MICHAEL

By Gerald Jones

In the skies above the hills of Mid Wales, where buzzards soar and falcons descend, Michael yearned for the freedom that was theirs.

So, when the time came he jumped on for the ride. His imminent future became one of his, and the British government's, making. But long-term, that future would be in Michael's hands alone.

A young girl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald Jones
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781805414759

Book preview

1

Michael adjusted his goggles and peered over the side of the Tiger Moth, the rush of air filled his lungs as the methodical purring of the gypsy engine filled his senses. Flying amongst the clouds gave him the feeling of freedom he had expected. The only thing to compare with it, was when he went skinny dipping in the Irish Sea off the Welsh coast the previous summer and even that was a poor comparison. The plane dipped its starboard wing and banked, slipping into a steep decline that stirred his stomach. At eight thousand feet, the plane levelled off. Michael glanced at the altimeter in front of him. He’d got to know every dial on the instrument panel and the reason for it being there. The instructor, sitting up front, had told him when he got into his seat to place his hands on his lap and not to touch anything, his job, he had added, was to observe. The joystick between his legs was a temptation hard to resist but resist he did.

Michael’s interest in flying started at the age of fourteen when he saw a yellow by-plane flying over his home in Llandyssil, a village in mid Wales, five miles from the English border. The Tiger Moth intrigued him. He wanted to know how it stayed in the air. Michael would ask his father questions he couldn’t answer. Michael’s questions were constant and so when his mother was next in the local town, she called at the newsagents and bought a magazine, Popular Flying by W. E. Johnson. This was the start of Michael’s obsession and many more magazines and publications regarding the principles of flying followed, all of which he had been eager to read.

Michael had left school at the age of fourteen and, like those who had left with him, had started work in the surrounding area. For the first six months he flitted from job to job, too young to be taken seriously and not old enough for the same reason. Farm work was not what he wanted and to work in the timber industry, he wanted even less. He was meant for better things. His dream was still to fly, to become a pilot but the reality of this happening was slim, due to his background and his limited education. Nothing short of a miracle would get him where he wanted to be. However, aircraft engines had to be serviced and put right when things went wrong, as they invariably did. Michael realised that the only way he had any chance to fly was to become a mechanic and join the support crew at an RAF base, to join those people that were invaluable in keeping aircraft flying. He would start as a mechanic and somehow worm his way into the cockpit of whatever machine had wings.

Six months before his fifteenth birthday, Michael began working weekends at Corfield’s garage in Abermule, a small village a two mile bike ride from his home in Llandyssil. There he learned about the things that intrigued him most, engines. Car engines, motorbike engines, stationary engines, those that drove belts that made things work, any block of steel that had pistons in its belly would one way or another become instrumental to his future.

Walter Corfield, whose father owned the garage, was a few years older than Michael. The previous year he’d taken his Velocette motorcycle to the Isle of Man to compete in the Tourist Trophy races. His endeavour’s that year had not amounted to much, in fact he didn’t finish the race. However, undeterred, the twenty five year old pursued his obsession and for the next three years entered the same competition.

In June of 1934, Michael started work full time at the garage. A month later, Walter tried his luck at the TT races again. This time he fared a little better and finished twenty third in the senior MGP race.

During this period at the garage, Michael was busy learning his trade and Walter’s fascination with the Isle of Man TT races was an added excitement.

Now that’s one hell of a motorbike, Walter announced as he tossed The Daily Sketch onto the table where the boys were having their dinner break. Michael read the headlines.

"Too Big for Wealth and Glory

Lawrence the soldier dies to live forever"

Did your Dad ever see Lawrence, Michael? I mean when he was in Egypt during the war?

I believe so, answered Michael, still reading the report of the death of T.E. Lawrence.

I think he saw him drive past in his Rolls Royce on the way to Damascus.

What happened? Walter queried, pointing his finger at the newspaper.

He crashed while riding his motorcycle.

A Brough Superior, like I said, one hell of a bike. Apparently, it was given to him by a fellow by the name of Bernard Shaw, George Bernard Shaw, the playwright? Michael looked up smiling.

