Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Like Father Like Son Part Seven Part Seven

   October 1938 A Piece of Paper

   Peter sat in the darkened cinema staring in anguish at the flickering
images on the screen.  It was the newsreel before the main feature - the
latest Alfred Hitchcock thriller - and he had decided to take Bethan to see
it on the spur of the moment.  The giant black and white figure of Neville
Chamberlain danced before his eyes.  Of course, it was old news. 
Chamberlain's return from Munich and his proclamation of 'peace with
honour...  peace for our time' had filled the newspapers for the last few
days.  Now, confronted with the moving image and reedy voice of the
narrow-shouldered Prime Minister, Peter felt again that sense of cold
outrage.  The clapping and cheering of the audience drowned the scratchy
soundtrack.  Bethan gripped Peter's hand in the darkness.  She found
herself horribly confused.  Her heart wanted to believe the pinstriped
little man but her head told her it was disaster he brought back from
Germany, not a triumph.

   They had first heard the news on the BBC.  Peter was aghast.

   "So that's it, then.  Czechoslovakia is going to be surrendered without
so much as a whisper of protest.  Dismissed as a 'squabble in a faraway
country between people of which we know nothing.' My God, Bethan, it makes
me sick to my stomach!"

   "What will happen now, Peter?"

   "Hitler will get the Czech armaments factories to add to the Krupps and
Thyssens.  The Czechs will get the shitty end of the stick and Saint
Neville will probably get the Nobel Peace Prize for selling them out."

   The Germans marched into Czechoslovakia unopposed, past some of the
best-equipped troops and strongest frontier defences in Europe.  Even Peter
admitted the idea of peace was seductive - especially to a nation that not
long since endured the long agonies of the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele and
too many others.  There did not seem many who agreed with Churchill when he
told Parliament:

   "I think you will find that in a period of time, which may be measured
by years, but may be measured only in months, Czechoslovakia will be
engulfed in the Nazi regime."

   Peter believed him, though, and so did Bethan, even if her heart bled
for it.  Mostly she feared for her sons.  Michael was now in the Royal
Auxiliary Air Force and spent his weekends with his squadron.  Regular
officers like Pinky Harris might dismiss the Auxiliaries as the 'best
flying club in the world' but still acknowledged that the rich young men,
who indulged their passion for flying while still pursuing careers in the
City, would soon be in the firing line in the event of war.  Her younger
son, David, was in his last year at Stowe School and was intent on joining
the RAF as soon as he finished.  He had secured a place at the RAF College,
Cranwell, and couldn't wait to matriculate in a few more months.

   The family saw little of Michael these days.  When he did put in a rare
appearance he was sarcastically superior to his brother and sister and
coldly polite to Peter and Bethan.  David had wanted Michael to tell him
all about the Auxiliary Air Force squadron.  Michael had simply stared at
his stepbrother and then turned away.  He never missed an opportunity to
sneer at David and the frank stares that he gave Phillipa made her feel
distinctly uncomfortable.  Phillipa was approaching sixteen and quite
self-conscious about her ripening figure.  When Michael was at home she
took to wearing loose and baggy clothes in an attempt to disguise herself
from his hot eyes.

   "I hate the way he looks at me, Mummy.  It's like he can see through my
clothes," she told Bethan.  Bethan had noticed it too and she knew Michael
was trying to make his sister feel awkward.  He revelled in inflicting
little, spiteful wounds on David and Phillipa and never seemed to miss
their vulnerabilities.  There is a perverse talent in such cruelty and
Michael possessed this in abundance.  Bethan had long since given up hoping
that it was a phase he would outgrow.  She could recognise him for what he
was but loved him in spite of it.  Only Beatrice, now elderly and frail,
was oblivious to Michael's failings.  She saw her grandson as a paragon of
all the virtues and still indulged him constantly.  It was she who had
bought him a new Aston Martin drophead and, unbeknownst to either Bethan or
Peter, had paid his gambling debts on more than one occasion.

   The more Bethan thought about Michael, the more depressed she became. 
David and Phillipa weren't - had never been - one tenth of the trouble. 
She could not begin to understand why Michael was so different.  It surely
couldn't be just jealousy - not after all this time.  It wasn't as if he'd
ever known his real father.  He appeared to hate Peter with a rare passion
when that good man had never been anything other than fair to all his
children.  Well, yes, she would acknowledge that Peter had no real feelings
for Michael but it wasn't for the want of trying.  Michael had rebuffed any
advances from an early age and never even bothered to conceal his dislike
for Peter.  Small wonder, then, if Peter wasn't as warm towards him as to
his own children.

   David revered Albert second only to his father.  Now that Albert was
wealthy in his own right, he had moved to a larger house nearby and Albert,
his wife and, by now, numerous children were constant welcome visitors. 
Albert's oldest boy, Peter, was extremely bright and David's boon companion
in the model aeroplane making that still consumed all David's free time. 
They had long since graduated from shop-bought construction kits and now
designed and built their own machines.  It had taken a long while for young
Peter to abandon his preference for biplanes and embrace David's enthusiasm
for the modern monoplane but once he had, his ingenuity and eye for detail
had impressed both their fathers.  At first Albert had been reluctant but
with persuasion from both Bethan and Peter and faced with the pleas of his
son, young Peter had also been placed at Stowe.

   Albert's main concern, that his boy would be a 'fish out of water among
the toffs' proved happily groundless.  With a modicum of support from David
and owing much to his natural ability, 'Young Peter,' as the boy was
universally known, had settled in well and was exceedingly happy at school.
Michael's prediction that others would soon find David an irresistible
target for bullying proved mercifully wide of the mark.  His long frame had
filled out and, while his prowess were still more in the academic field
than the sporting, his relaxed nature and unassuming manner made him
popular with both staff and pupils.  Both boys were aware that Michael had
left something of an unsavoury reputation behind him and rumours abounded
of dark goings-on.  Young Peter was untouched by this but David always felt
that he needed to atone for Michael's misdemeanours.  That was the only
cloud on his youthful horizon.

