Bomber's Stories

Godspeed Billy Hawke

2009-06-15T14:36:00.001-07:00

It was a cold February Saturday in 1962. Grey clouds blanketed the sky, threatening to spill their heavy load at any minute.

John Glenn's space flight had been put on hold yet again. The world waited for a lucky break in the weather over Eastern Florida. When it came Mr. Glenn would sit in the command module, Friendship 7, to be thrust violently heavenwards by the Mercury rocket beneath him. He would become the first American to orbit the Earth.

Well that's what the public thought. Today, I would beat John Glenn, I was going just after lunch on that cold Saturday afternoon.

With my "Space Patrol" crash helmet tucked firmly under my arm I strode along the garden path. I was so proud of that helmet, the moment that I had seen it on the table at Mrs. Tinley's yard sale I knew that it had to be mine. I had raced home to my mom, yelling to her to come quickly. My mom was a good lady, she knew what was important to me.

As I climbed the wooden ladder, a familiar voice called out to me.
"Hey there, Commander Hawke, what program is it today? Another test or is this the real thing?"
Mr. Ostrowski knew my secret too. I had told him one day when we sat in his kitchen. Sometimes I struggled to understand him, but I always tried very hard. His sad, honest eyes told me that he was one of the good guys.

"It's the real thing, Mr O." I called back.

"Good luck, Billy. Remember, look out for my old place as you go by."

"Sure thing. I'll give them a wave for you."

I moved two of my kid sister's dolls from the pile of cushions in the little tree house and pulled the heavy curtain across the door. I made myself comfortable on the soft, musty smelling pile. From where I sat I could look through the observation port to the launch control building. My mom was standing at the window, I watched for a moment as she washed the dishes.

There was a large plastic globe next to me. I spun it and found the big red cross which marked Cape Canaveral. I traced my finger out across the ocean to a place called Africa. That's where I would leave the Earth's atmosphere and start my orbit. Above Africa was a place called Europe. That's where Mr. Ostrowski and his family used to live before coming to live next door.

My pop had told me that there was once a bad man who hated people like Mr. Ostrowski and his family. He had put them all into camps where lots of them died. Once I had asked Mr. Ostrowski if that's what had happened to Mrs. Ostrowski, had she been in a camp?

I hated it when grown ups cried. I put my arm around Mr. Ostrowski's shoulder but he just kept right on sobbing. I snuck out as quietly as I could. Neither of us mentioned it ever again.

My pop said that it was important that we beat a bunch of guys called The Soviets in some kind of race in space. He said that we owed it to people like Mr. Ostrowski. He said that if they got there first they could take over the free world.

“Surely Mr. Kennedy will keep us safe, won’t he Pop?”

“Huh, even President Kennedy can’t stop missiles once they’re in the air, son.”

My pop looked worried. There was something in his voice that unsettled me.

“Isn’t there anything that we can do to stop them?”

“Not you and me, Billy, we can’t do nothing. We just gotta pray that all of those clever guys know what they’re doing.”

I pulled up the hood of my coat. It was cold up there in my rocket. My helmet was a snug fit over the top. I jammed it down hard.

I punched several of the buttons on the cardboard control panel in front of me. All systems were go for launch. In my head I heard a voice from Launch Control.

"Friendship 7, we are doing final go's for launch. Please give us your status.”

“Launch Control, this is Friendship 7. All systems are good here. I’m go for launch.”

The torrential rain tore through the leaves above the treehouse a second before the deafening thunderbolt shook the tree that supported me.

“Friendship 7, this is Launch Control. We are no go for launch, I repeat we are no go for launch.”

“Launch Control, Friendship 7. I’m good here. Let’s go.”

Another voice broke in. “Billy, come down from that tree house. Do you hear me, Billy?”
Jeez, I’ll bet John Glenn never got called out of his capsule by his mom.

*****

I never did make it into space.

John Glenn did though, February 20th 1962. He orbited the Earth three times and returned a hero. He went again in 1998 aged seventy seven. The oldest man ever to fly into space.

Mr Ostrowski died a few years after my abortive mission, just after Neil Armstrong took his giant leap for mankind. Many years later, I visited Warsaw with his granddaughter. We went to the street where he once lived. It didn’t look anything like the photographs that he had shown me. All of the pretty, old buildings were gone. Just square concrete monstrosities, a legacy to the frantic rebuilding program to reinforce The Soviets' policies after the War.

Dominika cried that day. I held her tight in my arms as we stood on that featureless sidewalk. I thought of the time, so many years before, that I had tried to comfort her grandfather as he wept. I realised then that he had been crying not only for his lost wife, but for a life torn so cruelly from him. A few people shot curious glances at us as they scurried past going about their business. I ignored them. At that moment my wife was all that mattered.

Eleanor

2009-05-26T23:00:00.000-07:00

The heavy oak door shuddered as if being beaten by giant, unseen hands. It's huge iron catch rattling impatiently. For centuries the weather had battered the dark wood, every year loosing the battle. From outside the sound of dry leaves scuttling over the tiled floor of the porch was carried on the draught beneath the door.

Andrew Meredith looked up from the neatly handwritten notes resting on the ornate brass lectern before him. She was there again, sitting near the back of the church, head bowed as if in prayer. He continued delivering his sermon, stopping occasionally to add notes in red pen. Thursday evening was his favourite time of the week. He always left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed while he worked on his sermon for the following Sunday’s congregation. For just a couple of hours his parishioners could manage without him.

Andrew had first seen her months ago, standing amongst the grave stones, apparently watching a wedding party have their photographs taken. There was a kind of sadness in her sweet face. As he walked towards the lych gate he saw her from the corner of his eye, skipping between the ancient monoliths and tall grass, keeping up with him. The vicarage was only a short walk from the church. As he walked he absent mindedly hummed to himself.

"Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been,
lives in a dream.”

The metallic squawk of the driver's radio echoed in the otherwise silent street. A few bedroom curtains twitched as the occupants looked for the cause of their rude awakening. Andrew's eyes protested in pain as the blue ambulance lights burned his retinas. He looked at the tiny form of his beloved Susan, wife of nearly fifty years. The red blanket that protected her frail body from the cool summer night air was wrapped tightly around her, reminding Andrew of just how thin and frail she had become. As the paramedics lifted the stretcher into the brilliant white interior she gave him a weak smile. He had smiled back, silently mouthing "I love you."

As the ambulance moved away, Andrew glanced out of the smoked glass windows. In the yellow glow of a streetlight he could see the small form of a young lady, her head bowed.

In the months that followed Susan Meredith's death Andrew busied himself as much as possible with parochial matters. There was more than enough to do, both at home and in the church. He was looked after well by a few of the senior ladies of the parish. "Dames d'un âge certain." He would smile to himself.

Often after a Sunday morning service, he would be invited to lunch with one of the families of the parish. Always before leaving the church he would visit Susan’s grave and place fresh flowers.

As the Summer faded into Autumn he began to feel that his life was getting a bit more back to normal. He continued his routine and found that Thursday evenings in his church were when he felt at his most content. Here he was closest, not only to his Creator, but now to his dear wife also. Often he would see the mysterious lady sitting at the back of the church. He was usually so engrossed in his work that he had never heard her arrive and never saw her leave. No conversation was made between them, Andrew sensed that it wasn’t necessary.

Winter came, Andrew celebrated his seventieth birthday. His church family held a party for him in the hall across the road. He made a speech, thanked them all for their generosity. She was there, in the middle of the crowd, her eyes looked at him, still with a beautiful sadness. He moved forwards to speak to her, but his way was blocked by one of the "Dames". He made polite conversation, but all the while his eyes were scanning the room for the enigmatic young lady. He had to speak to her. He was pretty sure that he knew what she was there for, but he needed to be certain. As soon as he could he broke away from the small ensemble of well meaning ladies and tried to find Eleanor, as he was now calling her. She had gone. When he had asked people about her, nobody really seemed sure of whom he was talking.

Gathering his papers together, Andrew removed his small spectacles and tucked them into his overcoat pocket. As he walked down the nave to the church door, he saw that once again she had left without him noticing. He buttoned his coat as he made his way to the door. The ache that he had first noticed in his left arm last week was back. Must be the cold damp weather, he told himself.

The rain lashed into him as soon as he opened the door. Above his bent frame the cast iron lantern in the porch swung violently. He thought that it must have looked like a scene from an old movie. A slight smile creased his tired, grey face, "Call me Ishmael."

Turning the collar of his heavy coat up to protect him a little more, he started along the path to the lych gate. His arm ached like never before.