What’s one of those? Walter smiled back.

Someone who writes plays.

Like Shakespeare?

Something like that. Michael looked again at the pictures of Laurence, one was of him in full Arab kit, as Lawrence called it, and the other in military uniform sitting astride his motorcycle. Michael looked at the date of the newspaper. Monday May 20th 1935.

Three weeks later, Walter was sending his Excelsior around the winding roads of the Isle of Man. Again, he wasn’t able to finish. A year later he entered one last time. His motorcycle stood the course and he finished in 6th position, not bad for a local lad.

One Saturday morning in the first week of April 1938 when Michael, had just removed a front wheel from an Austin Seven, he heard a car pull up on the garage forecourt. Taking an oily rag from his back trouser pocket, he wiped his hands. The car door of a Wolseley opened and out stepped a rather flustered man, he looked over Michael’s shoulder into the garage.

Can I help you sir? Michael asked smiling.

Well, I hope so, answered the man with a look of concern.

The car isn’t running as it should; do you have a mechanic that can have a look to see what’s wrong?

Well, the boss is in town and the other mechanic is having a day off, said Michael, still smiling.

What seems to be the problem? Michael noticed an attractive looking lady in the front seat, flipping through the pages of a magazine. The man was quite tall, in his mid-thirties. He wore a dark blue blazer with silver buttons and cream trousers, he spoke with an undefined accent. His handlebar moustache and slick combed, black hair were typical of a ‘privileged’ man.

It doesn’t seem to be firing on all cylinders.

A fuel problem, said Michael, still holding the rag in his hand, would you like me to have a look?

Have you worked on one of these before?

No, not one of these, but I believe it’s got a six cylinder Morris commercial derived 3.5 overhead valve engine. Michael paused, then stated the obvious and determined to make an impression, as you will be well aware, Wing Commander, all combustion engines, whether in a car or an aeroplane, work on the same principle? By the way, I’m Michael. Michael couldn’t help but smile as the man he’d just referred to as Wing Commander stood open-mouthed and then, with an equally broad grin, asked how the young man standing in front of him knew that he was a Wing Commander.

Is that not your RAF uniform coat on the back seat of your car sir? If so, then your ranking insignia is on the sleeve. Michael glanced through the passenger window, and the gentleman’s gaze followed.

Very observant of you Michael, the Wing Commander said. You seem to know your engines. Do you think you can fix it? Michael didn’t answer as he opened the side panel of the car bonnet.

Not firing on all cylinders, you say? It could be a number of things so let’s start with the obvious. Fuel line, spark plugs, maybe the fuel mix.

How long will it take? the man, now sounding anxious, spoke as he would to a mechanic and not to a young kid who would hardly know what he was about.

A half hour, maybe a bit longer should do it, said Michael, not looking up. Perhaps you’d like to pop next door for a cup of tea, the pub is open and they cater for people passing through, I presume you’re going up to the coast?

Your presumption is correct, Michael. I have five days leave so I thought we would visit Aberystwyth. Without a thought, Michael went around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. A shapely leg, followed by another, swung over the edge of the tanned leather seat. A lady emerged from the warm interior. The cream clutch bag she held matched the cream suit she wore. Her wavy blonde hair, free of any adornments, fell to her shoulders and, for the want of a better word, she smelt exciting.

Thank you, she said and smiled as Michael closed the door behind her.

Not at all, answered Michael, noticing a wedding ring on the hand that firmly held the clutch bag. The scarlet lipstick she wore reminded Michael of his Aunt Megan when, on the odd occasion, she got all dolled up to go somewhere special.

I’m Sorry, said the Wing Commander, I didn’t introduce myself; I’m Simon Fairweather and this is my wife, Jennifer. We were married just yesterday.

Congratulations, said Michael as he watched them turn and walk over to the pub. Mrs Fairweather’s heeled shoes of cream and brown leather supported the fine legs he’d seen exiting the Wolseley and he couldn’t help noticing the perfect line of her seamed stocking. An attractive lady, he thought.

