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

   by Smilodon

   (c) 2003

   This story came about exactly as I describe in the prologue.  The
airmen's grave does exist.  In truth, it is the last resting place of
William Barnard Rhodes Moorhouse, VC, RFC and his son, also a fighter pilot
and winner of the Distinguished Flying Cross, who was killed in the Battle
of Britain.

   William Rhodes Moorhouse was the first aviator to win the Victoria
Cross. It was his dying wish to be buried on the hilltop above the family
estate at Parnham House in Dorset.  This was very unusual in the First
World War - the dead were usually buried near where they fell, as the
countless war cemetries for the dead of a score of nations that are
scattered from the English Channel coast to the foothills of the Alps so
readliy testify.

   This is a work of fiction; however, all of the aviation incidents I have
used in this tale actually happened to someone.

   Finally, my father joined the Royal Air Force in 1922 and was posted to
his first squadron in 1924, flying Bristol Fighters.  He flew for thirteen
years and was one of the pioneers of the RAF Flying Boat force.

   Many of the men he served with had come through the First World War.  It
was he who taught me the peculiar toast that was given when someone died
and also he who taught me the RFC song: 'A handsome young airman lay
dying.'

   This story is dedicated to his memory.


Prologue: April 2003
My wife and I were walking our dogs on the hills above the village where
we live.  As we crested one brow, we could make out some wrought iron
railings on the summit of the next ridge.  Vanessa said: "That must be the
airman's grave.  Let's take a look." So we did.  Whoever chose this spot
had chosen well.  Below us the village slumbered in the afternoon sun.  The
land fell away on three sides, green and brown and golden.  Sheep, like
distant puffs of cotton wool in their winter fleece, dotted a distant
hillside; a large buzzard circled a patch of woodland that topped one rise,

reminiscent of a monk's tonsure.

   We took in the view and congratulated ourselves once more on our
decision to move to the country and then turned our attention to the grave
itself.  It was nothing fancy, a low rectangle of amber marble almost
obscured by a riot of daffodils.  Indeed, the flowers were so profuse that
I couldn't make out the black lettering of the inscription.  The very last
part only was discernible.  It read: '.Barnes MC RFC.' Well, as some of you
may have gathered from reading one or two of my stories, I am something in
the way of an amateur historian.  Seeing those letters 'RFC' whetted my
curiosity.  The Royal Flying Corps!  At once my mind started to race.  I
couldn't wait to get back home and discover the identity of the mysterious
airman whose grave lay in such elevated solitude.

   I was babbling on like a schoolboy all the walk home.  Vanessa, who
fortunately has the patience, if not of a saint then at least of a minor
candidate for canonisation, indulged me.  "Off you go and research him
then," she said.  It was about four hours later I returned from the depths
of my office.  I had been through all my source books to no avail.  I
turned to the Internet and logged on to the Commonwealth War Graves
Commission website.  No joy.  Eventually I got my first clue on an amateur
site dealing with the history of aviation in Dorset.  God bless
enthusiasts! I had a name.  Captain Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes, MC,
RFC. Killed in Action, April 23rd 1917.  Born London, 12th August 1894. 
That made him not quite 23 years old.

   The site added one further snippet.  His son, also a pilot, Flying
Officer Michael Jonathon Welford-Barnes, DFC, RAF, had been killed in
action on 15th September 1940.  Both father and son were buried in the same
grave atop a hill in West Dorset.  The land in which they were interred had
once belonged to the family estate.  The Welford-Barnes family died out
with Michael; the estate was broken up to pay Death Duties.

   That was it.  This little double tragedy, this piece of quintessentially
English History of the Twentieth Century reduced to a few spare lines on an
anorak's website.  It wasn't good enough!  I had to know more.  First, I
had to tell Vanessa the sad little story.  When I finished she gave me one
of her special little smiles.

   "You ought to tell their story," she said.  "I'm sure there has to be
something more to it."

   "Of course.  There has to be, but where to start?"

   "Well, there's always the village museum."

   I blessed her then and made up my mind to start devilling right away. 
You see, the dates of their deaths were highly significant.  Phillip had
died during 'Bloody April' - the nadir of the Royal Flying Corps' fortunes.
Michael had been killed on 'Adler Tag': Eagle Day, the bloody climax of the
Battle of Britain.  The link between them was incredible.  Both had been
flyers, that was obvious, both had been decorated with medals of high
honour.  Both had been just 22 years old.
   - Story begins with Part 1 -