Читать книгу Sherlock's Squadron - The Incredible True Story of the Unsung Heroes of World War Two - Steve Holmes - Страница 10

‘I’m warning you John, you keep your bloody eyes in your head and your hands in your pocket. She’s my sister and she is strictly off limits. End of story.’

‘Spoken like a father, Norm,’ John said as he slapped Norman on the back. Norman shied away, making John well aware his body language had purpose and meaning.

‘Fuck off John and stop patronising me.’

John edged forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table, his face barely inches from his good friend’s. He took a quick mischievous look around the bar and then stared back at Norman as he cautiously glared over the top of his pint pot.

‘Don’t you worry Norman, I’m an honourable man.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘After all, mates are mates.’

‘Good.’

‘And you are like a brother to me.’

Norman leant forward with heavy shoulders as he reluctantly showed his approval but a facial twitch also displayed a tiny hint of suspicion.

‘And?’

‘I cross my heart in God’s honour.’ John made the sign of the cross on his chest.

‘You don’t believe in God.’

John hesitated.

‘You’re right…I’d forgotten about that.’ He grinned again. ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll swear on my Mam’s life, anything.’

‘Swear what?’

‘I swear, my best mate Norman, that I’ll keep my hands off your sister Dot.’ John rose from the table, placed his cap on his head as he looked at his watch.

‘Got to get going old mate. It’s a long walk home.’

Norman was nodding; he smiled for the first time that evening.

‘The thing is, Norman…’ he stood up, leant over the table and slapped his friend gently on the cheek. ‘Can she keep her hands off me?’

John Holmes had timed it perfectly. Norman jumped up from the table, spilling what was left in his glass onto the table.

‘You cheeky little bastard, I’ll fucking brain you.’

He sprinted across the room to the doorway but John was already running away into the night gloom laughing mockingly as he went. Norman reached the doorway and peered out into the darkness. John had disappeared.

John’s initial sprint had turned into a jog. There was no way Norman Shaw would ever have caught up with him even if he could have seen him. It was at least half a mile before his chuckles had died away. Norman Shaw was the easiest man in the world to wind up. John Holmes looked up into the night sky. A fine drizzle began to fall, the tiny droplets stood out against the dull glow of the street lights. He pulled up the collar of his coat to protect him from the cold, damp night air. As he did he gazed up into the sky. He wondered where his brothers were, if they were okay or if they too were cold and wet in a trench somewhere in France. As he turned the corner into Ashton Drive a GPO telegram bike stood outside the door of number 43.

‘It’s bad news, I’m telling you,’ said his father.

‘It could be anything, Bill…’ his mother replied.

William Holmes sat with an untouched cup of lukewarm tea.

‘Not at this time of night. They don’t send a telegram announcing a birth or an engagement at this time of night.’

Georgina Holmes stood motionless, her thumb and forefinger stroking at a troubled chin.

‘Do you think I should call on her?’ she eventually said.

‘I’ll come with you, get your coat, it’s turned into a horrible night.’

He took his big overcoat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door, pulled his cap from the pocket and John was left sitting in the kitchen on his own.

John was still sitting in the same spot two hours later. Alice and Mary had joined him and they sat in stony silence until they heard the front door slam. Alice stood up.

‘That’s Mam back now, I’ll go and…’

‘Sit down,’ John interrupted. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

The two statuesque faces of William and Georgina Holmes as they walked through the door told the three siblings everything they needed to know. Georgina Holmes’s eyes were red and moist. She had been crying for some time. As she looked into the vacant stares of her children she broke down again and collapsed on a seat next to the kitchen table. William Holmes went to comfort her. He turned to his children.

‘Your Mam remembers Frank being born, playing out in the street in short pants.’

He didn’t need to tell his son and daughters what they already knew but he did.

‘He’s been killed in France.’

The war had truly arrived in Skerton.

But life went on. Life had to go on. The shops and the factories continued to operate, the picture houses and pubs opened as normal, even the local dance halls continued to flourish, young men and women eager for release, keen to show the Germans that they would never break their resolve.