Simon had left the keys in the ignition but Michael didn’t need to know how the car engine sounded, and after taking it into the garage he went straight to the spark plugs. The first one he looked at had a slight furring, the second and third the same. The fourth was in a state that couldn’t possibly produce a spark, that’s the one he said to himself. He didn’t bother looking at the other two, he just replaced the lot. Next came the carburettor, checking the fuel line as he removed it. The carburettor he cleaned with a toothbrush in a dish of petrol, before replacing it and making sure the float was free and working properly. Feeling that he’d done what was necessary, he lowered the side panel of the bonnet and went to get a dust sheet to place over the driver’s seat. The moment he turned the key, the engine came to life running like new. He let it idle for a minute, then put his foot down on the accelerator. The engine responded as it should. He switched the car off, took out the key and removed the sheet covering from the seat. Michael was quite pleased with himself as he sat in the office to make out the Wing Commander’s bill. Ten minutes later Mr Fairweather poked his head around the office door.

Have you finished? he asked with a bounce in his voice. Michael looked up and rose from his seat. He had already taken the car out of the garage and parked it on the forecourt. Michael smiled but didn’t reply. He walked to the car and opened the driver’s door and handed the Wing Commander the keys. Fairweather turned the key and the engine sprang to life.

What was the problem?

I’ve replaced all the spark plugs and given the carburettor a good clean, all seems fine now.

How much do I owe you? Fairweather reached into his jacket pocket.

If you follow me, Michael said, walking to the garage office. Mr Fairweather paid the bill that Michael had already written out, after which the two men spent a short time discussing Michael’s work and his future plans. Michael explained his dream of flying and his hope that working as a mechanic was a step in the right direction. Wing Commander Fairweather listened intently. He was already impressed by Michael’s ability to fix his car and his astute observation skills. During their discussion, Michael had managed to refer to his knowledge of the De-Havilland Tiger Moth and the gypsy engine that kept it in the air; all the while, trying to show that he knew what he was talking about without sounding like a ‘clever sod’.

Wing Commander Fairweather was intrigued.

How old are you, Michael and how do you come to know so much about the Tiger Moth?

I read a lot, smiled Michael and I turned eighteen on the 1st of January, sir. Simon paused and stroked his chin.

At the moment I’m stationed at Shawbury, you know of it?

I do, it’s a few miles the other side of Shrewsbury.

I don’t know how long I’ll be there, as things are starting to hot up in Europe, so I may not be there when you arrive.

When I arrive?

It seems, young Michael, that you are dead set on joining the RAF, so I suggest you give me your details and I will see what I can do.

Will you be able to get me in as a mechanical technician?

I have no doubt about it, getting you in the air is another matter, but I have a feeling you will get there eventually. I’ll make enquiries as soon as I’m back. He smiled. Pack your bags, Michael, you’ll be going on the ride of your life.

Above him, Michael watched wispy clouds float by, their damp vapour mysteriously suspended by heaven knows what. Below, green fields passed by. Michael was amused by the fact that everything looked flat; the scene giving no indication of any rise and fall of the land. He was now higher than any tree he had ever climbed and thus a damned sight higher to fall from. In front of him, every now and again, the pilot, with gloved hand, pointed down and then banked the plane for a better view of what he wanted Michael to see. The smoke from the Cambrian Coast Express train rose into the air leaving its trail way behind. For a mile they flew parallel with it, then veering to port, they climbed and headed back to the airfield. The sounds and vibrations, sky and land, the rise and dips, moments when he would catch his breath and the exhilaration of being in the domain of the birds. This, he thought, was just the beginning.

2

Within three months of Michael shaking hands and giving Wing Commander Fairweather a stunted salute on the forecourt of the garage in Abermule. he had joined the RAF, as a mechanic at Shawbury air base in Shropshire. To what degree of influence Commander Fairweather had in getting Michael a position in the hangars of Shawbury he didn’t know, but his first objective was realised.

