by Steve Holmes
John did what he’d always done. He blocked out the turbulent forces that controlled his life, things he could do nothing about, and knuckled down. One thing he could control was his own destiny in the RAF…perhaps. He would give it his best shot. If it wasn’t to be, if he wasn’t cut out for RAF life, then he could live with that as long as he’d given it his all.
The first two weeks were a breeze, and John loved every minute. In the army it would be called square bashing but the RAF boys didn’t bash around squares. No. Up and down Blackpool promenade they marched mile after mile, their clothes pristine, ties ironed to perfection, buttons polished until they were almost smooth and black boots bulled up so that you could see your face in them. John was in his element, beaming with pride, even though he wasn’t yet kitted out in the uniform of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. The civilians on the promenade always had a kind word or two as if they knew how much it meant to the young men marching past. John suppressed an almost permanent smile. A smile of pride. It wouldn’t do to be seen smiling; the drill sergeant would think you were some sort of village idiot. He wouldn’t have understood. It was okay for him, he had his uniform on his back, the uniform John craved so badly.
The third and fourth weeks were a lot tougher. John struggled in the classroom and struggled to complete the tasks set for the candidates each evening. On the third day of the third week, two of his mates failed one of the examinations and were sent home. He breathed a sigh of relief; at least he wasn’t one of them. There were eight left in the section. It was back to school, homework to be handed in the very next morning, so that when his fellow candidates nipped out for a few pints at the end of the working day John confined himself to barracks in a vain attempt to perfect the job in hand. Perhaps Norman had been right. He hadn’t the education some of his colleagues had and yes there were one or two toffs in his section, more than a few who spoke with marbles in their mouths, calling him ‘old bean’ instead of ‘mate’ or ‘pal’. Old bean, he thought to himself, why call someone an old bean?
It was decision day and John wondered if he could have pushed it just a little harder. It was too late, no use thinking about what might have been. Squadron Leader Phelps stood in front of the assembled men. He said that they’d all worked very hard and that they were a credit to the towns and cities from which they had come. And then his voice dropped a little. It became a little softer and John Holmes detected a note of sympathy.
‘Unfortunately there are winners and losers in all walks of life.’
He read out six names.
‘Gilbert, Jackson, Valentine, Graham, Wilson-Morgan, Devonshire.’
He asked them to walk out to the front of the class. The nervous young men did as they were told and stood at ease while the Squadron Leader examined his clipboard.
‘Gentlemen…’ he paused for dramatic effect and then he grinned.
‘Well done, you’ve made it.’
There was a collective cheer as they slapped each other on the back, and one or two caps flew into the air. John hung his head; this wasn’t happening, he’d worked so hard. He looked at Curly Mason, a MP’s son from the Wirral. Curly shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘so what, we gave it our best’. The Squadron Leader dismissed the assembled happy, smiling men. Something told John the beer would flow in gallons that evening. They’d made it, he hadn’t. End of story.
John rose from his seat as the last body exited the room. He directed his plea to the Squadron Leader.
‘Sir, if I could just have a few more days I promise I’ll make the grade, I’ll work harder and smarter. I’ll –’
The Squadron Leader raised his hand.
‘Holmes, please stop.’
‘But, Sir! I –’
‘Stop talking and listen, that’s an order.’
‘I’ll do better!’
‘Shut up, I’m ordering you Flight Engineer, shut up.’
It took a moment to register…was that a smile on the Squadron Leader’s face? He called me Flight Engineer, thought John. What was he talking about?
‘Flight Engineer Holmes. You’ll report for duty at 0700 hours at Redcar in seven days’ time.’
He turned to Curly Mason.
‘You, Gunner Mason, are heading to a pretty little spot on the south coast.’
John Holmes could only point at the door.
‘But Sir, the others…you said they’d made it. I don’t understand.’
Now the Squadron Leader was smiling, there was no mistake.
‘Ground crew, gentlemen. They are the lucky ones. Your colleagues are staying on the ground. You poor bastards are going up into the sky to give Jerry a taste of his own medicine.’
Thank God Dorothy had made it home on leave two days before John was ready to head off to Redcar. It had been almost like torture being without her, worse, knowing that she was in Coventry. Although the bombing in the West Midlands city had never been as bad as that terrible night in 1940, the bombs still rained down on a regular basis. John spent the weekday evenings with Norman in the Greaves Hotel counting down the days until the weekend and those two precious days with Dorothy before he commenced his official training in Redcar.
He met Dorothy at the bus station in Lancaster; she’d taken the early morning bus from Coventry which arrived a little before ten. Dorothy was a little tearful when she got off the bus. It wasn’t the sort of reaction John expected, okay it was only two days but nevertheless his heart was full of the joys off spring, beaming like a Cheshire cat as he spotted her coming down the steps. He was also looking forward to starting his training in Redcar. It was all he’d ever wanted to do for as long as he could remember. Two action packed days with the woman he loved and then the start of his own personal dream. It couldn’t get much better.
They embraced and kissed as Dorothy threw herself into his arms, the tears falling ever harder as she sobbed on his shoulder. He held her there for a few moments before he took her hand and led her away in the direction of home.
‘What is it Dorothy, what’s wrong?’
She looked at him incredulously.
‘You don’t know, John?’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Let me begin,’ she said as if about to deliver a lecture.
‘Firstly there’s a war on, my brother’s God knows where getting shot at and bombed by the Germans, I’m stuck in a city that Hitler sees fit to bomb every other night, I hate my job and the tip of a place where I lay my head every night and you’re not there with me. I’m home for two days, two whole days,’ she announced with a hint of sarcasm, ‘and first thing on Monday morning you’re off to a place I’ve never heard of and I’ve no idea when I’ll see you again. Once you’ve completed your training I’m assuming they’ll send you over to Germany in an aeroplane and the Nazis will take pot shots at you just for the hell of it. And you have the nerve to ask me what’s wrong.’