He saw her standing in the shadows of the gate, protected from the weather. As he approached, the pain in his arm intensified. She held out both her arms to him, beckoning him to her. He knew he would be safe with her.

The moment their hands touched he knew. He knew who she was, he knew for certain why she was waiting for him. She held him to her.

"It's time to go now." She whispered.

The shooting pain in his chest was for no longer than a second. Father Andrew Meredith fell to the gravel pathway. His papers dropped to the sodden ground, the red ink began to smudge and leech into the paper, like blood on blotting paper. The cold wind and driving rain troubled him no more.

The Chelsea Apartment

2009-05-08T05:28:00.000-07:00

Lauren sat back from being bent over her laptop and surveyed the scene beyond her bedroom window. The grey autumn sky promised more rain. On the river a tug battled against the current with four loaded barges. The trees that lined the road still had a few golden leaves hanging on to their thin branches as if in pure defiance of nature.
The white structure of the Albert Bridge contrasted against the dark sky as if creating it’s own light. Taxis scuttled across it like maddened beetles. On the opposite river bank was Battersea Park. The tall turquoise spire of the Peace Pagoda thrust into the air, arrogantly proclaiming it’s ideological message. Lauren hated London and all of it’s hypocritical bullshit.

Sure the Chelsea apartment was beautiful. Built in the early 1830’s it’s huge rooms with their high ceilings and picture windows were the epitome of decadence. Whenever friends came to the apartment they would gaze in awe at the view from her window. The four chimneys of Battersea Power Station standing proudly above the derelict building, like the legs of an upended table. The tranquillity of the park. The pulse of life on the river.
To Lauren, though, this place was just bad memories. Memories of times she had spent here with Rob. She could still hear the echoes of their laughter in the lobby. The stain was still on the carpet where Rob had dropped his red wine on that first evening he had stayed with her. Mortified he had scrubbed furiously to remove the burgundy mark. Most of it has come out, but he had still rushed out the next day to buy a rug to hide the damage.

She still kept a picture of him in her wallet. His number was still in her phone. The rug was rolled up in the attic. Just in case.

Her eyes were drawn to the blotch on the floor. It seemed to taunt her, reminding her of better times. As she stared it almost became darker, like the pool of sticky crimson liquid that had spilt on his white sheets the day she found out.

The anger began to build again.

The guilty look on his face was still burned into her mind. She saw the look of horror on the unknown girl’s face as she launched herself screaming across his bedroom. She remembered the taste of her own blood as she fought with the whore who had dared to screw her man. She remembered how it felt to be knelt astride the girl raining blows down on her.

Rob had pulled her off of course. She had landed a few punches on him as well. He didn’t explain himself. The bastard just told her to calm down. Calm down! She had just caught the man that she loved, whom she thought loved her screwing some cheap tart and he wanted her to calm down.

She had walked back to her apartment crying, a small trace of blood at the corner of her mouth. The street lights became a blur of crystals in her eyes. People stared. A man in a dark suit had stopped.

“Are you OK?”

“Just leave me the fuck alone.” She screamed, the man had reeled back from the verbal onslaught that had followed before she ran on again. Back to the Chelsea Apartment.

Once inside she had gone crazy. Throwing stuff around the place. Screaming. Crying, until she was finally spent. She had curled up in the corner of the room and cried until there were no tears left. As she had sat there, wallowing in her own self pity, she began to formulate a plan.
The beep from her laptop brought Lauren back to the present.

Davey78 SAYS: hi sxy do U want 2 play.

Lauren’s fingers darted across the keyboard.

SXYDBI SAYS: Well, hello, big boy. Wots on UR mind?

She smiled. Another lamb to the slaughter. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

A Brief Peace

2009-05-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

The twin Bristol Pegasus engines of the Wellington howled as Captain Arthur 'Archie' Turnbull threw the aircraft into a series of high banked turns. He didn’t like daylight raids, even short sorties like this one. Bomber Command had assured all of the squadrons that there were no enemy aircraft operational in their target area. “No mention of bloody anti aircraft guns though,” he thought wryly.

A barrage of shells exploded in the sky ahead of him, tell-tale puffs of smoke hanging in the still air, slowly drifting like black jellyfish on a turning tide. Ahead, Archie could see the silver line of the sun reflecting on the surface of the English Channel. He levelled the wings and pushed the throttles forward to coax the old crate to her top speed of just over two hundred knots.

“Hello, chaps. Sorry about the bumpy ride. Buggers were a bit sharp today. Every one alright?”

One by one, Archie’s five crewmates acknowledged his call on the intercom.

“Jolly good. Can you get us home quickly, Snowy old boy? We’re a little low on juice.”

David 'Snowy' White and Archie went way back. They had become the best of friends when David’s family had moved into the little terraced house next to the Turnbulls in 1930. Both of the boys were just twelve years old. David was the eldest of three children and was always on the lookout for adventure. His younger brother, Reggie, wore callipers on his legs due to a bout of polio five years previously and was therefore no use to David as far as scrumping for apples or making camps in the woods was concerned. As for David’s younger sister, Maisie, well she was just a girl.

At the outbreak of the war, the two friends had immediately volunteered for service in the RAF. They had been sent to different training establishments, Archie being selected for pilot training, thanks in part to his grammar school education. Snowy was trained as ground crew with the promise of more to come.

Initially, Archie was stationed at RAF Tangmere in West Sussex where he flew Lysanders dropping Special Operations Executive agents into occupied France to assist The Resistance. Just over a year later, he was transferred to Seething in Norfolk where he took command of his Type 416 Wellington Bomber 'M for Mother'. As Archie strode out to his new aircraft on that first bright spring afternoon, he saw a familiar figure leaning against the fuselage. Snowy pulled the cigarette from his mouth as he saw his new captain approaching.

“What ho, Turnbull old boy! Took your time getting here, didn’t you?”

“Snowy, old chap. Bloody good to see you.”

The voice on his intercom brought Archie back to the present. "We’re a way South of our plan, Captain. Don’t want to turn North just yet. Danger of running into outward traffic. I would suggest that we stay on our current course until we’re over Blighty, then we’ll set a new course on home ground. Should be back on the ground in forty minutes. Is that OK?”

“Yes I reckon that’ll be good. Okay, chaps, we’re coming up on the Channel. To your stations. Be ready.”

Archie felt the slightest shudder through the control column as the four gunners let off a few rounds to be sure that the Wellington’s defences were working correctly. He did a quick systems check. All the gauges looked good. At a shade over eleven thousand feet he was almost at the Wellington’s ceiling. From here he would cross the Channel in a gradual descent, which would push the old girl to above her maximum speed. It also kept them above enemy fighters' top speed for as long as possible. The compromise was that the crew were sitting ducks if they had to bale out.

“Hello, Archie, I’ve got company back here.”

The voice belonged to rear gunner George 'Harvey' Nicholls, a small but fiercely proud Welshman for whom Archie had a very soft spot. The smallest member of his crew, Harvey would stand by and defend his captain with the tenacity and loyalty of a terrier. On more than one occasion, Archie had physically carried Harvey out of The Rose and Crown to prevent him from thumping someone who he thought had verbally attacked Archie or one of his crew.

“How many, Harvey?”

“Three, directly astern, high… No wait, five, six. Christ, they’re all over us. Look like ME one-oh-nines.”

Harvey opened fire with both of his Browning .303 machine guns, spraying the sky with hot metal. He saw one of the attacking aircraft peel away with smoke belching from it’s engine cowling. Within seconds, the five remaining Mescherschmitt fighters were all around the lumbering Wellington like a pride of lions stalking their prey. The first one dived in for the attack, spitting fire from its cannons. The nose and waist gunners on the Wellington returned fire. The Mescherschmitt banked away steeply, exposing it’s pale grey belly to the gunners in the ungainly bomber. The port side waist gunner saw a line of small holes appear across it’s wings as his aim proved true. Still the fighters wheeled in. Archie thought of an injured whale being attacked by a shoal of hungry sharks.

Archie felt his aircraft give a lurch to starboard seconds before he heard Snowy on the intercom.

“Archie, we’re hit! Starboard engine’s on fire.”

“Roger, Snowy. I can see Blighty now. Reckon we’ll be okay.”

“Good thing, Captain. I don’t fancy joining the goldfish club just yet.”

Almost as if sensing that the Wellington was fatally injured, the German fighters broke off their attack and headed for home. Archie breathed a sigh of relief. All he needed to do now was nurse the old crate to dry land. He had abandoned the idea of getting her back to their airfield. Instead he would put her down on the nearest strip.

