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From: "smilodon" <smilodon@REMOVEpostmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 29 Oct 2003 15:49:00 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Like Father Like Son Part Seven
Date: Wed, 29 Oct 2003 23:10:06 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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