Norman and John had gone to the local dance at the Roxy on Market Street the following Saturday night. Norman’s sister Dorothy also sat on a table over the far side of the room with at least a dozen of her friends. The atmosphere in the hall was a little sombre at first; it seemed everyone knew Frank Roberts or at least knew someone that knew him. The band leader gave out the bad news and called for one minute’s silence. But afterwards he called for an air of normality, said it was what Frank would have wanted, and almost ordered the crowd to enjoy themselves as he conducted the band to open with ‘A String of Pearls’, one of Glenn Miller’s most popular tunes. By the third or fourth tune the dance floor was beginning to fill, and by tune six – with the gentle persuasion of a few beers, not to mention the ladies’ favourite, port and lemon – it was in full swing.

Dorothy Shaw nudged her best friend Mavis Walsh.

‘Hey Mave, that’s John Holmes over there sitting with my brother.’

‘Oh yeah, so it is. He’s gorgeous isn’t he?’

‘Think I stand a chance?’

‘No way, he’s hooked up with Joyce from the Greaves Hotel. They reckon she’s teaching him the tricks of the trade.’ Mavis laughed. ‘He’s a couple more on the go too, I’m told.’

Mavis looked her friend up and down and a mocking smile flicked across her face.

‘And Dot, I think he’s a bit young for you anyway. Best leave him alone, nothing but trouble, that one.’

Dorothy Holmes found a burst of courage as she laughed and rose to her feet. She’d gazed across the darkened room, peered in between the dancing figures. The dance floor was one big jumping, pounding, bouncing Jitterbug as a thousand sparkles from a revolving silver ball suspended from the ceiling lit up a hundred happy, smiling faces. They looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Frank Roberts was a memory now and the war a million miles away. Dorothy Shaw could barely pick out the shape of her brother and his friend but she was on a mission and nothing was going to stop her.

Another friend chipped in.

‘Where are you going, Dot? The bar’s over there.’ She pointed in the opposite direction to where Dorothy was looking.

Dorothy Shaw didn’t answer; already halfway across the crowded dance floor she dodged flailing limbs and twisting bodies as the five piece band from Lancaster mimicked the sounds of Benny Goodman’s Big Band. As she reached the table Dorothy realised how unprepared she was. What was she going to say, what would she do? There was a pregnant pause as she looked at her young brother and then at his friend. She looked almost hypnotically into his piercing blue eyes as they held her gaze there for a moment and she felt an uncontrollable but pleasant shiver run the length of her spine.

Norman’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘What you after, our lass?’

‘Nothing Norman, just wondering what you were doing here. I didn’t know you could dance.’

‘I can’t, neither can John here but we heard the beer was good and anyway we like the music.’

It was the perfect opening, a gift from the Gods. Good old Norman, she thought, and the words came to her as naturally as asking for a loaf of bread at the local shop.

‘I could teach you if you like John.’

Norman’s head fell into his two hands and he shook it from side to side. He’d never seen his sister look this way before. It was his worst nightmare and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As Dorothy took John by the hand and prepared to walk onto the dance floor she stopped and turned to face her brother.

‘By the way Norman, there’s a girl on my table called Laurena. I think you should ask her to dance.’

‘And why’s that?’

Dorothy leaned forward and whispered into his ear.

‘Because she fancies you, you twit.’

John Holmes and Dorothy Shaw danced all evening. They danced to the Jitterbug, did the Foxtrot and smooched to the Waltz. When they weren’t dancing they stood at the bar drinking and talking, mostly talking. By the end of the night they were inseparable and despite the best efforts of Norman and Dorothy’s friends they would not return to their respective tables. When the evening ended John asked if he could walk his new girl home. Norman had long gone, as had Dorothy’s friends. She agreed. By the time they turned right onto Penny Street and set off in the direction of Greaves Road their hands were entwined and by the time they reached the junction of Ashton Road John knew, just knew, that he had met the girl he was going to marry. They turned left into Greaves Park. They walked through slowly, glad of the silence and the loneliness of the park. As they neared the exit on the far side a lodge house loomed up through the darkness blocking out the lights from the nearby streets. Dorothy turned to face him.