   Peter Riley's horizon was all clouds.  He was certain now that war would
come and come soon.  His contacts with the Air Ministry remained fruitless
and when the new Supermarine Spitfire joined the Hurricane at the front
line of Britain's air defences, it would still be equipped with
carburettors and suffer from the same handicap - the engine cutting after
seven seconds of inverted flight as the carburettors flooded.  He had
written to Kingsley Wood, the Air Minister, and received a stony rebuttal.
He wrote to Churchill, a deeply passionate but reasoned missive, explaining
the situation.  Churchill had responded with characteristic energy and
enthusiasm but had been equally fobbed off when he had raised the matter in
the House of Commons.  Peter received an apologetic and richly humorous
letter from Churchill:

   "I assailed the pygmies on yours and the Nation's behalf, Mr Riley.  The
difficulty one encounters during any dealings with pygmies is the latter's
profound inability to see higher than the knees of proper men.  Like me, Mr
Riley, you must not become discouraged or downhearted.  Once we are clear
of the entangling forest, the pygmies shall not survive for long.  And
while the lions devour their short rations, we longer legged men may make
it safely to the uplands."

   Peter framed the letter and displayed on the wall of his office.  His
only worry was the lions might not be respecters of leg length.  He read
every book and article on the subject of air warfare he could lay his hands
on.  He made a nuisance of himself to politicians, journalists and military
men alike, bombarding with them with demands that they support rearmament
on a significant scale.  The newspapers of the day were singing a different
tune with the honourable exception of William Connor, 'Cassandra,' of the
Daily Mirror.  He visited Germany regularly and wrote in April of 1938:
"Before this visit to Germany I always had a sneaking feeling that there
was a strong undercurrent of opposition to Hitler.  I am now certain that I
was wrong.  I now know that this man has the absolute unswerving confidence
of the people.  They will do anything for him.  They worship him.  They
regard him as a god.  Do not let us deceive ourselves in this country that
Hitler may be dislodged by enemies within his own frontiers."

   The country as a whole appeared to be more prepared to believe
Chamberlain rather than heed the warnings of Connor and Churchill.

   Peter's anger and frustration grew.  In part it stemmed from the
recognition that his countrymen were hiding from the truth.  He simply
couldn't understand why this should be.  He had thought, after the utter
destruction of the Basque town of Guernica the previous year, that the
powers-that-be would awaken from their self-imposed slumber.  In a little
over two hours, German and Italian bombers had reduced Guernica to a
blazing pyre.  The town had burned for three days.  Peter noticed with a
jaundiced eye that the commander of the raiding forces was one Wolfram von
Richthofen, cousin of the Red Baron.

   The bombing of Guernica produced two almost diametrically opposed
reactions.  The 'prophets of doom,' like Churchill and Peter, saw it again
as evidence that Britain should start to rearm as rapidly as possible.  The
'appeasers' used it as an argument to demonstrate that war was impossible
to prosecute successfully in this modern age.  Guernica proved that a
country would be overwhelmed in next to no time by the hideous power of the
bomber fleets.  There was simply nothing that could be done.  Peter
discussed the situation with Pinky Harris on one of the latter's visits to
Dorset.

   "The way I see it, Pinky, and of course, you will know far more than me,
the bombing of Guernica was easy for the swine because it was daylight and
they were utterly unopposed.  I can't help but think that any Air Force
couldn't achieve that sort of result in the teeth of disciplined
opposition."

   "Well, yes and no, Peter.  Our calculations show that if you can put
enough aircraft in the air at any one time, you can literally overwhelm the
defences.  Our problem is that we simply don't have enough aircraft to do
this to an enemy."

   "What about these new types?"

   "The 'Whitley' is too slow.  The 'Blenheim' is a good aircraft but
doesn't really carry much of a load and isn't exactly over-endowed with
speed compared to these monoplane fighters the Huns have got.  The
'Wellesley' is a joke, even if it did set a long distance record.  The
'Wellington' is a good aircraft but is probably underpowered.  There's a
new one that will be entering squadron service next year called the
'Hampden.' I don't have great hopes of it, personally.  On top of that lot,
we have a disaster waiting to happen called the Fairey Battle.  God knows
what possessed the Air Ministry to buy that one.  I suppose it might be all
right bombing recalcitrant wogs on the North West frontier, but it ain't up
to much else, and that's a fact."

   "Good God, Pinky, you make it sound as if we haven't a clue what we are
about."

   "We, in the Air Force, know.  The problem lies with the politicians. 
They issue specs to the manufacturers that are out of date before they even
begin.  Things are changing so quickly, Peter, you wouldn't believe it. 
There's an 'ex- brat' called Whittle who seems to have designed a new
engine that won't need a propeller - but that's a long way off still."

   "Ex-brat?  What's that?"

   "Sorry, Peter.  Ex-apprentice.  Those who joined as boy entrants are
'ex-brats.' Silly really, but - you know - the Air Force has its own
language, like the RFC used to.  Anyway, the important thing is that things
are developing very quickly and we seem to be wandering about with our
thumbs up our bums and our minds firmly in neutral.  All I can say is thank
God for these new fighters - they really are the right drill."

   The first Supermarine Spitfires had entered RAF Service with No.  19
Squadron that year.  There were also two squadrons of Hawker Hurricanes. 
These new fighters had already captured the public's imagination and were
greeted with rapturous cheers at any air display at which they happened to
appear.  As usual, Peter thought, they were too little, too late.





   January 1939 Reasons to sleep soundly

   The New Year's celebrations were in full swing.  David Riley, not quite
eighteen and achingly self-conscious as he danced, was doing his best to
ignore the insinuating press of soft breasts against his chest.  He was
terrified of getting an erection and thus insulting the angel currently
filling his arms.  Her name was Johanna Hepworth-Lloyd and David thought it
the most heavenly sound he had ever heard.  Johanna was the daughter of Dr
and Mrs Hepworth-Lloyd.  The doctor was the local physician and the couple
had become friendly with Peter and Bethan over the past couple of years. 
The two women shared a passion for rose growing and had been frequent
rivals at the village fetes and flower shows.  Their husbands, neither of
whom was remotely interested in floribundas or hybrid teas, had struck up a
conversation at one such event and things had developed from there.

   David could scarcely believe he had been blissfully unaware of the
existence of their daughter all these years.  Of course, she was away at
school most of the time, as he was.  Johanna boarded at Roedean in Sussex.
She was a tall girl with lively green eyes and carrot-red hair, which she
hated.  She was teased a lot and was very sensitive, blushing the brightest
shade of red at the least provocation.  There was still something unformed
about her; she was the type writers describe as 'coltish'; long in the
limbs and slim, but with curves in all the right places.  When David had
screwed his courage to the sticking point and finally asked her to dance;
as stammeringly anxious as it was possible to be without being totally
incoherent, her first reaction had been a flash of anger.  She was quite
convinced that this tall young man was mocking her in some way.  It was
only when she looked into his desperate eyes that she realised he was
utterly sincere and, which was more, gazing at her in undisguised
admiration.

