny’s voice calmly asked the question. There was silence until Taf responded.

‘Skipper, I think he must have ditched. I saw smoke and flames before he disappeared. I think I’ve been hit too, along the port side and I’m losing fuel and Glycol rapidly. May have to ditch too. Can someone take a look? Over.’

‘OK, I’ll radio your position. With any luck, coastguard should find you.’ Jonny dropped back to the port side of Taf’s Spit and indeed could see Glycol and fuel streaming from cannon shell damage to the fuel tanks and engine that were forward of and below the cockpit. It looked bad and would only get worse.

‘This is A Flight Leader, come in Taf, do you copy? Keep her nose up, maintain minimum speed and with any luck you’ll reach Shoreham. Switch to their frequency and let them talk you in. They’ll look after you. Good luck old boy and give my regards to a chap named Billy Williamson. I swear he’s got a screw loose.

Billy, a good friend of Jonny, was the indestructible, eccentric Squadron Leader at Shoreham, a former civil airfield close to Brighton. He was famous for keeping a demented bulldog named ‘Bones’ and had earned a reputation for abusing his Hurricane, playing ‘chicken’ with suicidal frontal attacks on ME109s.

‘OK Skip. I’ll do what I can. See you in the Mess later.’ 

The three Spits now zig-zagged around the remaining five German bombers and within sight of the Severn Sisters, destroyed one more. The four other Heinkels, unwilling to risk further damage, dropped their bombs into the grey sea and headed back towards France.

‘Grey Goose Leader calling all goslings. Well done chaps, time to head for home. Beer’s on me at 20.00 hours in The Unicorn, Chichester.’

Jonny led the remaining Spits back over the West Sussex Coast heading north west towards Tangmere. It was close to 17.00hrs as they approached the airfield. Over to the west, the sun was casting a warm orange and scarlet glow silhouetting a flock of geese as they flew towards Chichester Marina. The earlier grey clouds had disappeared. Tomorrow would be another warm sunny day, a day that would change their lives forever. The Spits taxied to within 20 yards of where they had taken off earlier and where ground crew helped them jump out. The three pilots walked together towards the main buildings on west wing and the control tower. Jonny said he’d meet Jamie and Pat later in the Officers’ Mess after delivering his report. Once inside the building’s darkened corridor, reeking of carbolic soap and displaying sepia pictures of WW1 pilots, sitting in their flimsy bi-planes, he strode off towards the CO’s office door and knocked twice. A deep patrician voice beckoned him to enter. From somewhere beyond the room, a Westminster Clock struck 5.30pm. Jonny entered quickly and saluted. Group Captain Charles Dorrien-Smith DFC the Commanding Officer, better known affectionately as ‘Dorris’, sat behind an oversize mahogany desk smoking a cigar, but looked ill at ease. In the far corner a fat Jack Russell lay spread out on a rug, eyeing Jonny suspiciously, occasionally curling a lip to expose a set of sharp fangs .

‘Good evening, Jonny and welcome back. Hope you managed to kick a few Jerry arses today? Sit down. We’ve received some disturbing news from the Ministry. Seems that a few of our men on the ground in France have picked up news that Jerry is not best pleased with our Fighter airfields. In short Tangmere, along with other Southern airfields are likely to be targeted. Coastal Command and those Chain Home aerial detection gadgets are keeping an eye on things. However, Goering has countless squadrons of light bombers, support fighters and those damnable Stukas. It’s bally awful news I say and it means we are in imminent danger of attack. What do you say Jonny?’

‘Sir, we have a number of exceptional pilots. The squadron has twenty-five serviceable Mk 1 Spits, and a dozen Hurricanes. Besides, we are protected by eight AA gun emplacements. Even if they do penetrate beyond London in the east and Worthing in the south, they are likely to run out of fuel and then there’s every chance the poor sods will be shot to pieces by ourselves in the air.’