‘I think it’s best you leave me here. Belle Vue Terrace is just around the corner.’

John nodded.

‘No problem, Dorothy, no problem at all.’

He was trying to act the gentleman, be polite. He was trying his hardest not to put his foot in it, not to do anything that would spoil this beautiful, beautiful evening. Dorothy gave him a little peck on the cheek and bid him goodnight. It was a long walk home but it mattered not. John Holmes would walk home floating on air.

John was pleased he’d had so many conversations with Norman. Norman had given him the entire history of every member of his family – including Dorothy. He knew what she did and where she worked and even what time she clocked on and off. Good old Norman.

The textile mill where Dorothy worked was on South Road. It backed onto the Lancaster to Preston Canal. John had completed his routine maintenance in double quick time that day and the supervisor saw no reason not to let him out of work 30 minutes early. He arrived outside the gates of Storey Brothers’ Mill with five minutes to spare. The entrance was impressive, a big old white stone fronted facade, the name Storey Brothers carved deep into the stone and painted red. Behind the stunning entrance it was a mill just like any other, a huge, imposing dirty grey bricked building that seemed to block out the whole landscape. He looked up to the elegant edifice, noticed turrets standing proudly at each end. He had been told it had been home for a Battalion in the Crimean War but now it housed only a workforce who didn’t want to be there. It shouldn’t have been depressing, but it was.

Spot on six o’clock the security guard unlocked the huge padlock that secured a thick chain around the gates, unwrapped the chain and swung the gates open. A few minutes later the workers drifted out into the huge compound eager to make their way home. Dorothy spotted him before he spotted her. She stopped at the gates.

‘Well well, John Holmes, what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to ask my girl if she would like to go out on a date.’

‘Your girl. Is that what I am?’ She broke into a forced laugh. ‘You dance with me a few times and I’m your girl?’

‘Fourteen dances actually.’

‘You were counting?’

John nodded and grinned. ‘And anyway I was wondering if my girl would like to come and join me for a picnic this weekend?’

‘A picnic, are you mad? It’s November, its freezing! Where, when, what time?’

John held up a hand, ‘Whoa… steady on, no more questions. Just tell me you’ll go and I’ll pick you up at home around one on Sunday.’

Dorothy stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Very well then if you insist.’

‘I do.’

‘One more question though.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are we going?’

John fell back against the mill wall and looked into the sky.

‘That’s an easy one, Dorothy Shaw. I’m taking you to the most beautiful place in the world.’

The World, and Europe in particular, were far away from being described as a beautiful place in the spring of 1941. It was clear from the radio reports that the war was far from over. John and his father listened with dismay as the BBC announced that Swansea and Glasgow on the River Clyde had been sought out for special treatment by the German Luftwaffe and the worst bombing of the year had taken place in London, the Luftwaffe bombs even managing to hit Buckingham Palace. German and British troops had also confronted each other for the first time in North Africa, at El Agheila in western Libya. John’s father shook his head.

‘What is it, Dad?’ asked John.

His father’s chin rested on the palm of his hand as he let out a sigh.

‘I don’t know, John, I just don’t know. When this bloody war started I was convinced it would be over in a matter of months. We’re fighting all over the bloody world now, even in Africa.’

Despite the doom and gloom of the BBC man, as always he finished on a bright note, the irony not lost on John. He always ended with some good news as he informed the listeners that the United States President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had signed a lease act allowing Britain, China and other Allied nations to purchase military equipment and to defer payment until after the war.

‘That’s good news isn’t it Dad, the Americans on our side, giving us weapons?’

‘Yes son… good news indeed.’