   Something had lurched in her breast at the realisation and she studied
him more closely.  She decided she liked what she saw.  He was tall, above
six feet as far as she could judge.  He had what she would call an 'open'
face.  His eyes were blue and framed by ridiculously long lashes - wasted
on a boy, she thought.  His hair was obviously blonde and curly but had
been mashed into a nondescript light brown submission through the over
application of a copious amount of brilliantine.  His hands and feet were
enormous, which instantly made her blush scarlet as she remembered a
conversation in the school dormitory that had equated the size of a man's
extremities with the size of something else.  She forced herself to smile
and rose to her feet, accompanying him onto the dance floor.

   They were now on their third successive dance.  Each was reluctant to
sever the contact between them but, and at the same time, they were both
painfully aware of the approving looks of both sets of parents, which was
pure mortification.  The band was playing popular tunes.  David was
familiar with only the waltz and the fox trot but was intimately acquainted
with neither, so they danced whichever most closely approximated to the
rhythm of the number being played.  Johanna was a good dancer and helped
David out, using her skill to avoid having her feet crushed as he stomped
mechanically around the floor, counting the movements in his head.  When
the music came to an end with the susurration of brushes on a snare drum,
he took the opportunity to lead her from the floor towards a small table in
the corner.

   "I say, would you like a drink?  The punch is pretty beastly but there
isn't much else."

   She smiled at him and nodded and he slipped up to the bar, returning
with two glasses of punch of a vaguely urinous colour in which floated
unidentifiable fragments of fruit.  Johanna took a sip of her drink and
pulled a face:

   "You were right, it is pretty beastly."

   They regarded each other in silence.  Johanna could see the frantic
mental activity going on in David's mind as he desperately searched for
something to say.  Sympathy welled up in her.  She sensed his difficulty
stemmed from the need to engage her attention - to not make a fool of
himself.  He was turning pink under her steady gaze.  She decided to
release from his agony.

   "It's quite all right you know.  You don't have to try to impress me."

   David shot her a pained smile.

   "I'm sorry.  I never know what to say when I talk to girls."

   "What would you talk about to a boy?"

   "Oh, I don't know, anything.  Whatever was happening at the time.

   "So, here we are, it's New Year's Eve.  In half an hour it will be 1939.
What do you hope the New Year will bring?"

   "I'm not sure.  Peace, I suppose, but that wouldn't be exactly right.  I
know it sounds terrible but part of me wants there to be a war."

   Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

   "Why?  War is terrible.  Daddy was in the Great War and it was so awful
he won't talk about it even to this day.  That's a hateful thing to wish
for."

   David looked miserable.

   "You're quite right.  War is horrible.  My father was in the RFC in the
last one.  It's not that I want war for any kind of cheap thrill.  I'm not
that stupid.  It's, well, it's a question of doing what's right.  We can't
go on giving in to Hitler.  Sooner or later someone will have to stand up
to him.  Of course I want peace, but I don't think it should be at any
price."

   "So you agree with that Mr Churchill?  Daddy says he's just an
opportunist who will change parties at the drop of a hat to further his own
ends."

   "I don't much care for politics, Johanna.  All I know is that Hitler
wants to rule the world and won't stop until he does.  I hate everything
fascism stands for, I hate them all: Hitler, Mussolini, that ridiculous
man, Moseley.  It simply isn't right to attack people simply because they
are different from you.  When I saw the pictures in the paper of Moseley's
Black Shirts in Brick Lane, it made my blood boil."

   She was amused by the passion in his voice and yet it also touched her.

   "David, I agree with you.  I don't want to have a war but I really think
we might have to - to stop all those horrid little dictators from taking
over everything.  Moseley won't manage it here, though.  We are far too
sensible, not like the Italians or Germans.  Do you really think it will be
this year?"

   "I don't know.  My Godfather is a Group Captain in the Air Force.  He
says we simply aren't ready for it yet.  He doesn't think we'll be ready
until 1942 but he also says he doubts we'll have that long."

   "But you would be in it, if it happens, wouldn't you?"

   "I suppose so.  I'm to go to Cranwell this summer.  Flying training
takes a while, you know."

   "Gosh!  You're going to be a pilot, then.  I wish girls could to do
exciting things like that."

   "They can!  Look at Amy Johnson and Amelia Earhart.  If it does come to
war, I expect there will be lots of things that girls will have to do
because this time, everyone will be in the front line."

   They both fell silent as the implications of David's assertion sank in.
They were interrupted by a sudden stir within the room.  Colonel Williams,
Master of Fox Hounds and prime mover behind the New Year Ball, had taken
over the microphone from the crooner.  The band fell silent.  The Colonel
was nearly seventy but straight as a ramrod and still riding to hounds as
befitted a retired cavalryman or 'donkey walloper,' as

   Peter irreverently called him.  There were spots of colour on the man's
cheeks and his nose glowed like one of the new Beleisha beacons that had
recently appeared on the streets to mark pedestrian crossings.  Even so,
his voice was steady and there was no hint of drunkenness as he announced
the countdown to the New Year in clipped, martial tones at a volume that
rendered the microphone redundant.  The crowd joined in:

   "Eight!  Seven!  Six!"

   David and Johanna moved from their table into the centre of the room to
join in the singing and hand-clasping of 'Auld Lang Syne.' For a little
while, at least, everyone forgot about the storm clouds gathering over
Europe and sang lustily, wishing each other 'all the best' for 1939. 
Handshakes and kisses were being exchanged all around them.  David stood
awkwardly then thrust out his hand.  Johanna almost laughed out loud but
instead, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips, giggling when
his eyes went wide in wonder.  Then they both blushed furiously as shouts
of encouragement from one or two of the less sober members of the party
reached them.

   All too soon for David, the Ball came to an end.  The 'last waltz' was
played and he forgot some of his earlier shyness as he danced with Johanna.
He was no longer conscious of her body; simply her presence in his arms and
the strange, warm feeling that she engendered in him.  He asked her,
hesitantly, if they could go walking together the next day.  She smiled and
said she would love to and they made hasty arrangements to meet in the
village square at noon before she was swept away by her smiling and
somewhat unsteady parents.