“Come on now, old girl. Just a couple more miles.” With gritted teeth Archie hung on to the shaking yoke. He could see the strip ahead of him. He was too high, way too high. Any lower though and he wouldn’t have enough room for manoeuvre. The stricken starboard engine was forcing the Wellington to try to turn constantly to the right, it’s wing hanging low.

With a sudden lurch the wings levelled and the plane dropped. Instantly Archie knew that the port side engine had cut. Instinctively he checked his gauges. It was pointless. The fuel gauges had been reading empty for some time now. Archie assumed that somewhere they had been damaged by enemy fire. He pulled hard back on the yoke, trying desperately to convert their forward motion into lift. Directly ahead of them was a small cluster of cottages and just beyond them the familiar red brick shape of a village school.

“A school!” Archie’s brain was shouting the words to him. “A bloody school!”

With all of his strength, he pulled back on the yoke again, willing the dying plane to stay in the air. Just a few seconds more. Begging. Pleading.

The children in the playground stopped their games. Innocent faces turned to watch as the lifeless hulk of the Wellington hurtled towards them. Archie felt sure he could see their wide eyes, their open mouths speechless with the shock of what they were witnessing. Afterwards he would swear that he had heard their screams.

M for Mother’s tail hit the chimney stack on the apex of the school building’s roof, sending heavy masonry crashing into the yard below, a few broken fragments ricocheting from the ground through windows. Little George Nicholls, still sitting in his rear gun turret was killed instantly as the perspex bubble broke apart. The black plane slewed sideways briefly before it’s portside wingtip dug into the ploughed earth of the field just beyond the school grounds. As his beloved aeroplane cartwheeled across the ground, Archie was thrown out through the side window.

The explosion brought Archie to his senses. As he tried to run towards the crumpled shell of the Wellington, the doped fabric skin started to burn. His leg buckled beneath him as the shattered bones gave way. Determinedly, he dragged his useless leg behind him as he headed for the aircraft. Inside the fuselage, Archie found his old pal Snowy lying prone over his broken navigator’s table, trapped by the splintered wood. As he grabbed the back of Snowy’s flying jacket, a ball of flame engulfed them both. Archie watched with horrified amazement as the skin on the back of his right hand started to bubble and peel back to expose vivid red flesh.

With all of the strength that he could muster, Archie pulled Snowy backwards. He closed his eyes against the heat as he dragged his dearest friend through the inferno that had once been their fortress. As they exited the aircraft, a red mist descended over Archie's vision as his eyelids burned and fused together.

The early morning sun bathed the white chalk cliffs in a soft yellow light. High above the lush green carpet of grass, a small flock of swallows wheeled and dived as they gorged themselves on airborne insects.

Archie could feel the gentle warmth of the sun on his face. It was good to be outside in the fresh morning air. His mind wandered to his childhood, which seemed to him several lifetimes ago. He recalled games that he had played with friends in fields like these. Running around with arms stretched out to the sides, pretending to be aeroplanes. They would run until their legs ached and their chests begged for breath. They would tumble laughing into the long grass and then lie watching the clouds drift by overhead. Then wait and watch for images to appear. If you looked for long enough, you would see a picture in every cloud. Each boy would try to spot a picture before the others.

“That looks like a rabbit.”

“Where?” came the reply.

“There on the left. Do you see its ears sticking up?”

“Oh yes! I see now.”

“I can’t see it!” Invariably it was Charlie, the smallest boy, who was last to see the image. Charlie was Archie’s younger brother by nearly a year and a half. Sometimes Archie thought that he was a pain to have hanging around, but he would never let anyone know. Nor would he allow anyone to hurt the little fellow. The boys would fall in a heap on the poor unsuspecting child, playfully punching him and calling him names. Archie missed those days of carefree innocence. He worried about Charlie. He was out there somewhere, still fighting. He breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of the wild meadow flowers mingled with the early morning dew. He sighed.

“Is everything alright?” The gentle voice snapped him from his daydream. The same voice that woke him from his nightmares. The voice that calmed him, reassured him. A hand reached out and touched his face. One of the hands that had mopped the sweat from his fevered brow. The hands that held him. The hands that cared.

“Are there clouds in the sky?”

“No, it’s absolutely clear.”

“The lads will be busy again today.” His voice cracked slightly. The thought of being left behind as his comrades took to the skies to meet the enemy was almost unbearable.

“Do you miss it? The flying I mean. Do you want to be back up there?”

“Hell, yes. I couldn’t bear to be told that I won’t fly again. As soon as these bandages come off I’ll be pushing to get back up there.”

SRN Victoria Jenkins looked at the airman lying on the blanket next to her. She could feel a lump of emotion building in her throat. She hadn’t meant to fall in love with him. Such things were frowned upon in the hospital. His courage had touched her, how he managed to stay positive despite his burns - injuries that he sustained as his stricken Wellington bomber had cartwheeled across a ploughed field whilst attempting an emergency landing.

There were reports of how he had desperately fought to keep height to try to avoid the village school. He had been thrown clear of the wreckage on impact but had dragged himself back without regard to his shattered leg to try to rescue his crew. As if in a living nightmare, the pain had been so intense that he had been unable to feel it. He hadn’t realised that he was actually on fire until a bystander had thrown him to the ground and rolled him over and over. At that point, he had passed out, unconsciousness arriving as a blessed release from the torture of watching his crew burn to an untimely death. Some said he should be awarded a medal for his courage. Archie, however, maintained that he had just been doing his job. He had lost two of his closest friends in the crash and didn’t see the need for accolades.

He was just twenty three years old, only two years Victoria’s senior, and yet he spoke with the authority and wisdom of a man twice his age. She longed to look into his eyes and tell him how she felt. She prayed every night that when the bandages were removed his sight would be regained.

She knew that the broken bones would mend, but what of the mental scars?

She had asked if he could remember what had happened. The far away sound of his voice had warned her not to press him. She had left quietly after he had flown into a rage. Later that night, she had returned to the sounds of him sobbing. Without a word, she had held him to her and rocked him gently until sleep came to him again. She knew then that her love for him knew no bounds. She didn’t care how long it would take for him to recover. She would wait for him. She would stand by him.

“Oh, Archie, how I hate this damned war. How I wish it were over.”

“I know, my darling. One day it will be. Soon, they say. Until then we must keep strong.”

“When it is all over, do you think that we could… Well, what I mean is should we…”

With his unbandaged hand, Archie felt for Victoria’s face. He felt the wet trace of the tear that ran down her soft cheek. She closed her eyes as he felt every feature. He traced the outline of her lips. He felt her high cheekbones. Gently, so gently he touched her eyes. Her hair.

Victoria leaned in towards him and kissed him, softly at first and then with more urgency. As they kissed, Archie’s hand ran down her tight neck to the open top buttons of her blue tunic. He paused.

Victoria pulled away from kissing him and nuzzled his ear. “Don’t be shy,” she whispered.

Archie’s hand slipped inside her clothes, feeling her soft inviting body. He began to tremble. He hadn’t been this close to a woman for over a year, since before the crash. His body cried out for him to continue. Sensing his nervousness, Victoria unbuttoned herself a little more and guided his hand to her. To feel his touch at last made her feel alive. Carefully, she raised herself so that she was above him on the coarse blanket. She reached down to his belt and unbuckled it.

Without speaking, they both knew that what was to follow would be the ultimate declaration of their love. Victoria took him into her as she had dreamed she would. Their bonding was complete and exquisite.

As they lay next to each other, Victoria rested her head on Archie’s broad chest. She listened to his heart beat, still fast from the excitement.

Archie heard the single engined aircraft a moment before she did. It was a long way off, and from what he could tell quite high. Probably an early morning reconnaissance aircraft on its way back from a mission. Victoria heard it a second later. Shifting her head slightly, she scanned the sky to try to spot it as it moved ever closer.

The note of the aircraft’s engine changed as it started to descend. Archie listened intently to it. There was something wrong, something different about the sound. He wondered at first if maybe it was in trouble. Then, with a flash of realisation, he knew what it was. Instinctively, he pulled Victoria closer to him. She smiled.

“I love you, Captain Turnbull.”

“I love you too. Don’t you ever forget that.”

The earth flew up in two parallel lines as the shells from the Mescherschmitt’s cannons tore into the soft earth.

The bodies of the two young lovers lay entwined, twisted and broken.