‘Yes, yes, Jonny all jolly good stuff and I’m with you on that but Winston and Hugh Dowding want us to ensure we don’t lose aircraft on the ground. It means we’ll be moving most of the Hurricanes in 145 squadron and a few reserve Spits in 602 to our satellite station at RAF Westhampnett. Jerry won’t know where it is. The airfield is located just a couple of miles away in a super hidden location, if a little primitive. It was built to serve as an emergency landing airfield and a satellite back up for Tangmere. It’s built on land belonging to the Goodwood Estate. The landowner, the Duke of Richmond, Frederick Gordon-Lennox, has generously given us use of his land. Jolly good show Jonny, ain’t it?’

‘Er, yes, indeed,’ said Jonny, ‘but what about control ops, ground crew and other personnel as well as civilians? We can’t move them all.’

‘Yes I realise that!  It’s a shame and there are bound to be casualties but we have to protect our only means of getting back at them. You do understand, don’t you Jonny? Nobody said our jobs would be easy but no matter what, we’ll just have to get on with it all.’

‘Yes Sir, I do understand and so will the others.’

Jonny spent the next ten minutes giving his report and asked if any news had come through about Pilot Officer Terrwyn Alexander-Forbes and Flight Sergeant Mike Warren.

‘Nothing yet old chap, but stay on it and let me know.’

Jonny stepped back and saluted before disappearing back towards the Officers’ Mess.

Pat, Jamie and Dickie Storrie, whose Spit had been grounded earlier, were sitting in the Mess drinking beer when Jonny joined them. A barman approached and brought him his favourite tipple, an 18-year-old Macallan-Glenlivet malt whisky. He thanked the man and tipped him with a half-crown before turning to the others.

‘So, what happened earlier Dicky? Did they sort out the hydraulics?’

Richard Storrie drew on his Woodbine cigarette. ‘Well Skip, it seems that a cannon shell had nicked one of the pressure valves operating the hydraulic pump. Questions are being asked about how it could have been missed by the service chaps after yesterday’s fun and games over Ventnor.’ Dicky was referring to his skirmish with a Dornier which he’d damaged over the Isle of Wight. ‘Seems the blighter caught me with a sly shot. Good job the undercart functioned nicely when I landed. Anyway, it’s now all OK according to Lloyd Thompson, a nice senior engineer chappie on loan from Thorney Island.’

‘I’ll have a chat with the CO,’ said Jonny. ‘We need to tighten up on damage repairs. Don’t want to hit Jerry with broken kites.’

‘Seems we will become the object of Luftwaffe interest. Dorris wants us to move over to Westhampnett, starting tomorrow.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Pat. ‘Have you seen the place? It reminds of a pig farm my Da used to work on back in Galway, so it does!’

A couple of WAAF Officers walked in and sat at the next table.

‘Good evening to you both,’ said Pat. ‘Would you fine-looking ladies be needing some entertainment provided by a well-mannered good looking Oirishman?’

‘No thanks. We’ve already got two better looking, well-mannered English speaking chaps,’ replied a tall leggy blonde named Julia Lawson.

‘Well wouldn’t dat be a shame den. All I can say is dat when you discover dat Englishmen have no idea how to treat a lady, I’ll be waiting for yas. I’m Pat Donnelly from Kinvarra in Galway.’ He smiled, reached across and kissed the back of her hand.

‘OK Mr Donnelly, I’ll try not to remember that.’ Julia Lawson smiled and blew him a kiss.

‘For Christ’s sake Pat,’ said Jonny, ‘can’t you resist a skirt? You do have a gift of the gab but then maybe you make me a little jealous. If you can drag yourself away for a few minutes, we have more important things to do and discuss. Unless it had escaped your attention, there is a war on.’

Jamie tried to ignore Pat and his flirting but he noticed Julia Lawson’s companion, a very pretty brunette, who was looking at him intensely. He blushed and although they made eye contact for a few seconds, hoped that his discomfort would be diverted by conversation with Jonny and Pat.  He need not have worried.

Just at that moment, a duty sergeant strolled in looking glum and handed Jonny a note from the CO.