   David had to endure some gentle ribbing from his father as he made
himself ready for meeting Johanna.  Bethan, amused but feeling a tinge of
sadness, watched her younger son blush and stammer while protesting Johanna
'was just a friend.' David would be eighteen in a couple of months and
Bethan sighed inwardly at the thought that she was now something of a
matron.  Phillipa didn't help matters by giggling every time she looked in
his direction and David was glad to get out of the house.  He strode out
into the crisp clear air of a bright morning and walked briskly the three
or so miles into Beaminster.  He had been so anxious to avoid the comments
at home that he left early and found himself entering the square some
twenty minutes before midday.

   He was surprised to see Johanna already there, sitting on a stone bench
under the market cross and kicking her heels as she looked around her.  She
saw him coming and jumped to her feet.

   "Hello, you're early!"

   "My father was being a bit of a rotter and I couldn't wait to escape. 
Didn't really look at the time to tell you the truth."

   "Yours too?  I had to put up with 'I suppose my little girl is all grown
up.' I think they think it's funny."

   "I know.  Parents can be so embarrassing at times.  I thought we'd walk
up past Pitton House and over to Netherbury.  Are you game?"

   "Absolutely!  And, David."

   "Yes?"

   "Oh nothing, really.  It's just nice to see you."

   "It's nice to see you too, Johanna."

   "Oh, do call me Jo.  Johanna sounds so familial - it's what my father
insists on calling me and I hate it - the name I mean."

   "I think it's a perfectly lovely name, for a perfectly lovely girl."

   They stared at each other and then looked away, each overcome with
shyness and the recognition that something quite unknown was beginning. 
David opened his mouth to speak but found no words, so he gave a slight
gesture and they walked off down towards the Church, turning left towards
the river then turning right, taking the lane that led to the open fields.
A few curious cows stared as they passed through a couple of fields and
then they were into the sunken pathway that ran along the back of Pitton
House.  It was here that they encountered Beatrice.

   "Peter?  Peter, is that you?  Where's Phillip?"

   "Oh, hello, Mrs Welford-Barnes.  I'm David, Peter's son."

   "Peter, you're very naughty, playing games with an old lady.  I'm
looking for Phillip and Miss Meredith.  They went out for a walk and will
soon be late for luncheon.  If you see them, Peter, be sure to tell them to
hurry home."

   "Uh, yes, Mrs Welford-Barnes, I'll be sure to tell them if I see them."

   They walked on in silence, leaving the frail, distracted figure behind
them.

   "David, who on earth was that?"

   "Mrs Welford-Barnes.  My half-brother's grandmother."

   "She thought you were your father.  And who are Phillip and Miss
Meredith?"

   "Phillip was her son and my mother's first husband.  He was killed in
the Great War.  He was dad's best friend.  My mum's name used to be
Meredith."

   "Oh golly!  How sad, sort of Dickensian, really - a bit like Miss
Faversham!"

   David shook his head and climbed a stile.  He paused to help Johanna and
then headed up the hill.  They climbed out of the trees and came upon the
hilltop graves.

   "Phillip's buried there.  The other grave belongs to his father, the old
lady's husband."

   Johanna turned and surveyed the view from the hill.  She was about to
pass some comment but caught herself as she noticed the dark look on
David's face.

   "Whatever is the matter?"

   "Sometimes I hate this place.  All my life, somehow, we've been under
their shadow.  You wouldn't understand."

   "Well I can't if you don't explain it, David.  Whose shadow have you
been under?"

   "Mostly it's my half brother, Michael.  He's a beastly swine.  Always
rubbing dad's nose in it.  He's been rotten to Phillipa as well."

   "But not to you?"

   "Oh, he tries, but I ignore him, these days."

   She sensed the hurt concealed behind these casual words and her heart
went out to him.  In the very little time she had known him, she had come
to realise that he was a gentle, sensitive soul and although she had never
met his half-brother, she was more than ready to dislike him intensely.

   They spent the winter afternoon walking the hills and talking.  David
could not suppress the feeling that, somehow, he had known Johanna all his
life and said as much.  She smiled shyly back at him and hugged herself,
only partly against the cold.  She, too, felt this sense of connection with
him.  She was a down-to-earth sort of girl and harboured few illusions
about herself.  She knew she wasn't beautiful or even conventionally pretty
but David made her feel as if she was the most gorgeous creature who'd ever
walked the earth.  Whenever he looked at her, she could see the admiration
writ large upon his face and it made her glow inside to know that she had
this effect upon him.  There was something of the overgrown puppy about
David, she decided; one of those large, friendly, loyal dogs like a
Newfoundland or something.  He didn't move at all gracefully and his feet
were far too big but there was an endearing quality to his awkwardness.

   Sometimes he would turn to her to say something but caught himself
simply gazing at her in wonder.  He had absolutely no experience of girls
apart from his sister and, of course, she didn't count.  Phillipa was
nearly sixteen now and seemed to delight in teasing him and he was always
at a loss how to respond.  He felt safe in the company of men and was
happiest when, hands covered in grease, he was working at something to do
with aeroplanes with Albert or Young Peter.  Now Johanna had come into his
life and he kept slipping into a state of wonder bordering on catatonia. 
When this happened, and it was obvious from the slightly vacant expression
that settled on his face, Johanna enjoyed his discomfort, well aware that
she was the root cause of it.  There had been moments when she had been
tempted to tease him, to see the flush of embarrassment colour his face,
but something held her back.  It was as if she sensed that these embryonic
feelings of mutual attraction were too fragile for such rough handling. 
Far better to stay on safe ground; to accept the occasional wordlessness as
if it were simply her due.  Intimacy would come in time.

   She liked it best when he talked about his life, what he wanted to do.
At such times he became animated and she could feel the fierceness of his
passion for flying and flying machines.  Her father, the good doctor, had
initially dismissed the Rileys as a family of mad eccentrics, the father
something of a speed-demon and the boy - well, he was always to be seen
dragging some fantastic model aircraft up to the open fields behind the
village, a smaller boy at his heels.  Then her parents had got to know
David's family better and Peter was pronounced a 'sound man.' Dr
Hepworth-Lloyd would never agree with Peter's politics, of course, being a
staunch supporter of Chamberlain and the party of appeasement, but he
learnt to respect the sincerity of Peter's views.  Even then, at the
beginning of 1939, Peter was in a small minority of the British people. 
Hadn't the Daily Express, that very morning, published a leader giving 'ten
reasons why we should all sleep soundly in 1939?' Johanna was no longer
convinced either her father or the Daily Express had it right.