And yet John noticed something in his father’s eyes, a look that said he wanted more than that. The BBC would not tell their listeners that the spring of 1941 was not a good time for the Allies. Their troops were being run ragged. Portsmouth had also suffered heavy casualties after another night of heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe and huge convoy losses had been suffered in the mid-Atlantic. Rommel had also reoccupied El Agheila, Libya in his first major offensive against British troops. The British retreated and were driven back into Egypt. Hitler could have been forgiven for thinking he had the upper hand against the Allies; his confidence was at an all-time high and he ordered his military leaders to plan for the invasion of Yugoslavia and sets his sights further afield on the Soviet Union. At the same time he gave the order for the expansion of Auschwitz prison camp, to be run by Commandant Rudolph Hess.

So William Holmes wanted more; he wanted the bloody Americans to come in and help the Allies. The Germans were sinking their merchant ships by the score but still they sat on the sidelines. What was wrong with them?

The BBC announcer wrapped up his report. There was a two or three second delay and a beautiful American big band sound filled the room. William grinned sarcastically.

‘Glenn Miller,’ he said pointing at the radio. ‘Glenn bloody Miller. Why doesn’t he put his trombone away and pick up a bloody gun?’

John turned down the sound on the radio, turned to face his father. ‘Do you think the Yanks will come in to the war, Dad?’ he asked.

William’s head was back in his hands as he raked his fingers through his hair. He looked up at his son, pulled him towards him and ruffled at his hair just like he had when he was a small boy. John leaned into him and his father’s arms wrapped around him tightly.

‘I hope so son…I hope so.’

John tried to look at the situation logically. Surely the Americans wouldn’t sit on the fence for ever. Another ship sunk perhaps? Maybe something bigger?

It was March 27th 1941 and John bid his father goodnight and climbed the stairs to bed. On the other side of the world, the Japanese spy Takeo Yoshikawa arrived in Honolulu, Hawaii and began to study the United States fleet at Pearl Harbor.

John had never expected to meet Dorothy’s parents on this their first real date but Dorothy had insisted he come in and meet the family. It was only when she took his hand and pulled him into the house that his resolve broke. Her soft tiny hand felt so good in his. He never wanted to let it go.

Dorothy’s father stood with his elbow resting on the mantelpiece of the black cast iron range, bedecked in a steel grey three-piece suit complete with waistcoat and a gold Albert chain hanging from the pocket. He wore a crisp, starched, brilliant white shirt and a bottle green tie and he smoked a pipe. It was the quintessential look of that particular time. He eyed John up and down purposely, as if to say watch your step my lad, be very careful with my daughter. If he’d wanted to frighten John Holmes then it worked a treat. John was petrified. The white smoke from the pipe drifted into the air before disappearing, as if by magic, into the recesses of the room. And then he spoke.

‘What does your father do, young man?’

‘Furniture maker for Waring and Gillow, Mr Shaw,’ he said nervously.

John Shaw took another pull on his pipe, peered at John through the smoke as he blew it out through the side of his mouth.

‘Hmmm… very good, fine job.’

There then ensued another uncomfortable silence. He could hear what he thought was Dorothy’s mother busying herself in the kitchen but the rest of the house was deathly silent. He squeezed on Dorothy’s hand; she squeezed back and he was glad of the reassurance. It was all rather bizarre meeting Dorothy’s father when they hadn’t even been out on a real date, and yet he knew – they both did – that it was something that needed to be done. It was as if they were both displaying how serious they were about the future. They knew they had a future; they wanted to be with each other forever, to marry and to have children. They hadn’t told each other at that point but they would, very soon. In fact they would declare their undying love for each other that very day in the most beautiful place on earth. John Shaw spoke.

‘And where are you taking my daughter today, young man?’

‘The Crook O’ Lune, Mr Shaw.’

John Shaw smiled and nodded with approval. ‘I know it well lad. I know it well.’