‘Bad news chaps. Mike didn’t make it. His kite broke up in the sea.’ Jonny paused and became aware of a deep sadness that had cast a shadow across everyone’s eyes. ‘The skipper of a fishing boat out of Bognor saw him ditch and tried to reach him but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped in his cockpit but the kite sank before they could get him out. The CO has agreed to write personally to his family. He knows how I hate sending telegrams.’ Jonny paused again before carrying on. ‘The good news is that Taf has made it to Shoreham. He’ll be back tomorrow. I think we’ll be drinking to absent friends later on in The Unicorn.’

The two girls at the next table turned towards them after overhearing the conversation.

The four of them stood and bid good evening to the two women. It did not go unnoticed that Jamie was upset. As he walked past, the pretty blue-eyed brunette touched his hand and said, ‘I’m so sorry you’ve lost one of your friends. If you’d like someone to talk to, just ask for Frances Mackay.’ Jamie blushed and smiled but managed to say, ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ He then watched her walk out and noticed she turned to look back.

Several Spitfires flew in across the airfield and landed on the west runway before taxiing to just beyond the H-block Accommodation building. The sun was low on the horizon, casting a deep lurid orange and vermillion glow across the far fields, hedgerows and the buildings around the airfield’s perimeter. The NAAFI looked as though it had been painted red, its windows reflecting the dying sun. Ground staff and maintenance mechanics scampered around the hangars. The sound of a radio playing Jimmy Dorsey tunes and a man’s singing could be heard coming from one of them. Elsewhere a few weary pilots sauntered towards the Officers’ Mess, looking forward to the usual rounds of banter and liquid refreshment. It was their sacred time when aircrews could unwind, and block out any thoughts of the day’s combats, as well as lost friends. Their WAAF friends and civilian girls, having endured the big wait with anxious faces and tears, greeted the heroes with open arms, kisses and beaming smiles.

Jonny had persuaded his friend Flying Officer Hal Montgomery to part company with his pride and joy for the evening, a rather grand looking Riley Kestrel. Much to Jonny’s aggravation, he’d charged him the princely sum of five shillings which he called damage insurance. Hal was one of the fortunate few who’d managed to acquire a two-bedroomed house when the RAF commandeered most of the properties around the perimeter of Tangmere. It was only three doors away from Jonny’s idyllic ‘Rose Cottage’ which was festooned with sweet smelling pink roses.     

‘Bring it back in one piece and no scratches or else,’ shouted Hal as Jonny drove off to pick up the others before heading out towards The Unicorn in Chichester.

The four pilots entered the smoke-filled lounge which was already crowded and stood silently by the bar. Jonny, true to his word ordered the first round. They were still in a sombre mood until Wing Commander Hugh McArthur DSC arrived. He was a tall immaculately uniformed, charismatic man from Bedford, attached to 601 (City of London) Squadron since it arrived at Tangmere in March 1940. Born in 1892, he still possessed boundless energy for the good life despite being hampered by a serious neck injury sustained in 1917, when he was a pilot in The Royal Flying Corps. He was unable to turn his head fully, which had scuppered his chances of every flying again. With a genial smile, he shook Jonny’s hand.

‘Good to see you old chap. I’ve just heard about Mike Warren. Damned bad luck. I’ve already asked the boys in charge of the Honours Board to make sure his name is included. Fine flyer that one and a jolly decent chap too. When you and your boys are ready I’ve organised a traditional send off.’

‘Thanks Hugh, let’s send him off in style,’ said Jonny grinning. With that, Pat and Dicky smiled as they knew what was coming. Only Jamie appeared bemused, being the ‘rookie’. He’d never experienced a real ‘send-off’ before. Unfortunately for him he would be playing a key role in the evening’s entertainment, designed to shrug off any sentimentality or sad feelings of loss.

At precisely 20:30hrs, Hugh McArthur rang a bell. There was a sudden hush as the company stood to attention.

‘Well gentlemen, tonight we are going to raise our glasses in celebration for an esteemed colleague who will not be joining us. In doing so, our traditional send-off party will require the participation of the youngest member. Would that man please step forward.’