   David and Johanna spent as much time in each other's company as was
possible over the next few days.  David took her to the workshop and
introduced her to Albert and Young Peter - the latter had stared at her
round eyed, as if she were some exotic species he had never encountered
before.  Albert had paid her the compliment of taking her entirely in his
stride.  He hadn't made any facetious comments to David and made no attempt
to patronise her, asking her questions in the same considered and
deliberate manner as that which he used to address David or Peter.  Johanna
liked him instantly, just as she liked Bethan.  Bethan recognised the
fragile signs of first love in her son and went out of her way to do
absolutely nothing about it.  She didn't talk to David about it or tease
him as Peter did.  While David resembled his father physically, he lacked
Peter's self-assurance.  Bethan dimly remembered the hesitant, shy girl she
had been and her heart went out to David in his awkwardness.  Some instinct
told her that Johanna was exactly the right girl for David at this time. 
Johanna was smart, confident enough without being brash or overwhelming and
well, plain sensible, a quality Bethan approved of most heartily.

   When the time came for them both to go back to school, David felt a keen
sense of impending loss.  How could he bear to be parted from this paragon?
They walked together on that final day on the downs at Rampisham.

   "You know, Jo, I'm going to miss you most awfully."

   "I know.  And I shall miss you too.  We can write to each other you
know."

   "Yes, of course, and we shall.  But it's not the same as talking, is
it?"

   She smiled at him then and reached forward, putting one arm about his
neck and pulling him down, offering her face for a kiss.

   He was clumsy, of course.  His lips were hard upon hers and his arms
squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.  She made herself relax
and drew back slightly.  As he, in turn, eased off, she leaned forward once
more and kissed him gently, darting her tongue into his astonished mouth
and closing her eyes.  When she opened them once more she saw his eyes were
about to pop out of his head and he was flushed and wild looking.

   "Oh My God!  Wow!  Oh, Jo!"

   She smiled at him and skipped away.

   "That's so you don't forget me in a hurry."

   "Oh Jo, I will never do that!  How could I?  I uh..."

   "Don't say anything.  It won't be that long 'til Easter."

   "Too long!"

   His voice held a note of desolation that made her laugh out loud.  She
stepped back and hugged him close, loving the way it felt as her breasts
crushed against his chest and the solidity of his arms as they hugged her.
She was suddenly conscious of a hard lump pressing against her abdomen and
it was all that she could do to stop herself jumping away in surprise.  She
tentatively pushed back against him and he groaned in her ear.  She felt
deliciously wicked.  A voice at the back of her mind shrilled a protest and
she reluctantly yielded to its censure, backing away from him and taking
his hand to lead him forward once more.

   "It's going to be a busy term for us both, what with the exams this
summer.  You'll see.  Time will fly by."

   He nodded dumbly, too shaken by the recent physical closeness to trust
his voice.  He took a deep, shuddering breath and grinned at her.

   "It still won't fly nearly quickly enough for me."

   They walked on in silence for a while.  Johanna felt physically light,
as if her feet were barely in contact with the rough grass of the hill. 
Her soul seemed to be singing inside her.  She wasn't in love, she thought,
at least, she didn't think she was; but she acknowledged the possibility of
love to come; a seed to nurture through the coming weeks.  For his part,
David's mental state was akin to delirium.  He was used to the empirical,
the factual, measurable world of machinery.  Over the past few days he had
been made forcibly aware of another world, one which was soft and feminine,
mysterious, alluring and quite scary at the same time.  At the centre of
this other world was Johanna.  It made him feel funny even thinking about
her.  When she was there, her physical presence seemed to shut out all
rational thought.  And when she'd kissed him!  His brain had shut down
entirely.  That other world had usurped the natural order driving away the
real version with its schools, families and impending wars.  He was
confused, ecstatically happy and consumed by a sense of loss all at the
same time.  He shook his head to clear it.

   "I suppose we ought to be heading back.  I've still to pack my things
for tomorrow and the parents are taking Phillipa and I out for 'the last
supper.' It's something we always do on the last day of the hols."

   They retraced their footsteps back down the hill.  A sharp wind brought
a blustery shower but they didn't notice.





   March 1939 The Millionaire

   Pilot Officer Michael Welford-Barnes, Royal Auxiliary Air Force, was in
a foul mood.  He strode away from the Blenheim F1 he had just landed
without a backward glance at his crew.  He had spent a good half of the
last two and a half hours completely lost.  He had sworn richly and
filthily at his navigator, cursed the wireless operator/air gunner and then
called himself a number of particularly vile names under his breath as it
became clear that the mistake was entirely his.  Eventually, dropping out
of low cloud over Cambridge, they had been able to get a fix on their
position and had flown home in silence.

   The sortie had been ordered to assist with the training of operators for
the new 'Chain Home' system.  Twenty 'radio direction finding,' or RDF,
stations were dotted along the east and south coasts of Britain, from
Scotland to the Isle of Wight.  The 360ft towers had been placed at
intervals to allow the Royal Air Force Fighter Command early warning of any
incoming aircraft.  Michael had taken off from Hendon with instructions to
fly out over the North Sea and approach the coast near Bawdsey in Suffolk.
He had strayed too far north in thick cloud.  He didn't trust his
navigator, had called the man a 'dud' to his face, and had followed his own
'plot' instead.  Now he was in for a royal bollocking from the squadron
commander.  The worst of it was, he knew, that the radar station at Bawdsey
would have followed his aimless wanderings.  It would have been quite
apparent from the sudden descent and straightening of his course precisely
what had happened.

   The 'Chain Home' system had grown out of experiments conducted by Robert
Watson-Watt and his team at Daventry in 1935.  Radio Direction Finding, or,
as the Americans called it, radar, was the one significant advantage that
the RAF had over any potential enemy.  The system was still quite crude
with separate towers for transmitting and receiving the radio pulses that
would 'echo' off an inbound aircraft.  It wasn't perfect by any means but
it would allow for ground-controlled intercepts.  Commanders on the ground
would be able to direct their fighter aircraft to where the threat was.  It
would no longer be a case of fighter pilots 'stooging around, looking for
trouble.' Of course, the modern single seater monoplane fighters wouldn't
have the fuel to do that anyway.  That was another cause of Michael's
bitterness.  His squadron had been re-equipped in January with the fighter
version of the twin-engined Blenheim Bomber.  The Mark I Blenheim with its
short, greenhouse-like nose, had grown out of a private initiative paid for
by Lord Rothermere, the proprietor of the Daily Mail.