James Holmes was home on leave. There was a purpose; he was getting married to his long term sweetheart Marjorie Nelson. His brother Ernie had also been granted leave for the event. It was an unusual occurrence. Three brothers home together during the war. It was the perfect opportunity for John to introduce Dorothy to the family. The reception was held in the local church hall; it was a magnificent feast and for once no one mentioned the war. John had approached Ernie several times; he wanted to find out first-hand what it was really like over there. But Ernie had flatly refused to talk about it. It was a long day but an enjoyable one because he was never far away from Dorothy’s side. They sat together holding hands in the church, they dined together, danced together and shared an awful lot of drinks together. Afterwards he walked Dorothy home and he told her all about his desire to join the RAF, to be one of the Brylcreem Boys. Air crew, not ground crew; he wanted to be one of the best. Dorothy said she believed he was the type of man who could be anything he wanted to be. Prophetic words. Confident words. Trusting words. And as he kissed her goodnight he swore he’d make those words come true.

On 22nd June 1941, Hitler’s Third Reich Army invaded Russia in an operation called Barbarossa. To many military experts it was a fatal mistake in that Hitler opened up two war fronts. He sent over 4.5 million troops of the axis powers, nearly 600,000 motor vehicles and 750,000 horses. On 19th September the Nazis took Kiev. Nearly the entire south western front of the Red Army was encircled and the Germans took nearly 600,000 Russian POWs. They treated them dreadfully. Some of them were immediately executed in the field by the German forces, while many simply died of starvation in German prisoner of war camps and during the ruthless death marches from the front lines. The camps were often simply open areas, fenced off with barbed wire and the crowded prisoners dug holes with their bare hands in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the elements. Many died from exposure as the weather turned colder.

The Kiev disaster was an unprecedented defeat for the Red Army and Hitler’s confidence then knew no bounds. He decided to set his sights further afield and ordered his troops to advance onwards towards Moscow. His senior generals urged caution advising on the severity of the Russian Winter. Hitler ignored them.

Towards the end of November the German forces fighting for control of Moscow were worn out and frozen, with only a third of their motor vehicles still operable. Their infantry divisions were at one-third to one-half strength and serious logistics issues prevented the delivery of winter equipment to the front. Warm clothing and decent boots were in short supply. Even Hitler seemed to concede that the idea of a long struggle seemed futile. The daily casualties were extremely high, many German troops simply froze to death during the cold nights where temperatures regularly touched -35°C. German losses were estimated between 300,000 and 450,000 men. Operation Barbarossa was the largest military operation in human history in terms of both manpower and casualties.

On 7th December 1941, the Japanese Imperial Navy attacked the USA pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor has been described as one of the less noble moments in the history of World War Two, but one that could have led to victory for the Axis powers had it not been for the resolve and determination of the Allies afterwards. An American General likened it to a boxing match where one of the prize-fighters sat on his stool blinded, deafened and completely unaware that his opponent had started the fight. The Japanese were roundly condemned around the world for not declaring war on the US before the attack. However, what no one could deny was that it was a well-orchestrated, well-executed plan which all but removed the United States Navy’s force as a possible threat to the Japanese Empire’s southward expansion.

The Japanese Navy secretly sent one of its biggest aircraft carriers across the Pacific with a greater aerial striking power than had ever been seen on the World’s oceans before. Its planes hit just before 8am on 7th December 1941. The Americans were taken completely by surprise and within a short time, five of its eight battleships were seriously damaged, all of which would eventually settle into the dark murky silt deep at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. Three destroyers were wrecked, a minelayer and a target ship destroyed and two cruisers were also badly damaged. Many other smaller ships suffered major structural damage.

Such was the ferocity of the Japanese attack it also accounted for most of the Hawaii-based combat planes and as the Japanese turned tail for home satisfied with their day’s work over 2,400 Americans were dead. Soon after, Japanese planes eliminated much of the American air force in the Philippines.

The ‘sneak’ attacks shocked and enraged the previously divided American people and fuelled a determination to fight, and in Congress the following day, President Roosevelt asked for a declaration of war against Japan. He referred to the attacks as a ‘date that will live in infamy’. Vice Admiral Halsey brought his Enterprise task force into Pearl Harbor and when he witnessed the sheer destruction first hand said, ‘Before we’re through with ’em, the Japanese language will be spoken only in hell.’