The crowd all cheered as Jamie, pushed by Pat, stumbled forward.

‘Barman, your yard glass filled with the finest ale in the house and a double whisky chaser, if you please.’

Hoots of laughter filled the air as Jamie, looking more than anxious, took the glass and tried his best to look calm, but failed badly.

The Wing Commander spoke loudly over the noise. ‘What’s your name, age and rank young man?’

Jamie stood stiffly and saluted. ‘Flight Sergeant Jamie Southgate, Sir and I’m nineteen.’

‘No need for the formal stuff now Jamie,’ said Hugh McArthur. ‘In keeping with our traditions, and as the youngest person here, you are required to quaff a yard of ale and then down the chasers. If you spill a drop, or piss yourself you start all over again. If that is understood, let the entertainment begin.’

The noise was deafening as the crowd surged forward and started cheering, laughing and hooting in the smoke-filled lounge. 

Jamie lifted the yard glass and to everyone’s amusement did not quite get the technique right. As expected, he spilled ale and it took two more attempts to get it right. He gagged on the whisky and had no choice but to wrestle his way through the crowd, trying to reach the gents before his bladder exploded.

On the way back to the lounge, in a haze of gathering inebriation, he thought he saw someone smiling and waving. He carried on believing the drink was causing hallucinations. As he reappeared loud cheering was accompanied by the sounds of a badly tuned piano. One of the airmen played a jazzy version of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’, before turning to some traditional sing-along Cockney songs including ‘Down at the old Bull and Bush’.

‘Well done, old chap,’ said Jonny. ‘You held your own very well. We gave Mike the sort of send-off he would have approved of.’

Pat jumped in and turned to Jamie. ‘You need a couple of weeks in da emerald Isle, learning da fine art of consuming Satan’s liquor.’

Dicky had disappeared but, on his return, he was smiling and making strange cooing noises as he turned to Jamie and said there was a pretty young lady called Frances asking for him. She was in the snug.

‘Oooooh get yas,’ said Pat in a loud voice.  He slapped Jamie on the back. ‘Enjoy yourself pal but watch out for the clap. The women around here are riddled with it!’

Jonny, looking disgusted, reprimanded Pat. ‘Do you have to Pat?  That sort of language might be all right in Galway but not here, OK?’ Pat looked embarrassed and shrunk out of sight mumbling something approaching ‘a towsand apologies Skip.’

The Lounge was becoming very rowdy as more drink was consumed. Jamie found his way to the snug and there, sitting by herself, was Frances McKay. He quickly realised that his present dishevelled state was unacceptable and apologised.

‘That’s OK,’ she said, ‘I guessed what might happen. Mac told me all about it.’

‘Mac?’ said Jamie.

‘Yes, I’m Wing Commander Hugh McArthur’s driver. He lets me call him Mac.’ Jamie was still looking puzzled.

‘How come you’re here? I thought you and your friend were meeting two chaps for a night out on the town.’

For a moment Frances looked a little uncomfortable.

‘I had cold feet. Blind dates are not my thing and anyway, I thought you’d like a friend to chat with as you seemed shocked and sad about your missing friend.’

‘Yes I was,’ said Jamie, ‘and it’s really nice of you to care.’

He turned towards her and it struck him just how beautiful she was. He blushed and apologised for being a little unsteady on his feet and asking too many questions but she brushed aside his apologies with an endearing smile.

‘I’d love to buy you a drink, Frances and, yes, I would really enjoy chatting with you!’

She smiled and touched his hand. ‘That’s sweet of you. I’d love a G&T if that’s OK? Oh and please call me Fran - all my friends do.’