   Michael's squadron was more like an exclusive gentlemen's club than a
military formation.  There was a liberal sprinkling of titles among the
pilots and the rest, like Michael, were wealthy bankers or stockbrokers,
pursuing their careers in the City of London from Monday to Friday and
indulging their passion for flying at the weekends.  They did not enjoy a
high reputation and were viewed with a great deal of reservation by the
professional airmen of the regular Air Force.  Even the squadron's nickname
-The Millionaires - had been bestowed with some bitterness.  Incidents such
as Michael's most recent adventure added few laurels to their already dull
crown.

   The mood within the squadron was bleak.  Only the previous autumn they
had thrown a spectacular party in honour of the Munich Agreement.  It had
seemed as if their life of well-heeled hedonism would continue unabated. 
Now, though, the picture was far less optimistic.  Hitler had gobbled up
the remaining part of Czechoslovakia and now the world waited to see where
next he would turn his hot eyes.  Those who still believed there would be
not be a war were in the minority but most still felt that it was a couple
of years away.  The government, of course, were wedded to the policy of
appeasement and clung to their tattered faith more in hope than realism. 
Michael didn't doubt Mr Chamberlain's sincerity but increasingly, he
questioned the Prime Minister's judgement.  Maturity had made him more
cynical and surely there was no more cynical bunch than the Millionaires.

   His flight commander was waiting for him as he stormed into the flight
hut.

   "Ah, Michael, the boss wants a word.  The Stationmaster's been on the
blower and he's not a happy chappy.  Seems you put up a black with Group."

   Michael bit back a reply and made his way to the squadron commander's
office.

   The bollocking was savage but predictable.

   "What were you doing poncing about over the Wash and most of eastern
England when you were supposed to be out over the North Sea?  No, don't
bother to answer, I can guess.  You thought you knew better.  How many
times do I have to stress the importance of teamwork?  But you're not a
team player are you?"

   "If you say so, sir."

   "I do say so.  Now look here, I cannot allow this to continue.  Group
have been onto the Stationmaster and he's been on my back.  This squadron
isn't exactly everyone's cup of tea as it is and idiots like you aren't
exactly helping the cause.  You're a good pilot, Welford-Barnes, but a
bloody useless officer.  Unless you buck your ideas up I'll have to post
you to another squadron - if anyone will have you, which I doubt."

   "Yes, sir."

   "Right.  You're grounded until further notice and Orderly Officer for
the next three weekends.  That should give you time to consider the error
of your ways."

   "Yes, sir."

   Michael left the office still seething.  It wasn't fair!  It wasn't his
fault that his crew were all duds.  Perhaps he should request a posting to
a single-seater squadron?  That way he wouldn't have to fly with idiots. 
The only problem was that the Auxiliary Air Force Squadrons could take
their pick of volunteers - lots of young men wanted to learn to fly at the
tax-payers' expense.  Added to that, a lot of the single-seater squadrons
were still flying Gladiators, biplane fighters that had been obsolete
before they entered regular service.  He decided he needed a drink and some
female company.

   Without a word to anyone he slammed out of the flight hut and got into
his Aston Martin.  He drove furiously, letting the back end slide through
the bends as he raced back into London to his flat.  He took a shower,
changed into civilian clothes and considered his options.  The Black Cat
Club, that was the ticket!  But first he needed to eat.  He made his way to
Soho and wandered along Frith Street looking for a likely place.  He chose
a pub, the Dog and Duck, and went into the warm, smoky atmosphere. 
Ordering a pint of bitter and a steak and oyster pie, he found himself a
table in a corner and drank morosely.  He drank his beer, ordered another
and, when the food came, ate without tasting.

   "On your own, love?  Fancy some company?"

   Michael looked up.  The girl in front of him was obviously a tart, too
much make up and a smile that never reached her eyes.  She was pretty,
though, and he felt a thrill somewhere between fear and lust creep into his
groin.  He looked at her closely.  She was skinny and her skin was bad but
somehow she exuded a sense of sexuality that was potent in the extreme.  He
nodded and indicated a chair.  She sat and gave him that professional smile
again.

   "I'm Maisey, what's your name?"

   "Michael."

   "Well, hello, Michael."

   She said his name like an indecent suggestion and his balls twitched.

   "How much?"

   "Thirty bob for a quickie or a Bradbury for all night in."

   There was something sharp and calculating in those eyes and he felt that
she had appraised his likely wealth and set her rates accordingly.  Five
pounds for the night wasn't that bad though, and he didn't think a quickie
would solve his problems.

   "All night it is, then."

   "Suits me.  Aren't you going to buy a girl a drink?"

   He bought her a gin and another beer for himself.  She kept up a stream
of chatter - rubbish about the weather and how bad the smog was getting
these days.  At the same time she insinuated herself closer to him and
placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed.  It had the desired effect and he
felt the first stirrings of an erection.  No need to try his luck at the
Black Cat.  They finished the drinks and he led her out into the cold of
the London evening.  She was right about the smog.  The air smelt faintly
sulphurous and there was a yellowish tinge to the tendrils of damp fog that
swirled about the street lamps.  It caught at his throat, made him cough
and his eyes smarted.  He hurried her back to his flat.

   Once inside, she looked about, taking in the expensive furnishings and
the original paintings on the walls.  No doubt about it, Maisey, my girl,
you've caught yourself a proper gent tonight.  He took her coat and she
stood uncertainly for a moment, slightly overawed by the opulence of her
surroundings.  He indicated the bedroom with a terse "In here." She
followed him through and he sat in a over-stuffed armchair.

   "Take your clothes off," he said.

   She shrugged inwardly.  Gent he may be but he'd no manners, didn't know
how to treat a lady.  She felt his eyes upon her as she stripped off her
dress and underwear with practiced movements.  Michael gazed at her.  She
felt she was being evaluated with the same dispassionate detachment as a
butcher might give to an animal carcase.  She found it vaguely amusing;
they were two of a kind.