Because It's There

2009-05-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

The earth bank rose up from the floor of the woods, the clear blue sky some thirty feet above them beckoned the three young boys to climb up to meet it. The old green iron fence was broken and pulled down where boys before them had climbed. Bicycles were abandoned at the fence and with much scrabbling and grabbing hold of trees the three explorers arrived triumphantly at the summit. From their vantage point they could see the old banked motor racing circuit curving away to their right. To the left the banking had been demolished to make way for the end of the now disused runway.

Ahead of them the tarmac drove a thick swathe through the rough grass. Thin green veins streaked across the black scar where Mother Nature tried to reclaim her desecrated ground.A mile away, at the far end of the runway they could see the old aircraft assembly hangers and, in between buildings the dirty grey concrete surface of the old race track.

Frank rummaged around in his pockets and produced a crumpled packet of cigarettes and some matches. The boys sat on the weathered, pock marked embankment and smoked. The smoke rose lazily from their cigarettes, with no breeze to disturb it. The silence was broken only by a Skylark singing from way above the old airfield.

To each boy the place meant something different. For Frank it was a retreat, somewhere to smoke illicitly without being caught. He was fed up with being caught and having his precious stash confiscated. He would be fifteen soon and he reasoned that he was old enough to make his own choice. This was not a view shared by his step-father.

To Phil it was somewhere to get away from the nagging of his mother. She was always on at him to tidy his room or wash his face. So what if he was a disgrace to the family, he didn’t like them anyway.

For Mikey it was a place of magic. Ever since the day that his uncle had told him what was hidden in the woods he had needed to go there. To touch it, to drink in the atmosphere of it. He had read about it. Seventy five years previously this place had opened to the great new invention, the motor car. An enormous concrete amphitheatre where daredevils in their fire breathing horseless carriages could compete against each other at speeds previously unheard of. The magical noise of big engines and the smell of hot oil. The crowds marvelling at the new spectacle. The sheer excitement of something new. How Mikey wished that he could have been there to see it and smell it for himself.Then came the aviators, flying their wonderful heavier than air machines. Some no more than sticks, string and canvas. The first Englishman to fly flew from that very place. Dashing young men wowing the crowds with loop the loops and other stunts. Great air races around Britain and to far flung parts of the European continent. War came, motor racing stopped and aircraft production stepped up. The once magnificent place became silent, broken and derelict.

The magic was still there, though. Hanging in the air. Rising up through the ground. Whispering in the trees. The stillness hiding secrets of greatness long since past. As the three boys sat silently surveying this once magnificent grand old lady, Mikey’s mind conjured up the images of a time long since past. He stood within a great crowd, leaning forwards, craning their necks to see the beasts thundering past. The hot air from the unleashed pack blowing dust into their eyes and throats. Cheers as a favourite driver took the lead. The roar diminishing as the gladiators streamed into the distance. Silence again, broken briefly by the noise of a small propeller driven aeroplane, struggling to free itself from the shackles of gravity.

Now though, it was a refuge for junk. Discarded washing machines and cookers, bags of garden waste, anything that was difficult to take to a refuse tip was left here. Scattered around, glinting in the sunlight like broken glass on the floor of a derelict house.

Phil dragged a large flat piece of metal out of a bush. Placing it at the top of the concrete banking, he sat on it. Mikey and Frank watched open mouthed as, with an enormous din and a considerable shower of sparks, he slid down the one hundred feet long slope. A cheer arose from the two onlookers as Mikey disappeared into the trees at the bottom. When he emerged, he was dragging something much more interesting than an old flat piece of metal. This time he had a shopping trolley.

Frank held the trolley at the top of the banking while the two brothers climbed in. With a shove he jumped onto the back. The three friends flew down the bumpy slope, nearly helpless with laughter. Before they had reached the bottom, the trolley succumbed to the forces acting upon it and tipped up, spewing the three boys from it as if they had been fired from a catapult. Momentum carried the lads and their wire framed chariot in a jumbled mass to the foot of the slope. For a second or two each remained still, evaluating his injuries. A grazed arm, a twisted ankle, a slightly bloody nose.

Frank was first to his feet. He grabbed the battered trolley and began to drag it back to the top. “C’mon, let’s do it again.”

Old Tom

2009-05-05T14:12:00.000-07:00

The steel tipped heels of Wing Commander Judson’s black shoes beat a rhythmic tap, tap, tap on the hard tiled floor. The sound echoing off of the stark green painted walls of the long corridor as he strode along with the purpose of a man determined to carry out a duty. The nurse sitting at the plain wooden desk looked up from her book as he approached. She put her book down and sat up straight. Strangers were a rare sight in the care home, strangers in official uniform more so.

“Hello, can I help you, sir?” She didn’t know why she added the word “Sir” on to the end of her question, somehow she had just felt compelled to.

Judson checked her name badge, “Yes, I would very much like to see Mr Tom Keller please, Helen”

“Oh, uh, just a minute please.” He had caught her off guard, no one usually bothered to use her name.

Helen picked up a telephone and dialled a number, she placed her hand over the mouth piece. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name.”“Wing Commander Judson, RAF.” He smiled at her, his brown – green eyes sparkling.

Helen spoke quietly into the telephone and replaced the receiver. “Someone will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you like to take a seat?”

Judson looked at the torn, stained chairs waiting forlornly against the wall. He looked back at Helen and raised his eyebrows.

“No, I didn’t think you would, sir.”

“Mr Judson?”

A young man, wearing torn, baggy jeans and a dirty white t-shirt, with a slogan bordering on the obscene shuffled towards him. His black hair arranged into a sculpture of spikes with bright green tips, his left ear sported a range of different sized silver rings, complemented by one in his right nostril. Judson resisted the urge to tell this somewhat unpleasant individual to go home and have a bath.

“Yes.”

“Follow me will you, mate?”

As they walked through the corridors Judson occasionally caught a glimpse through a half open door of the souls within. Many turned at the sound of his footsteps, hoping beyond hope that today would be their day for a visit. Judson didn’t let the sights touch him, his professionalism preventing emotion from getting the better of him. All of the occupants had once been real people, living out their lives in the real world. Now they were not much more than their own memories. A lesser man would have wept.

“Watcha wanna see Ol’ Tom for? He don’t say nuffink you know.”

Judson bristled. “How old are you?”

“Nearly twenny free.”

“Twenty three.” Judson corrected him. “Do you know where Mr Keller was when he was twenty three?”

“Na.”

Judson could feel the desire building within himself to take this scruffy youth, pin him to the wall and tell him in no uncertain terms what his immediate future held. An action known in the ranks of the RAF as reading his short term horoscope. Usually it involved a threat of violence. He knew that it would serve no purpose. There was no way on God’s Earth that this young man would ever understand the sacrifices that men like Tom had made.

On the 7th December 1941 the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, an act that brought America into the Second World War. Tom Keller was twenty years old and like so many of his friends at the time he had been watching the events in Europe with an interest. He felt immense compassion for those poor souls who night after night had to endure the bombing raids of the Luftwaffe. Without so much as a second thought, he announced to his family that as soon as he could he would be putting himself at the disposal of the United States armed forces.

Before the end of that winter he found himself at an RAF station in the middle of England, the start of his training as ground crew on Lancaster bombers. Tom was desperately homesick, he wrote to his parents as often as he could, always telling them upbeat stories of life on the airbase and his new found friends.

Training lasted just four weeks before he was being packed up and shipped out to India with 99 Bomber Squadron. For the second time in three months Tom found himself in an alien land. This time it was like nothing he had ever known. He looked at a map of the World and pin pointed the nearest town to his station, his eyes traced to the left and up, half the width of the paper before he found his home town on the East Coast of America. He was just about as far away from home as it was possible to be. Tom felt very small and very lonely.Due to his affable nature, he very quickly built a good relationship with the crew of his aircraft, R for Robert. Every night he would watch them as they climbed into the plane. Then he would sit and wait until he heard the drone of the four big Rolls Royce Merlin engines, signalling the return.. He would pray that his friends made it back safely. All of the time that the plane was away he would not rest, why should he? His boys were out there putting their necks on the line, he was one of them, he would not rest.

Some nights he would watch as his crew fought to bring the nearly crippled Lancaster back to the airfield, he would help the medics lift the broken bodies of his dead friends from within her fragile shell.

One day R for Robert failed to return. Tom cried that day, his closest friends in the world gone. It was his 23rd birthday. Never again would he celebrate this day.