Jamie stood at the bar where he could see Fran. She was facing away but he was mesmerised by her shapely body, enhanced by a well-tailored WAAF uniform. It was dawning on him that Fran was special, a girl who could easily become part of his future. He returned a few moments later with a Martini and an Indian tonic water for himself with the excuse he was still groggy after the earlier fun and games. The two of them spent the next twenty minutes happily discussing their experiences and expectations. Fran sensitively explored Jamie’s inexperience when coping with departed colleagues. Her gentle care and words, carefully chosen, opened his eyes to the inevitability of losing friends and to try and become harder, less vulnerable and less sentimental. However, she brought another red flush to Jamie’s cheeks after saying it was his soft nature that made him attractive, but as a fighter pilot he had to keep all that in check if he wanted to survive. To Jamie, her bright smiling eyes were filled with nothing but care. It was obvious they found each other attractive and interesting. Jamie had never had a serious girlfriend whereas Fran, who was the same age as him, had been walking out with a sergeant in the Royal Norfolk Regiment who was killed whilst waiting to be evacuated from a Dunkirk beach.

Without any warning, there was a loud commotion coming from somewhere beyond the snug. Jamie and Fran spotted two airmen wheeling a sack trolley carrying the unconscious Wing Commander Hugh McArthur.

‘Oh no,’ mumbled Fran, ‘not again.’

Jamie was about to ask Fran what she meant when Jonny stuck his head around the snug entrance and beckoned him and Fran to join him outside. On the way, Fran explained that her boss was well known for being unable to take his drink and it was not uncommon to witness such an ignoble exit.

‘He’s passed out again,’ she said. ‘It’s the same old routine. They’ll bundle him into the car and I’ll have to drive him home.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jamie. ‘You’ll need another set of hands when you get there.’

Jonny, Pat and Dicky were waiting outside. Along with Jamie they all helped to bundle the Wing Commander, looking more like a sack of potatoes, into the back seat of his black and red MG WA.

‘Now what’s going to happen?’ said Jonny with a wry look. ‘This has all the hallmarks of embarrassment!’

‘Not as embarrassing as it will be for Jamie,’ said Pat. ‘He’ll be having to deal with da silly sod’s soggy bags at da other end. The old bugger has pissed his self.’ Dicky and Jonny burst out laughing.

As the sun started to set, most of the other RAF boys had congregated outside The Unicorn along with Fred Ramsey, the pub’s manager.  He handed over the Wing Commander’s drink-stained jacket to Jamie. Everyone was laughing as Fran, Jamie and their sleeping passenger drove off towards Crockerhill on the A27. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at a large old thatched cottage on Eartham Lane. Fran got out and knocked on the front door and, a couple of minutes later, a large lady in a floral skirt opened it. Jamie was now standing by the car. He’d opened the back door and a rather grim looking Hugh McArthur struggled out or, more correctly, fell out. His shirt was undone, as were his belt braces and fly buttons. He’d spilt booze down his front and he was mumbling something incoherently. Jamie’s right hand which he was using to help extricate him, slipped between the man’s crotch and much to his horror discovered some very soggy trousers.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Hugh,’ said Margaret, his wife. ‘Surely not again? Is it at all possible that for once you can at least attempt to be a on your very best behaviour?’

Somehow, the three of them manhandled him into the house towards a downstairs bathroom. At this point, the Wing Commander came to and turned to Jamie.

‘Who the hell are you? Oh yes, you’re one of Jonny’s lot, the young chap who polished off the yard of ale. What the dickens are you doing here?’

‘I volunteered to help your driver bring you home, Sir,’ said Jamie. ‘It looks to me like you might have had a good time.’

Fran chuckled and turned to Margaret only to see her looking grim faced and not too pleased. 

‘What! What! Had a good time eh? Did I? Oh well, that’s all right then! You just called her Fran?’ He paused, his red face seeming as though it might burst at any moment and followed with, ‘Are you two by any chance stepping out together then?’

They left him in the bathroom uttering profanities and making much noise as he staggered from one obstruction to another.

‘He’ll be as right as rain in the next ten minutes,’ said Margaret. ‘Would you both like a cup of tea?’

They both nodded and sat down next to each other on a large settee. The room was quite dark with its small 18th century windows, partly covered in ivy and wisteria. Old oak beams and a large Inglenook fireplace adorned with old horseshoes and a couple of ancient muskets made the room feel slightly