At last, the United States of America had joined the war.

In the spring of 1942 the Government introduced the rationing of electricity, coal and gas. It did not go down well in the houses of Great Britain. John’s father was practical as he read the Sunday papers announcing the date of introduction.

‘It’s a sensible precaution,’ he announced to his son and wife. ‘The more power we save the more we can use to produce armaments.’

He scanned the rest of the news and read the salient points out loud.

‘Those RAF lads are doing their bit, John. I see Hamburg has had a taste of Bomber Command medicine.’

The RAF had also sent out raids against Lübeck, almost destroying the medieval city centre. Adolf Hitler was outraged and ordered ‘Baedeker raids’ on historic British sites in revenge for the Lübeck bombing. Around the same time, with sinister undertones he ordered the Jewish population in Berlin to wear the yellow Star of David at all times.

A few months later, the first reports began to filter through to the west that gas was being used to kill the Jews sent to the east.

Autumn 1942 was an eventful month for Dorothy Shaw and John Holmes. John had sat the test for the RAF in Liverpool. It had seemed to take forever to get there on the bus and while most of his friends including Norman had joined the local infantry regiments where an examination wasn’t necessary, John had at least wanted to give it a go. He recalled the conversation with Norman the previous evening in the Greaves Hotel. Norman had said it wasn’t worth it.

‘Our sort don’t join the RAF John, the RAF is for toffs, public school boys and those with money,’ he’d said.

The bus approached the outskirts of the city and John began to get a few pangs of doubt. Perhaps Norman was right he thought to himself, a waste of a day, a waste of a bus fare and a day’s pay lost too. Then he recalled Dorothy’s words. I can do it, he told himself; I will do it, he mouthed as the bus pulled into the depot in Lime Street. It was a ten-minute walk to the recruiting office in Victoria Street and as he walked in the desk sergeant, a portly balding man in his mid-fifties, looked over the top of his bi-focal glasses.

‘Name.’ he bellowed.

‘Holmes, Sir.’

John found himself coming to attention, poking out his chest though he hadn’t a clue where it had come from.

‘I’m here to take a test, Sir.’

The sergeant scrolled down the sheet of paper in front of him and rested his pen halfway down the sheet.

‘John Holmes. Born 1923, 59 Ashton Drive, Skerton in Lancaster. Is that you, boy?’

‘Yes Sir.’ John smiled.

The sergeant pointed to a row of chairs.

‘Then take a seat and wait your turn, and stop fucking smiling boy. I didn’t ask you to smile.’

John could have done no more. The exam had been as expected, not easy but then again he didn’t think it had been too difficult. And he’d been glad of his knowledge of engineering and the mechanics that made the machines in the mill work as quite a few questions referring to that sort of thing had cropped up on the paper. Next was his interview. He sat another twenty minutes before the desk sergeant called his name.

‘Holmes. Room four.’

Wing Commander RG Wilson, the brass plaque read on the door. He seemed a friendly enough chap at first, totally different from the desk sergeant he’d first met. He warned John about how difficult it was to get into the RAF and how he mustn’t be disappointed if he wasn’t accepted.

John explained that both his brothers were fighting in the war and he was desperate to join them.

‘But why the RAF, Holmes? Why not join one of your brothers’ regiments? You’ll be with your pals, chaps from your own neighbourhood.’

‘I’m not interested Sir, I want to join the RAF, I want to be the best. I feel that’s where I belong, don’t ask me why or how, it’s just how I feel.’

John’s eyes oozed sincerity and determination, the look was not lost on Wing Commander Wilson.

John continued. ‘I’ve been fascinated by aircraft, especially bombers, since I was a small boy, I’ve always felt destined to fly and I…’

‘Whoa, just a minute here old chap,’ the Wing Commander interrupted. ‘You’re getting a little ahead of yourself now. Who said anything about flying?’

John opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t form.