   Michael was pleased with what he saw.  She was skinny and her ribs and
breastbone showed but her small breasts were high and tipped with large
nipples.  He thought she was about his age but there was just a hint of
loose flesh on her stomach and slight stretch-marks on her thighs that told
him she had had a child.  That pleased him.  Women's nipples were always
bigger after childbirth.  She mocked him slightly by performing a slow
pirouette.  A thick fleece of black hair covered her sex and her buttocks
were small and slightly dimpled.  She teased him then by bending over,
straight legged, to pick up her discarded clothes and affording him a view
of long, prominent cunt-lips.  She held the pose for a few seconds and
looked back at him archly, raising an eyebrow and giving a broad wink.

   "Enjoying the view, are we?"

   Michael grunted and stood, stripping off his clothes quickly but without
haste.  He had all night.  She folded her clothes meticulously; she'd paid
good money for them.  Michael sat down again, knees spread and she knelt
between them.

   "Start with a little French?"

   He ignored the question, as she had known he would, and pushed her head
down towards his groin.  She took him in her mouth, her mind elsewhere, as
always.  At least he was clean.  And young - that helped.  His hand twisted
in her hair and it hurt; made her eyes water.  He was shoving his thing
into her mouth, butting it against the back of her throat and she fought
the impulse to gag as he came off like a fountain - Christ!  - That was
quick!  She eased her head back and surreptitiously spat into a
handkerchief balled in one hand.  It was then that he slapped her.

   "Bitch!  Who said you could spit it out?"

   She saw the rage in his eyes and was frightened.

   "I only..."

   He slapped her again, a wide, swinging, open-handed blow that spun her
head round.  He was smiling, a twisted, contorted sort of smile.  His prick
had swelled again and he stood.  Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her
across the room to the bed and flung her across the blankets, face down.

   Her world was now solely pain.  He rammed into her violently.  After a
half dozen vicious strokes he pulled back and adjusted his position
slightly, spreading her buttocks with one hand and forcing himself into
that other opening.  She screamed and was rewarded with another ringing
slap.  She tried to struggle but he was ready for her, twisting one arm up
between her shoulders.

   "Push back, Bitch, or I'll really hurt you."

   There was no escape.  Fear and pain contained her as surely as his
strength.  He was pumping into her and she could hear him mumbling as he
did so.  It sounded like he was calling a name but she couldn't make it
out. He let go of her arm and grabbed her by the hair again; lifting her
head and slamming it back repeatedly into the pillows.  He seemed to be
swelling up inside her and she told herself to hold on, it would soon be
over.  He reached his climax with a roar and she heard him clearly through
the agony that filled her:

   "Peter!  Peter, you bastard!"

   He didn't look at her as he threw her out of the door, still naked.  He
didn't look at her as he flung her clothes onto the landing after her.  He
didn't even look at her as he thrust two white five-pound notes into her
hand.  He didn't even notice when she spat him, didn't seem to feel the gob
of bloody spittle hit his chest.  Then his knee came up and cracked into
her chin and it was her turn not to feel as he kicked her senseless body.

   When Maisey Dawkins woke up she was cold.  There was no light on the
landing as she dressed painfully.  She explored her swollen mouth with a
bloody tongue, noting the loose teeth.  Her ribs felt broken and her
stomach hurt.  Bastard!  The fucking, bloody bastard!  She'd have the law
on him!  But she knew, even as she thought it, that she wouldn't.  The law
didn't care about whores - never had.  Oh well, put it down to experience.
She wouldn't be working for a few days, that was for sure.  Still, a tenner
was better than nothing.  Christ, what a nut-case!  Maybe she'd been lucky.
Still, she'd better warn the other Frith Street girls.  No telling what
that bastard might do!  First time anyone called her by a bloke's name,
though.  He must be a queer, that one, as well as a fucking nutter.



   August 1939 - No war this year!



   David Riley surveyed his surroundings.  For all the imposing frontage of
the Royal Air Force College, Cranwell, the interior of Hut 144 in the South
Brick Lines was austere in the extreme.  At the entrance were the
'ablutions' - deep sinks, a couple of open showers and the toilets.  The
dormitory area was dominated by a pot-bellied cast-iron stove that gleamed
black.  He already hated that stove with some venom, as it had to be
cleaned and polished until it shone for each morning inspection.  Six beds
stood around the room, each with its blankets 'boxed' into neat squares.  A
Lee-Enfield rifle was strapped to the side of every bed.  There was also a
small wardrobe and a chest of drawers in every bed-space.  The floor was of
dun-coloured linoleum and had to be buffed each morning and evening.  The
hut smelt permanently of coal dust and polish, mixed with stale farts.

   In the three weeks since David had arrived, he seemed to have done
nothing but clean and polish, iron and scrub and drill, drill, drill.  The
only aeroplanes he had seen were like distant dreams.  His cadet entry was
not considered fit to be allowed near a plane until they could march in
step, shoulder arms and all the rest of it.  In spite of this, as he wrote
to Johanna in those rare moments permitted for such things, he was
blissfully happy.  He was eighteen years old and a 'gentleman cadet.' He
fought back a smile.  No time for such daydreaming, the morning inspection
was due and the officer in charge of the new cadets, accompanied by two
white-gloved NCOs, seemed to have an unfailing instinct for hidden dirt or
grime.  David sighed and pushed harder on the floor polisher.  Only another
three weeks until basic flying training would begin.  Three more weeks and
he would realise his greatest ambition - to become a pilot!

   The hut was filled with the subdued grumblings of his fellows: he
thought them all good chaps.  He had made one close friend by the name of
Aubrey Maitland - the hon.  Aubrey Maitland, youngest son of an
impoverished peer.  Aubrey was presently engaged in dusting the pipe work
while trying to preserve the razor-sharp creases in his 'working blues' -
the everyday serge uniform cadets wore.  This involved trying to scrub at
the pipes with his arms straight, a sight that had David chuckling and then
ducking the duster hurled at him by the object of his amusement.

   "I say, Riley, you're far too cheery.  Just wait until Sergeant Rutter
sees that 'orrible floor, you 'orrible little man."

   "If I were you, Maitland, old bean, I'd be more concerned about what
will happen when our esteemed sergeant runs his snow white mitts over those
grimy pipes.  What are you doing, rearranging the dust or trying to clean
them, you scruffy little gentleman?"