Politics, a subject Michael was not remotely interested in, soon became a subject on everyone’s mind. On the 17th June 1939, Michael was taken up on his first flight. The reason, he gathered, was to show what he and his co-workers were capable of doing with just an array of screwdrivers, spanners, nuts, bolts and the knowledge needed to get planes to fly. Without them nothing would get off the ground. On that same day Hitler’s Brownshirts had attacked hundreds of Jews in Berlin, pursuing the antisemitic stance of the Nazi regime. Five days later a British ship was bombed and sunk in the waters off Valencia, bringing about a marked increase of activity at his and all RAF bases. German aggression was rife in all of the British newspapers, resulting in more personnel walking through the gates of the base, increasing the numbers in all sections. Older men, along with some senior officials, feared war imminent, but it didn’t happen. Over the coming months other incidents took place, with Germany being the instigator of aggression. Again, nothing happened, except of course for a steady increase in sabre rattling speeches in the House of Commons. The crying out for revenge and the threats of war now becoming a common topic of people’s conversations.

It was only a matter of time when the question of Britain entering the war became one of when and not if. That question was answered on the 3rd of September 1939 when Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, in a radio broadcast announced on behalf of the government and its people, declared war on Germany.

Michael was four months short of his twentieth birthday and two months after the declaration of war, when he stood with eight other trainee pilots in the cold November operations room at his RAF base at Tern Hill, seventeen miles from his first base at Shawbury. His presence there, he had learned later, was in part due to the recommendations of the Wing Commander whose Wolseley he had fixed on Abermule garage forecourt eighteen months earlier. Other reasons being that Britain needed pilots and lots of them. Plus, his own dogmatic belief that he could succeed in the profession, if that’s what it was, to become a pilot. Michael wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last ground crew mechanic to put down a spanner and pick up a RAF flying helmet. He had studied, reading through his textbooks dozens of times and never missed an opportunity to be up there with the birds. It was they and they alone who were the masters of the sky. On hot days, in the summer months he often watched them from outside the hangars in Shawbury, buzzards soaring on the warm thermals, that rose from the corn and wheat fields surrounding his base. Seeing them, seemingly in slow motion, dip and raise their tail and wing feathers, adjust, and trim their bodies, functions needed to be done before they could accomplish a determined flight path. If only I could do that he would say, if only, but there was no answer to these creatures’ ability to fly.

The realisation that flying could also be the cause of his demise, was, at this time, just a passing thought. If taken seriously he would have abandoned the idea of becoming a pilot a long time ago.

3

Five years had passed since Sam and Grace had left Liverpool docks for New York. In that time Sam’s perception of the little Welsh village where he had spent his early years hadn’t changed. For him, it was, and always would be, a place to leave from and a sanctuary. Whether in body or mind, it was a place to come home to. His recollection of leaving eleven years earlier to follow in the footsteps of Michael Gill, a man whose tales of adventure were relayed to him by his Aunt Megan, had become a distant memory, but not too distant as to diminish his memory of wanting to go in the first place.

Sam had collected his mail from the lime green mailbox that stood outside his home on Hudson Street. He stood for a moment sifting through the letters and flyers, placing them in order of importance. Business correspondence went to his office workshop and personal letters were delivered to the house. With the flyers placed on the bottom, Sam looked at the topmost letter. He knew who it was from and what it contained. It was an invitation to Billie Fleming’s seventeenth birthday party. The Fleming’s had become like family to Sam and Grace. Sam first met Joe, Pageant and Billie in a railway carriage travelling to Liverpool docks en route to America. At the time, Billie was six years of age. Joe had a position awaiting him as a newspaper reporter for the New York Times and Pageant, as Sam recalled, had sat smiling, looking demure and altogether charming. Sam slipped Billie’s invitation into his pocket as he carried the rest of the mail to his front door. Inside, he placed the bundle onto a small table and picked out another letter. It was from Michael, a close family friend. He was in the habit of writing two or three times a year, telling of how things were in his life. He had forbidden his mother Megan to mention him in her letters, much preferring to tell Sam about his life in his own words. Michael had mentioned about becoming a garage mechanic in previous letters and always asked after Grace and the children, before going on at some length about what particular car he was currently working on. Michael used mechanical jargon like ‘overhead cams’, ‘rocker arms’ and ‘crankshafts’, words that were not in Sam’s vocabulary. This letter dated the 11th September 1938 started off in much the same vein, but unlike the others, it detailed a significant step forward in Michael’s life. He told of his first flying experience in a Tiger Moth. You remember Sam, exactly like the one that flew over our house when you were home last? Yes, Sam did remember the aeroplane flying over. How could he forget the visit and saying goodbye to everyone? His father had seemed broken, just saying the words, see you next time you’re home. His mother had cried, and his Aunt Megan had shed a tear.