‘There are seven crew members flying in one of those Stirling Bombers including the pilot. Those boys are the elite, sonny. You can forget that straight away. If you’re serious, and I mean really serious then you’ll set your sights on being one of the ground crew.’

John gulped. He felt his eyes moisten just a little and hoped the Wing Commander hadn’t noticed.

‘But I don’t want to be ground crew, Sir. I…’

The Wing Commander interrupted again

‘It takes at least sixty ground crew to keep those chaps in the air Holmes, are you insulting my ground crew?’

‘No Sir, but…’

‘You are; you’ve just told me you don’t want to join our ground crew.’

John felt physically sick. He’d blown it. How had the conversation tailed off so badly? He needed to somehow rescue the situation, he was thinking on his feet.

‘Yes Sir, I’d be truly honoured to be a member of the ground crew.’

The Wing Commander jotted a few notes on the writing pad in front of him. There was a deafening silence before he eventually spoke.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Coming in here insulting my boys. Ha!’ He mocked a fake laugh. ‘Delusions of grandeur no doubt.’

The Wing Commander closed his pad.

‘Okay, here’s what happens next. We mark your test and post you a letter within the next few days. If you’ve passed then we’ll send you to Blackpool on a two-week selection course. It won’t be any fun, I warn you, not a Stirling Bomber or a Spitfire to be seen. Just hours and hours of square bashing and dozens more competency tests, a lot of study in the classroom and a final examination.’

John was nodding his understanding.

‘Some won’t make it, we’ll send them home and they’ll go into their local regiments. The rest –’ he looked John Holmes in the face. ‘– the elite – will join the RAF.’

‘Yes Sir.’

The Wing Commander opened his note pad once again and began referring to his notes. Without looking up he told John Holmes to go.

As John reached the door he turned around and paused. He took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Sir…’

‘Yes, Holmes?’

‘I apologise, Sir, I really do.’

He looked up. ‘Glad to hear it boy, now be off with you.’

‘It’s just…’

‘Yes, Holmes?’

‘It’s just that I want to be in air crew so badly.’

‘Holmes,’ the Wing Commander announced in a voice that was a few decibels louder than his usual tone. ‘Have you ever flown in an aircraft before, even as a passenger?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘I thought as much. Now fuck off out of my office and close the door quietly as you do.’

For five days John Holmes was the first out of bed every morning waiting for the postman to bring a letter postmarked Liverpool. Jimmy French, the local postman, walked towards the door on a cold blustery morning. He waved a letter at the bay window as John Holmes peered out. John could just about make out his words.

‘Letter from Liverpool, John. RAF stamp on the back. It’s the one you’ve been waiting for I think.’

Jimmy French waited while John opened the letter. His face broke out into a broad grin.

‘Yes. Yes!’ he repeated over and over again.

‘What, what is it?’ Jimmy asked.

‘I’m off to Blackpool next week, on an RAF selection course.’

Jimmy’s face fell.

‘Is that it? Is that what all the fucking fuss is about, a bloody selection course? Jesus Christ John, I thought the letter was telling you you’d been made up to Flight Commander!’

There’s an expression in life that says, ‘it’s a perfect day, watch some bastard spoil it’. If John’s encounter with the postman hadn’t exactly spoiled what to him was a perfect day then his meeting with Dorothy certainly did. He was full of enthusiasm as he showed her the letter and although she did her best to share his exuberance John knew something wasn’t quite right. They were soul mates, lovers and best friends. It was as if he could almost read her mind.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, Dot?’

The tears welled up in Dorothy’s eyes and she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve.

‘Is it not obvious, John?’

‘Tell me what it is darling, we’ll get through it together.’

‘I’m sure we will John, I’m sure we will.’ She sniffed, dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the handkerchief.

‘They’re sending me off to Coventry.’

Hearing the name of the West Midlands city hit John like a blow from a sledgehammer.

‘I’ll be working in a munitions factory in the city centre… living in digs.’

No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. His father’s words came back to haunt him. Coventry…Coventry… God help the poor bastards living in Coventry.