Tom had remained on detachment with the RAF for the duration of the war. At the cessation of hostilities he had been transported back to the USA and the welcoming bosom of his family. He married his childhood sweetheart in June of 1947. His family didn’t know much about his active service, he spoke very little about his experiences, finding the subject just too difficult to broach.

“Ere you go.”Judson was snapped out of his thoughts.. The plain white door was shut, on it a small plaque which simply read “Mr Keller”. Without knocking, the young man pushed the door open.

Judson stepped into the room, which was small, but bright. The curtains at the large window were pushed fully open, affording a view of the beautifully manicured gardens. A few of the residents were outside enjoying the late afternoon sun.

In a corner, by the window were two cheap, uncomfortable looking high backed chairs, between then a small table with a jigsaw puzzle half completed on it. In the chair nearest to the window sat a small frail old man. His pure white hair was combed neatly into a side parting. He wore a loose fitting white shirt which was open at the neck and neatly pressed dark trousers. His right arm sat limply on his lap.

The chair opposite was occupied by a small, attractive blonde lady, in her early forties, Judson guessed. She stood as he entered the room and took a step towards him, holding out her right hand. He took her hand, it felt soft and fragile in his.

As Judson introduced himself, he looked closely at her face. Her deep brown eyes showed the compassion that only a long term carer knows. There was genuine warmth in her smile. Her skin had the colour belonging to a person who enjoyed being outdoors.

“Pleased to meet you, Wing Commander, I’m Chrissie, Tom’s daughter-in-law..” She spoke quietly, almost with a vulnerability. “I understand you wish to speak with Tom. You do realise that he has had two quite severe strokes and communication for him is difficult.”

She motioned to the now empty seat. “Please.”

As Judson sat down, Tom tried to shuffle in his seat so that he was sitting upright. He brought his left arm up to his temple in a salute. Judson leant forwards.

“It’s Okay Mr Keller, no need to bring yourself to attention.” He looked at the jigsaw on the table. “Lancaster , I see. Beautiful old thing isn’t it?”

“He always saves the last piece for me to put in.” Chrissie told him, “A real gentleman.”

Judson nodded, “Indeed, and there are too few of those left now.” He turned back to Tom. “The reason that I’m here, Tom, is that I have been sent on behalf of the RAF to convey Her Majesty’s thanks for your bravery in India in 1943.”

“I knew he had served in India during the war, but bravery, you say?”

“Mrs Keller, your father-in-law is a very special man. On the night that his own aircrew failed to return from a mission another Lancaster arrived at the airfield very badly damaged. So much so that it couldn’t lower the gear and had to belly flop onto the runway. It was Tom who climbed into the burning wreckage, not once, but three times to assist the injured crew’s escape. Had he not done so, the three men that he helped would certainly have lost their lives.” Judson looked directly into Tom’s wet eyes. “Therefore, sir, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force, I would like to present you with this award for gallantry.”

Judson placed a small open box into Tom’s left hand. The medal glinted in the sunlight .

Life In A Teacup

2009-05-05T14:05:00.000-07:00

David settled himself in the reclined chair and closed his eyes as he had been told.The slow monotonous voice started.

“I want you to take five deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth. With each breath out you are going to become more relaxed. Sinking into the chair.”“So, breathe in… and out, feeling your shoulders slump, your body becoming soft.”“In… and out, relaxed, sinking deeper, and deeper.”“In… and out, deeper still, so relaxed, so heavy, so soft.”“In… and out, deeper, relaxed, heavy.”“In… and out.”“You are now so deep, so relaxed that even if you wanted to move, you would find that you couldn’t. Your arms are so heavy and so relaxed. In a moment I’m going to ask you try and lift your right arm up, only by about two inches. You will find that your arm is so heavy that you can’t lift it. In fact the harder you try to lift your arm, the heavier it becomes.”“I’m going to count to three now, and on the count of three, I want you to try to raise your arm. One, two, three.”

The relaxation was more complete than anything David had ever been aware of before. He felt as limp as a rag doll. He could imagine that he had, indeed sunk into the very fabric of the chair. He tried to lift his arm, and to his surprise he found that it couldn’t be done. He tried harder, and sure enough he felt as if his arm was becoming heavier and heavier. He smiled at the thought of how ridiculous it was, or at least he thought he smiled. He was surprised that he was aware of conscious thoughts, even though he was completely under the control of another person.
The voice continued, “I want you now to picture yourself outside a house. It can be any house you like, anywhere you like. Take a moment to look at it, what is it made of?”David could see the house, it was made of wood and painted light blue. The paint was old and peeling in places. In some areas the wood was beginning to rot. The sloping roof was beginning to sag in the middle. This was quite clearly an uninhabited house.“I want you to walk up to the front door and let yourself in. As you enter the house, look around the hallway. You will see a musical instrument. Have a look at it, you decide what you want to do with it. You choose whether it is important or not.”

The front door was swung right open, a screen door hung limply across the opening. David found himself in the hallway without moving the screen door. The wallpaper was a light blue floral pattern, faded and dirty. On the wall was a small guitar made out of plastic coated metal. Just like the rubbish souvenir that his Grandmother had brought back from Spain when he was a child. Surprisingly David found that it filled him with disgust. He had no desire to give the despicable object any further attention. At the far end of the hallway through another door, David could see the kitchen window looking out into the woods.

“When you have seen enough, I want you to make your way outside.”

Without moving, David found himself at the back of the house. He knew that the house was behind him, but he had no desire to look at it.

“Just for a moment, I want you to look around yourself. You are standing in a wood. Look at the trees, are they tall or short, are they close together or far apart, can you see between them, can you see the sky?”

David looked, the trees were very tall but the trunks were not thick. The tree trunks were covered with a white paper like bark, similar to that of a birch tree. The canopy of leaves was thin enough for David to just about be able to see the blue of the sky through it. David felt warm, he guessed that it must have been a spring day. A gentle breeze wafted through the trees causing the leaves to rustle.

“OK, as you look about yourself, you will become aware that you are standing on a path. Decide what this path is like, how wide it is, what it is made of. Can you see along it at all? After a few moments I want you to start walking along it, as you walk, pay attention to how easy it is to walk. Carry on until you see an object on the ground. As you approach the object you will see that it is a cup. I want you to have a good look at this cup. Look all around it, you may pick it up if you want or leave it on the ground. If you do decide to pick it up, feel how much it weighs.”
The path was not very wide and made of soft sand. It curved gently to the right so that David couldn’t see the end. As he started to walk along the sand seemed to be trying to hold his feet down. It was just becoming hard work when he saw the cup on the ground. The cup was a large silver trophy, about 60cm tall with coloured ribbons hanging from the handles. As David lifted it from the ground he decided that it was a ridiculous thing and he made a decision to change it. It changed instantly into a fine bone china tea cup with a matching saucer. David looked at this rather delicate cup more closely. He realised that where the white china should have been between the blue patterns, it was in fact completely transparent. There was no weight to it at all, it was more of an image than a real object. David placed the cup and saucer back on the path and in a second it was gone. He was aware that the warmth of the sun was no longer penetration the leaf canopy, although he could still see the blue sky above the trees.

“When you are ready to move on, I want you to continue along the path until you come to a wall. The path will stop at this wall and the wall will stretch away from you to either side so that there is no way around it. Again, I want you to notice everything about the wall. You will see that there is a way of passing through this wall. I want you decide what the wall is made of, how tall it is, how well it is made. Can you see what is on the other side? Do you want to go there?If you choose to go to the other side we will continue, if you choose not to, you will remain in a state of total relaxation until I bring you out of it.”

As David approached the wall his first impression was just how tall it was. He couldn’t see the top of it without tilting his head right back. It was made of red brick and was evidently very old. There was an archway in the centre of his view, which was sealed by a very heavy looking wooden door.Strangely as David got closer the wall slowly changed with each footstep until it was a low dry stone wall with steps leading up to a platform on the top. David presumed that there were steps leading down the other side.On the other side was a large meadow of brilliant green grass, interspersed with yellow and white flowers. It seemed to David to be the most beautiful place that he had ever seen. He decided to lean on the wall and look for a while, he had absolutely no desire to cross over into the meadow.

As he came round David slowly opened his eyes and stretched his arms out in front of him. Although the whole experience seemed to have only lasted for a few minutes he felt as if he hadn’t moved for hours.

“Just stay there, don’t sit up.” The owner of the voice swam into view. Jenny was sitting in the chair directly opposite David and when he opened his eyes fully she greeted him with a warm friendly smile.“Firstly,” she said, “how long do you think you were under for?”