   It had not taken long for the cadets to mimic the voices and expressions
of their instructors.  All agreed that Aubrey was the best and more than
once his impressions of Sergeant Rutter had had them all springing to
attention before recognising the true culprit.  David and Aubrey recognised
the basic training for what it was - a method of forging them into a team -
and had responded with more enthusiasm than some.  One of their number, a
highly intelligent boy called Mark Chapman, railed against the mindless
repetition and was always in trouble.  David liked Mark but had his doubts
as to whether he was really cut out for service life.  To David, there was
no point in kicking against the system.  It was there and had to be
endured; the more one fought it, the more onerous it would become.  Mark
refused to grasp this.  He insisted that he had a right to his own
individuality.  David agreed but accepted that this must be subordinated to
the common good - something Mark was either unable or unwilling to do. 
Aubrey regarded Chapman as an idiot and rarely concealed his opinion.

   The inspection passed without major incident.  As usual, Mark's personal
kit was found wanting and he was put on another 'fizzer.' That would mean
at least an hour of extra foot-drill on his own, under the watchful eye and
sharp tongue of the duty Senior Cadet.  Mark could not be persuaded that
the said Duty Cadet would be as fed up with having to march him around the
parade square as Mark himself was doing the marching.  The other cadets had
exhausted their supply of sympathy for their recalcitrant roommate and
ignored his 'binding,' the newly acquired RAF slang for moaning.  Their
vocabulary had changed in the past three weeks without their really
noticing.  Aeroplanes had become 'kites;' girls were now 'popsies.' It was
all part of belonging to Britain's youngest service.  It set them apart,
identified them as clearly as the RAF blue uniforms they wore.

   Thoughts of Johanna helped to sustain David, not that they had been able
to spend much time together.  Their meetings had been limited to school
holidays and, with David at the RAF College, there would be no opportunity
this summer.  David was convinced that opportunities to meet might be even
more limited soon.  His father's belief that war was coming had rubbed off
on the younger man and he had already earned the nickname 'Jeremiah,'
frequently shortened to 'Jerry,' for his gloomy prognostications.  The
headline in the Daily Express that morning had him bellowing with rage at
anyone who would listen.  It said, quite simply, 'No War This Year.' David
could only imagine his father's reaction; Peter Riley would be incandescent
with fury.  Even David's friend, Aubrey, didn't seem to disagree.

   "Don't get in a flat spin, old chum.  I don't think the Huns are any
more ready than we are."

   "Don't be an ass, Maitland.  They are more than ready enough.  Let's
face it, they've been practicing in Spain and it's all bloody 'guns before
butter' over there in Hunland.  We could do with a bit more of that
attitude here but will we get it?  Not a chance!  We've grown soft and idle
and..."

   "Riley, I do believe you've listening to that Churchill chap!"

   David whirled at the new voice and saw Mark Chapman staring at him with
an intense expression on his face.

   "Oh, it's you, Chapman.  Shouldn't you be marching up and down or
something?"

   "No.  Forsythe is 'Duty Dog' and he can't see any more point in it than
I do.  I said you sound as if you agree with Churchill."

   "As it just so happens, Chapman, I do.  War is coming and coming bloody
quickly, mark my words."

   "Well, Riley, it just so happens I agree with you.  God, I thought that
everyone here was clinging to the mistaken belief we have a few years ahead
of us.  I honestly think it'll be weeks rather than months.  That pact with
the Russians was just clearing their path.  That's why I hate all this
'bull' so much.  They should be training us to fight and fly, not bloody
march and salute by numbers - we're not 'brown jobs' after all."

   "Don't knock the army, Chapman.  I'll have you know that both my
brothers are in the Guards."

   Chapman shrugged.  He liked David but the hon.  Aubrey Maitland
irritated him in a major way.  Chapman was a shy young man and found
Aubrey's confidence unnerving and his supercilious manner when speaking to
him was a constant source of annoyance.  Chapman lacked the confidence to
respond in kind so David often found himself defending the other boy to
Aubrey.

   "Just as well your Pa had 'an heir and two spares,' then, Maitland,"
David said with a smile.

   Aubrey snorted and Chapman concealed a small smile.  He was quite aware
of David's defence of him and was grateful for it.  Chapman's own father
had died when he was young as a result of wounds received in the Great War.
As a result, he had been raised in genteel poverty, lacking the advantages
of most of his comrades.  He was of average height and slimly built with
dark hair and blue eyes.  He was all quick, nervous gestures and jerky
movements.  He spoke rapidly and there was just a trace of a regional
accent in his voice.  Aubrey believed that Chapman was a socialist or, even
worse, a 'bolshie.' The contrast between Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman
could not have been greater.  The former was languidly confident, athletic
and spoke with an aristocratic drawl.  Chapman was introverted, driven,
almost desperate in his need to be taken seriously.  David found it
surprising that he liked them both so well.



   September 1939 - Consequently this country is at war

   Peter stood by the radio.  Bethan sat very upright in a chair.  It was
11.15 on Sunday, September 3rd 1939.  Peter had been expecting some
announcement for the past two days.  Germany invaded Poland on the previous
Friday.  Britain and France had issued an ultimatum.  Peter had little
doubt as to Hitler's response.  The BBC announcer's voice tailed off and
was replaced by the clipped, reedy tones of the Prime Minister:

   "I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street.This
morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a
final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m.  that they
were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war
would exist between us.

   "I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that
consequently this country is at war with Germany.

   "You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long
struggle to win peace has failed.  Yet I cannot believe that there is
anything more or anything different I could have done and that would have
been more successful.  Up to the very last it would have been quite
possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between
Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it..."

   Chamberlain's voice droned on but Peter had stopped listening.  He
examined his feelings.  He should feel vindicated but instead he felt only
a deep sense of emptiness.  He looked fondly at Bethan who remained rigidly
upright, her face white, and he sighed inwardly.  She would know again the
fear and anguish that springs from having loved ones where the fighting
would be hottest.  Thank God David was just a sprog cadet and hadn't even
begun his flying training.

   David stood in silence with Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman listening
to Chamberlain's broadcast.  As the dry, thin voice ceased there was a wild
outbreak of cheering from the cadets.  Only David and Mark did not join in.

   Michael missed the broadcast.  He was doing an air test on his Blenheim
at the time but the news was relayed to him over the control net. 
Something new stirred within him; an excitement not unlike the first onset
of lust.  So it was war at last.  That bastard Riley had been right all
along.  He turned the Blenheim for home.  An observer on the ground saw him
change course and head towards London.  It was an easy mistake to make. 
The short greenhouse nose of the Blenheim I did resemble a Junkers Ju 88. A
call was made and, for the first time, London heard the wailing of the air
raid sirens.