Michael wrote of the chaos in Europe, a fact Sam was well aware of. Michael had intimated the importance of the RAF if conflict with Germany was to happen. For a moment Sam stopped reading. He looked blankly at the page. Don’t wish for something that may not occur. Michael: already feared that the prospect of war seemed more probable than not. Sam crossed the hall and entered the kitchen. Willena was at the sink humming a gospel song. He placed Michael’s letter on the kitchen table and said, Hello.

Jesus Lord Sam! You frightened the life out of me, you do that one day and I’s drop dead. She turned and gave Sam a big smile.

Before use ask, Henry is upstairs and the rest have gone for a walk; Miss Mary came over and she gone with ‘em.

Willena had lived in this house since she was a child and Sam sometimes forgot that Willena actually owned the home that they lived in, since it was left to her in the Will of its late owner, Mrs Margaret Doyle. Willena was well into her seventies and was at first reluctant to give way on what she called ‘her duties’ in the kitchen, but give way she eventually did and now, as she got older and with young children in the house, her presence in the kitchen became visibly less, instead she chose to spend time at her church and knitting clothes for Sam and Grace’s children.

Sam’s business, manufacturing coffins, had now grown to a point that he could spend a day away from the workshop. Since he had arrived home, following his trip to Wales and marriage to Grace, Sam had read the conflicting reports of the American economy. Domestic affairs were still the number one concern. With the depression not really being over, but in a better state than it was five years earlier. Even now in September the need to look after your own was still the priority. The outlook on world events differed from those in Europe. Their main concern was the expansion of Germany into neighbouring countries, but Europe was still a long way from the shores of America. President Franklin Roosevelt, although concerned with the goings on across the water, was too preoccupied with the state of his own country, to get involved with matters that didn’t concern them.

Grace had settled in surprisingly well, and after the birth of Henry, her health and that of their son were what mattered most to Sam. Henry was six months old when Grace’s parents finally arrived. They stayed in the house for four months before moving into a small apartment that Sam had bought for them, a five minute walk away. Sara was born two years later and Mary, named after Grace’s mother, eighteen months after that. Jimmy came along sixteen months later. Willena and Mary were a godsend in looking after the children, giving Grace the time to do the book work for Sam’s business. She wasn’t for, as she put it, hanging around waiting for her children to dirty their diapers and change them every half hour or so. Diapers being a word she had got used to saying. Nappies, as Willena would remind her, was a British word and not used in America.

George, Grace’s father, worked twenty hours a week at Sam’s workshop, sweeping floors and generally being a dog’s body to the carpenters at their work benches. With little responsibility and a lot of free time, his interest in American history grew.

4

Four days after Sam had received Michael’s letter, Willena went to Long Island to stay with friends. Sam drove her up on the Friday morning and had arranged to collect her the following Friday. Five days later, a tropical hurricane made landfall. It hit Long Island, New York, and New England. It was a ferocious storm. Sam and his employees battened down the workshop as best they could, then he told them to go home and look after their own. Debris was flying across the roads, and the rain was such that Sam found it difficult to drive and was running over all manner of things that had blown onto the road. He made it home and parked his car on the forecourt. An uprooted lime tree lay across his lawn, the branches of which hampered his access to the front door. The door opened on the lee side of the wind which at least meant that it opened easily. He rushed through the house shouting Grace’s name.

We’re in the cellar!

He could hear Grace’s voice. Sam got to the cellar meeting George on the top step.

Jesus, George, all hell is breaking loose out there, is everything all right?

Yes, how about you?

I’m fine.

In the