David thought hard, “Probably about twenty minutes.” He said with a questioning tone.

She smiled. “You were under for an hour and a half. Now then, what about the journey that you went on, let’s see what you can remember. The musical instrument in the house, what was it?”

“A guitar,” said David, “although not a proper one. It was one that I remember from when I was young at my Grandmother’s house. I didn’t like it, sort of ornamental rubbish.”

“That instrument represents how you remember your childhood.” Said Jenny, “maybe right now, there are parts of your past that you are struggling to live with, any way let’s move on. The pathway in the woods, what was it made of, was it easy to walks along?”

David described the pathway, telling Jenny that is was difficult to walk along, he told her about the woods.

“That is how you currently see your journey through life.” She said. “It would appear to me that you have a few issues that you need to deal with. You are becoming mentally bogged down and you feel that you are alone, with no one either side. Although there is some optimism as the trees were openly spaced and you could see blue sky through them.”

“The cup,” She went on, “tell me about that.”David described how he had seen a trophy, but had thought that ridiculous and changed it.“The cup is telling us about how you see yourself.” She replied. “You would like to hold yourself in high regard, but when you really think about it, your lack of self confidence won’t allow it. The china cup shows that you see yourself as very delicate and easily broken. Finally, what about the wall?”

David described the wall, again how it had changed as he approached it, telling Jenny that there was an easy way across it, but that he chose not to take it.

“That wall is how you see your transition from the here and now to your future. At first the future seems a frightening prospect and you would rather not think about it. When you get closer to it though, you find that it’s not such a bad place after all, and in many respects it’s much better than where you are now.”

For a moment David reflected on what he had just been told. Never before had anyone given him such an accurate assessment of himself.

Uncle Soap

2009-05-05T14:00:00.000-07:00

The Brentford Trilogy is a series of eight books, by author Robert Rankin. Among the many colourful and sometimes exciting characters within these tomes is a man who answers to the name of Soap Distant. Soap lives underground and disappears in one book without mention, only to reappear in a future novel again without any reference.http://www.sproutlore.com/
What is the reason for imparting this nugget of knowledge? I hear you ask. Well my dear readers allow me to explain...

I have an uncle, you see, who has become known to those with whom I socialise as Uncle Soap. The tale that follows is how he came by this name.

Uncle Soap lives on a small housing development, which was built in the mid 1970's. The whole development sits in a very shallow hollow in the ground. This poses no problems other than that the waste water and other unmentionables must be pumped from the development, up to the main drains.Now, Uncle Soap is a canny man, who always has his eye open for opportunities to make a few quid. Thus he offered his services to the estate management company to maintain this pumping system. In essence a simple task of ensuring that one of the two pumps was constantly in working order. However as with all things, there are occasions when the unexpected conspires to make one's life a tad tricky.

So it was that one quiet Sunday evening the phone rang at my house. On the other end of the line was Uncle Soap in a state of agitation. Both the pumps had failed and the pit behind the pump room was half full and filling fast. Could he come and pick me up so that we could collect an auxiliary pump to empty the pit while we attempted to repair the main pumps?

Within an hour we were at the pump room, with the auxiliary pump chugging away. However because this back up pump was only meant to move water, every now and again it would stop pumping as solid waste passed through it. Eventually enough back pressure would build and like a cork from a champagne bottle the matter would rocket through the pipes.

While Uncle Soap stripped down the main pumps, my job was to keep an eye on the level of the pit and ensure that the pump was coping. Occasionally I was called to hoist a bucket of waste that up from the pump room and empty it into the drain outside. Why on Earth anyone would choose to do a job that entails such operations on a daily basis is simply beyond me. Having neglected to check the state of the pit for sometime, I was horrified when I did to see that it was almost full to the brim. Scrambling as fast as I could over the roof of the pump room, I shouted to Uncle Soap that if something didn't happen soon, we were quite literally in the brown stuff.
No sooner had I issued the warning than there was a noise, something akin to the sound of a tube train entering a station. The still open top of the pumps exploded in a mass of water, bits of metal and other items that a gentleman would rather not mention. Uncle Soap, displaying a surprising level of physical agility, fairly leapt for the ladder and climbed as fast as he could. Sadly for him, he was not quite quick enough to prevent his boiler suit and wellington boots filling with all sorts of unmentionables.

To this day, Uncle Soap maintains that that was the occasion that taught him that sometimes it is better to keep one's mouth shut!

He no longer offers his services to the estate management company. Now he works with a local funeral directors, often travelling great distances to collect the recently departed for all corners of this Sceptered Isle to bring them home to rest. Should you ever be travelling around Surrey and see a very large black car, with a small man peering over the steering wheel in oversized spectacles and a slightly too large black hat, the chances are you will have just seen Uncle Soap.

The Last Hero

2009-03-30T05:18:00.001-07:00

4th January 1967

Standing in the cockpit of the boat as she’s pushed back from the jetty, I can see them all looking at me. I catch the eye of Frank from the Daily Mail, he smiles guiltily at me. Christ that man’s been giving me hell this time.

“Only doing my job, Don old boy.” He pointed out to me last night as we played cards.
“You wrote that I’d lost my nerve.” I replied.
“Well, you must see how it looks, you’ve been here since November and still no record.”
“Thanks, Frank,” I replied, “It’s been bloody hard work so far. You know we had trouble with the engine…”
I went on explaining all of the problems to him again. I finished by telling him we’re ready now, more ready than ever before. He asked me what my target speed was. “Ah, Frank, now you know that’s just between me and the lake, don’t you.”
He knows, they all know that we’re aiming for 300mph, they just don’t know when.

I look down the lake, past Peel Island. The water is flat, flatter than ever it has seemed before. As if someone has laid an enormous sheet of glass over it. The dark grey clouds are reflected in it’s never ending black depths, never before has it looked so cold, so uninviting.

For nearly 20 years this place has been a second mistress to me, encouraging me when I have run out of confidence. Beckoning me to come to her and dance with her. Rewarding me with glory when I have pushed my limits. Mocking me when I have made mistakes. But always there has been a dark side to her, threatening me, telling me that she can take me as her own whenever she chooses.
My first mistress is the boat in which I stand. She, like all of her predecessors, is named “Bluebird”. She is 11 years and 11 months old, the most beautiful, sleek craft ever to take to the water. Over the years I have been taken to the heights of ecstasy by her and plunged into the depths of despair. I have willingly been taken to the very edge of bankruptcy by her fickle ways, but when she has delivered for me, she has delivered me more worldly goods than even the richest could dream. After this record she will be retired to be cosseted and marvelled at by her adoring fans.

The boat pushing me out pulls away, leaving me alone. I look down the lake, a perfect mirror image of the sky. In the distance I can see the orange flash of the first safety boat. I know that Leo and Robbie will be waiting there to control operations for me.
Leo, my most trusted friend, the man who I used to know as “Uncle” when he worked tirelessly for my father, and who gave himself without question to me at my bidding. Good old Unc.
Robbie, dear boy, would do anything for me. I love him as I would my own son, always waiting for me to return to Coniston to take him away from the hotel chores and embrace him into the Bluebird family.
I take my seat for the performance. The best seat in the house.

I buckle up my crash helmet and pull the oxygen mask across my mouth and nose. I flick the switch for the microphone.
“Skipper to base, Skipper to base, do you read me? Over.”
Leo’s voice comes back to me. “Base to Skipper, Base to Skipper, we read you, over.”
“Hello, Leo. I’m starting my first run, over.”
I press the compressed air charger button twice and then the starter button. The Orpheus engine behind me starts to whine. My hands tremble slightly as the adrenaline begins to pump through my veins.
Every time it gets me. Whether I am in a Land Speed Record car or a Water Speed Record boat, the excitement is the same. Every inch of my body comes alive. I tingle from head to toe. I am ready for anything. I am ready for my fate.
This is the day, this is the moment. Today I am going to rewrite history. I will silence my harshest critics. I will show the World that I am a force to be reckoned with. From this day on, people will speak of me with awe and reverence.

I push the throttle open, the whine from the engine becomes a roar, and gently Bluebird moves forwards, I steer slightly to starboard to line her up for the course. For a second time I hear Leo’s voice. “Base to all stations, Base to all stations. Bluebird is starting her first run. Complete radio silence, I repeat, complete radio silence.”

I open the throttle still further, water begins to spray over the cockpit glass. I speak into the open microphone. “Starting my run now, water’s good. Coming towards Leo now, full throttle.”
Gently Bluebird’s bows lift out of the water. The spray stops obscuring my view. I can see Leo’s boat off to my left. Ahead of me is the series of marker buoys for the measured mile. I continue to speak, a running commentary for everyone. Gently I make corrections to the steering and throttle. As I enter the measured mile I glance down at the speedometer. It shows me 290mph. Nearly 5 miles per minute. At this speed I shall cover the mile in slightly more than 12 seconds. The trees on the bank to my left and the hills to my right are no more than a blur in my peripheral vision.
Somewhere out there are the Swiss timekeepers, back again after their Christmas break. All of their equipment focussed on this tiny blue missile streaking across the vast expanse of grey-black water. A huge plume of water rises like a rooster’s tail behind it. Also there are newspaper reporters, notebooks open, pens poised to record my latest success or failure. There are movie cameras too, recording each split second of my journey. The captured images will be distributed to waiting news agencies across the World.

I pass the marker that signals the end of the measured mile and again glance down at the speedometer. 310mph, I have already been slowly lifting off of the throttle so that the bows don’t drop too suddenly and cause the boat to dive into the cold grey abyss.
The radio crackles into life again, “Standby for refuelling.” Leo warns the team at the Southern end of the lake.
“Hello Leo,” I call, “I’m not going to refuel, the gauges show everything is good in here. Same routine as in Australia, over.”
I get no reply. “Skipper to Base, Skipper to Base, do you read me? Over.”
Again no reply. Damn this radio, it’s been nothing but trouble since we put it in the boat. I make a mental note to get Leo to change it this afternoon.

Bluebird has nestled back down into the water by the time I give up trying to call Leo. I let the boat run wide around the back of the refuelling boat and signal to them that I’m not stopping. I can see the confused look on their faces, two of the boys still holding the pump nozzle. I give them a mock salute and straighten up the wheel. They wave back nervously.

“Timekeepers to Base, plus 47.” The radio squawks. Plus 47, that’s an average of 297mph for that run. 29mph faster than my own record set in Australia two years ago. A 300mph record looks like it’s definitely on. I press the throttle down, I know I’ve got to get through this one quickly. The wash that I created on my first run will hit the shores of the lake and start to come back towards me. I need to be a long way down the course before I run into it as I will have to slow down.

I line the little snub nose of my baby up towards the marker buoys and start to wind on the power.
“Base to all stations, he’s starting his return run, standby.”
“Hello Leo, this is it, I’m going for it now.”
“Roger, Skipper.”
Damn he can hear me now. I keep on pushing the throttle further and further open. The Orpheus is screaming at me from behind. Bluebird is up on the plane. We’re really going this time. I look as far down the course as I possibly can. Looking for debris, anything that may ruin this run.

Without thinking, I am talking into my microphone. I know that Leo and the boys are all listening. This is it, this is the result of all of their hard work, the months away from their loved ones. This is for my daughter at school in Switzerland, my wife in London, my mother waiting back at her house. Most of all this is for me, for the pain and the heartache, for the tears, the sweat, the toil, the money.

I’m really moving now, the speedometer shows that I am doing about 320mph. Come on old girl, let’s see what you’re made of!

As I reach the last third of the course, I start to meet my wash, just as I thought I would. The boat starts to tramp from one side to the other. I keep my foot down, I keep on talking to Leo.
“Pitching a bit down here . . . Probably from my own wash . . . Straightening up now on track . . . Rather close to Peel Island . . . Tramping like mad . . . Full power . . . Tramping like hell here . . . I can’t see much . . . and the water’s very bad indeed . . . I can’t get over the top . . . I’m getting a lot of bloody row in here . . . I can’t see anything . . . I’ve got the bows up . . . I’m going . . . “
In the second before Bluebird becomes airborne I lift my foot from the throttle and apply the water brake. I shut the engine down.

In an instant all I can see is grey clouds, then I’m upside down, then all I see is the hard, cold, steely water.

As Bluebird breaks up, the cold, cold water rushes to embrace me and hold be tightly in her arms. She holds me so tight that I can’t breathe. She drags me down into her depths, to hold me and never let go.

**********************************************************************************

34 years after the accident, Donald Campbell’s boat, Bluebird was recovered from the lake on March 8th 2001 by diver Bill Smith and is being restored to running condition with the blessing of Donald’s family. Donald’s body was finally retrieved from Lake Coniston on May 28th, and laid to rest in Coniston village on September 12th 2001.
Between Donald and his father, Sir Malcolm Campbell 11 World records were held on the water 10 on the land. Donald remains the only person in history to break both the land and the water speed records in the same year.

Flowers, Mangoes and a Car for The Queen

2009-03-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

So it was that I found myself tootling through the country lanes on a very sunny Sunday morning to pick up "my" bride from Great Fosters Hotel. Whistling away to myself, occasionally bursting into my own tuneless redition of "Come Fly with Me" as Emily roared her way between the hedgerows. Roared is the only way that I can possibly describe the sound of the three and a half litre, straight six cylinder engine as it powered two tons of unweildy metal and wood along the road at speeds of nearly fifty miles per hour!

Emily is one of a group of four vintage Rolls Royces and two Daimler Limousines that create the fleet of Clovercare Wedding Cars. She was built in 1935 before being despatched to the Hoopers Coachbuilders to have her body work fitted. Painted in a black over deep blue colour scheme with Royal Blue leather upholstery and a sumptuous deep blue carpet. She is one of the first of the models to carry the RR badge painted in black on her radiator. Done, not as popular belief has it, as a mark of respect to the then late Henry Royce, but simply because the original colour of red sometimes clashed with the finished car's colour scheme. Incidently at the Rolls Royce works, even today, these cars are never referred to as Rollers, Rolls' or even Rolls Royces, but as Royces.

Great Fosters was once a magnificent stately home a short distance from the A30 London Road in Egham. Now sadly it has the M25 at the bottom of the garden, but this takes nothing away from the splendour of the setting.
From here I was to collect my bride, Nicola, her bridesmaid and father and whisk them a few miles along the road to the Guildhall in Windsor. There I would wait until she was duly wed in the same room that the current Prince of Wales married Camilla Parker-Bowles, before transporting her and her new husband back to Great Fosters for the ensuing celebrations. This, I had decided, was going to be a walk in the park!

I arrived, as I always aim to, about ten minutes ahead of my detailed time, to allow myself time to give the car a quick once over with a polishing cloth and check that I am happy with everything. Now Emily is a little bit like one’s senile granny. On the outside she looks as she has done for years, but you never really know what you’re going to get from her from one day to the next. One of her more predictable traits, again like your old granny is that just as you turn your back, she backfires.
This time, she did so with considerable aplomb, accompanying it with a neat little puff of black smoke. The photographer who at the time had been crouched down alongside her taking “moody” pictures found himself on his backside in the flower bed.
I turned away to spare his blushes, but more importantly to hide the smile that had involuntarily appeared on my face.

At reception, I asked that a call be placed to the Bride’s room, just to let her know I had arrived. After what seemed a longer than necessary conversation, the receptionist explained to me that all was far from well as the Bridal party’s flowers had not yet arrived. They were coming from somewhere in North London and although the florist said they had been dispatched some forty five minutes previously, nobody could get hold of the van driver to find out where he was. I decided that as there was nothing that I could do at this juncture, I would go outside and wait with the car. Time was marching on, a civil ceremony will wait for no man. We would have to leave, flowers or not, in twenty minutes at the latest.

With five minutes to spare, a battered old white van popped and banged its way along the drive. Followed by a disturbingly large plume of blue smoke. The driver virtually fell out of the door, followed by an equally large plume of cigarette smoke. Swearing and cursing, he pulled open the side door and was promptly engulfed by several large table centrepieces. Not to mention at least two gallons of water.
I enquired of him the whereabouts of the Bridal bouquets, only to be told that they were right by the back doors of the van, but he couldn’t get them out because the rear doors were broken and couldn’t be opened from the outside. It can only be said that he was encouraged to extract said bouquets with considerable haste.

The town of Royal Windsor is a magnificent place, the centrepiece being the castle, which is by all accounts the oldest inhabited castle in the world. The Guildhall was designed by Sir Christopher Wren, he of St Paul’s Cathedral fame. The main rooms of the building sit above a colonnaded walkway. When design of the building was shown to the bigwigs of the town, they were most perturbed that there were not sufficient columns to support the weight. So confident was Wren that his design did not require these columns he had them made a couple of inches too short. Therefore, not reaching fully to the building above they offered no support at all. If one were to look at the tops of the columns today, you would indeed see that they still don’t reach to the underside of the floor above because the building remains exactly as origianlly built. Smart chap that Wren!

As we arrived at the Guildhall, I checked my watch and noted that we were a few minutes early. Moreover, several of Nicola’s guests were milling about on the pavement in the sunshine. I asked Nicola if she would like to stop or go past and come back in a minute or two, when hopefully all of her guests had gone inside the Guildhall. She requested that we go past. Unfortunately neither of us had foreseen the traffic jam just around the corner.

With time ticking away, we became stuck in an unmoving mass of metal in a one-way street. I had no choice but to turn the car around and drive against the correct flow of traffic in order that we get back to the Guildhall in time.

Our arrival was greeted by possibly the oldest man in the world leaning against a pick-up truck absolutely stuffed full of mangoes. His vehicle was completely blocking my intended route and I wasn’t sure that it looked sturdy enough to remain upright, much less move. I stopped my car in the middle of the road so that my three guests could get out and go to their wedding.

The old man shuffled up to me, offering me a mango. As politely as I could I declined his very kind offer and asked him if he could possibly move his truck so that I may move my car away from its somewhat less than ideal position in the middle of the High Street.
Accompanied by members of the public very kindly putting errant mangoes back into his truck, shouts of encouragement and one or two of horror as he reversed his truck perilously close to people enjoying a coffee in a neighbouring pavement café, the old man moved his truck to allow me to park alongside the door of the guildhall.

As soon as I had parked up and got out of the car, I was descended upon by what seemed like thousands of tourists all asking to take their photograph by this quintessentially English car in the perfect English setting. Many animated conversations were had in stilted French or German as I tried to answer many questions about the car.
Possibly the greatest question though had to be the one that came from a somewhat rotund, slightly over made-up American lady, who sidled up to me.
“I say, sir, would you mind telling me… Does this car belong to Her Majesty The Queen?”

I nearly bit clean through my tongue to stop myself telling her that it was, indeed The Queen’s car and she was just inside Starbucks!

Dancing Barefoot on Hot Coals

2009-03-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

The big 4.7 litre V8 Ford engine rumbled impatiently as Steve held the accelerator at it’s midway point. He turned the steering wheel to the left to exit the roundabout and as he did he pushed the pedal hard down to the floor. The fat rear tyres began to squeal as they struggled to find grip on the tarmac. Steve felt the back of the car begin to slide to the right, he allowed it to go a little and then turned the steering wheel very slightly to the right to counter the slide. The car began to straighten up and the rear end squatted down like a lion preparing to chase it’s prey.

The rear wheels found grip and the rumble of the engine increased in pitch to a bark and then a howl. The needle on the small rev counter in sprang round to the red section at the top. Steve pushed the gear leaver up and through the gate into third, the car continuing to leap forwards. Staying in the right hand lane, he passed a small family saloon as if it was at a standstill. The saplings that had been planted along the central reservation last year were just a blur in his peripheral vision through the side window.

In seconds the needle was back at the top of the rev counter, begging for an upshift, Steve complied and the acceleration continued unabated.

Even wearing ear plugs, the combined noise of roaring engine and wind as it shook the side windows was deafening. Steve could feel the air buffeting his head and he tried to sink down into his small leather upholstered bucket seat as it poured over the top of the windscreen and tried to fill the void of the cockpit.

Looking ahead and beyond the beautifully curved dark blue bonnet with its twin silver stripes Steve could see that the road ahead was clear to the apex of the bridge that spanned the motorway below.

The sky above was a cloudless bright blue, the air was crisp, and Steve could feel the warmth from the sun on the back of his neck and head, it was a beautiful day, the kind that made him feel glad to be alive.

An aeroplane lumbered into the sky from the nearby airport, a faint trail of dirty fumes spewing from it’s engines to leave a dark smudge on the otherwise perfect canvass behind it.

A gust of wind rolling over the expanse of the gravel pits to Steve’s right was just enough to push the 1965 Shelby Cobra slightly off line. Steve let the car run over the cats eyes in between the white lines with a rapid “dunk dunk dunk” sound. Keeping his right foot planted to the floor he aligned the car to the inside of the very gentle left hand curve ahead, knowing that as he exited the corner he would allow the car to run wide, into the right hand lane again so that he could apply the brakes in a straight line before the roundabout. He knew this road intimately, where all of the bumps were, where he would need to brake and when he could accelerate. He had been along this road countless times with Alex, either on a motorbike or in a car, it never failed to make him smile.

He glanced involuntarily at the empty passenger seat. He couldn’t wait to see her sitting in it again. Three weeks apart was almost more than he could bear.

She loved that car. It’s sound, it’s smell, it’s performance. It’s sleek lines and graceful curves. Steve used to tease her about her passion for driving fast, he would affectionately call her “Petrol Head” or offer to book her in to a clinic for adrenaline junkies. He remembered the first time she had driven the Cobra.

He pulled the car to a halt alongside the newly rebuilt pit garage, the white paint of the buildings glaring in the July sunshine. The retro style advertising banners adding a splash of colour to the white backdrop. The Union Jack bunting swaying lazily in the gentle breeze. Overhead a biplane circled the West Sussex countryside, waiting for permission to land on the airfield that the circuit was built around.

Alex was sitting on the counter with a laptop computer resting on her crossed legs. Her head was turned towards him, but he didn’t know if she was looking at him or not because of the blackness of her sunglasses.

Steve switched the engine off and unbuckled his four point safety harness. He jumped out of the car without opening the tiny door and walked the few paces to where she sat. He undid his crash helmet and put it on the counter top next to her.

“Minus zero point one zero five.” She said.

He had taken just over one tenth of a second off of his best lap time.

“Enough for today,” He said, “fancy a go?”

Alex didn’t need to be asked for a second time. She slapped the lid down on the laptop and grabbed her crash helmet. Steve climbed into the passenger seat and started to adjust the safety harness to fit him. Alex had adjusted it to suit her for the drive down earlier that morning, Steve knew that there was no way he would ever get the buckles to meet in the middle after she had used them. He watched as she pulled the seat forwards and settled herself in. She had a huge smile on her face. He leaned towards her and shouted, “Watch the clutch, it’s a bit fierce. First gear is long. Gently out of the chicane, or you’ll light the rears up. Apart from that it’s a pussy cat!”

Alex knew about the exit of the chicane, she had seen him get the car into a huge slide earlier in the day.

“Got it!” she shouted back as she switched the key to ‘ON’ and hit the starter button.

Steve rested his right hand on Alex’s left leg and squeezed slightly. An Austin Healey 3500 rumbled down the pitlane past them and pulled in at it’s garage a few places further on. Steve let go of her leg and gestured that it was all clear to go.

After 8 laps Steve tapped the fuel gauge and very reluctantly Alex slowed the car and drove it into the pitlane. She slipped the gearbox into neutral and killed the engine and let the car coast down to their pitstand. The silence was instant and deafening. As soon as the car had come to a halt, Alex unbuckled her harness and jumped out of the car. As Steve walked around her side she threw herself at him wrapping her legs around his waist, her eyes were wide and her face was alight with life. She kissed him again and again.

She leaned back so that she could look Steve in the eyes. “Awesome.” She said, breathlessly. “Just bloody awesome.”

Steve watched as Alex walked towards him, she was wearing a business suit, the knee length pencil skirt accentuating the shape of her long legs. Her tailored jacket was buttoned showing off her slender waist to full effect. Thoughts and images of her raced through his mind in those few split seconds.

He saw her standing at the top of the church aisle on their wedding day, the whole church silent, the birds singing in the trees outside.

He pictured her on the beach in Bali stretched out on the hot sand soaking up the sun’s rays, her tanned body a contrast to the pure white sand.

The way she looked lying naked and asleep on the white bed linen after their first time together.

Steve loved her so much that sometimes he felt physical pain at his pathetic attempts to find the right words to tell her.

Then she was right there with him. He held her tightly to him, feeling her against him, drinking in the subtle smell of her perfume.

“How’s Breedlove?” were her first words to him. Steve was sure that she thought more of that bloody dog than she did of him.

“He’s missed you, asked me every day when you are coming home.” He replied.

“Mmm, missed you.” She said kissing him.

“Shall we go, my lady?” Steve did a mock bow.

“Indeed, kind sir, but only on one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“Give me the car key.”

Steve threw the ignition key up in the air and Alex caught it with her beautifully manicured hand. She turned the key fob over and read the inscription engraved on it…

'Always dancing barefoot on hot coals’

“Always with you.” She smiled