Dorothy had finished her tirade and her head was back on John’s shoulder. He held her tight while she cried herself out until eventually the tremors subsided. She took a handkerchief and cleaned herself up, took John’s hand and they began to walk again.
‘I’m sorry, John, it’s just beginning to get to me a little.’
John remained silent and more than a little puzzled. Dorothy had never been like this on the previous occasions she came home and she knew how much he wanted to join the RAF. Something had happened in Coventry, he was sure. Was the bombing beginning to get to her? Other thoughts filled his head, thoughts that he couldn’t shake off, his worst nightmares imaginable. Dorothy’s tears had filled him with despair; something was wrong, terribly wrong and it was as if the feelings Dorothy harboured deep inside had somehow manifested themselves in John. He had been looking forward to this weekend so much and suddenly it had lost its appeal. The rest of the weekend was much the same. They went to the pictures and to visit both families but every time they found themselves alone the floodgates opened. Dorothy found the courage to tell him what was wrong as she went to w
ave him off on the bus to Redcar on a wet and windy Monday morning at six thirty.
‘I’m pregnant, John.’
The news hit him like a thunderbolt and suddenly nothing else mattered. He wanted to turn back, wanted to stay with Dorothy and work things out but she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Get on that bus John Holmes, it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do since I’ve known you.’
‘But Dorothy, I need to –’
‘Get on that bus,’ she said, physically forcing him onto the steps. The bus driver shouted to him to move along. Still he protested.
Dorothy had a determination in her eyes and a strength that John knew he couldn’t overcome.
‘Get on the bus…we’ll talk when you come back.’
He found himself agreeing with her.
‘Talk…yes…when I get back.’
The bus driver pressed a button and the doors creaked loudly as they started to close. For a few seconds they stood and stared in silence before the driver put the vehicle into gear and pulled away.
He watched as the image of Dorothy faded into the distance. He’d never felt so hopeless, so alone. What was going through the poor girl’s head? Worse, what would their respective families say? The bus took six hours to Redcar. It was the longest six hours of John’s life.
Redcar was by the sea. John hadn’t been aware; no one had told him. He found out later the same afternoon when an over-aggressive PT instructor took them for a five-mile run along the beach. It would be the first of many but John didn’t mind; he daydreamed during those long runs trying to work things out. His head was filled with beautiful thoughts; a wedding day, a family gathering and the image of a beautiful bride. John convinced himself that everything would be fine, he loved her and she loved him and they both knew that they would marry each other and have children. They would marry; he’d do the right thing and ask her when they next met up. Okay it had come a little bit earlier than expected but so what. There was a war on, sons and daughters were being slaughtered right across Europe, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to have happened.
It took him three days to get everything clear in his head. Their love had produced an end product, a beautiful son or daughter awaited them and he’d convince Dorothy that he’d make her the happiest woman in the world. He was smiling now as his feet pounded along the beach, the heaviness in his legs had gone and he started passing his squad members as they ran the last half-mile of the BFT, the Battle Fitness Test.
It was the first of many tests and examinations John would undergo in his two months at Redcar. He won the Recruit Cadre BFT in a time just a few seconds short of that year’s record. He hadn’t realised he was so fit but put it down to his powerful legs and shoulders, muscle development and stamina courtesy of the cool waters of the Crook O’ Lune. That and a certain girl and a forthcoming wedding that would make him the happiest man in the world. An added bonus would be that he would be able to wear his recently acquired RAF uniform. Who knows, he might even apply a little Brylcreem to give his hair a bit of shine. He’d sworn to Norman he wouldn’t be seen dead with his hair ‘Brylcreemed up’ but after a couple of weeks at Redcar the slicked-back look was beginning to grow on him.
He knuckled down with a new vigour. Now more than ever he needed to make sure he kept his nose clean and dealt with everything the RAF could throw at him. Once he passed out he would be on the daily pay rate of a sergeant. He would have a wife and a young baby to support soon and there was no way he was going to fail. Within a couple of weeks he had commenced his flight mechanics training.
After a particularly long lecture that lasted late into Friday evening he walked the half-mile back to his lodgings in Marske Road, weary, but at the same time enjoying the pressure and the satisfaction of knowing that he’d coped well. No resits. Everyone had at least one resit he was told but not him, not yet anyway. He packed his overnight bag and prepared for his first official leave. The bus left at 7.30 sharp the following morning.
‘John, what the hell have you done with your hair?’
It wasn’t exactly the romantic greeting he’d hoped for. Then Dorothy smiled.
‘You look a little older, Flight Engineer Holmes. RAF life is treating you well.’
He moved forward and took her in his arms. He wanted to hold on forever, he’d missed her so much. They parted and kissed passionately, oblivious to the world around them. They didn’t care. It was Dorothy who broke the kiss, John would have been quite happy to linger there forever. Dorothy caught her breath and smoothed down her jacket with both hands.
‘Take it easy Flight Engineer, you’ve already got me into enough trouble with moves like that.’
John smiled. ‘I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.’
‘Perhaps, John, but nevertheless…’
John put a finger to her lips, stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘Shh, Dorothy. Be quiet for a second. I need to tell you something.’
Dorothy remained silent but her look told John to carry on.
‘We need to go and see your father.’ He stuttered a little. ‘I need to go and see your father, this weekend… today if possible. I, I, I… need to…’ Jesus Christ, he thought to himself, why won’t the words come out?
‘I need to ask…’
Dorothy reached for his hands. ‘What John, what is it?’
As always her hands felt so good in his. It was as if her soft touch eased the words from his mouth.
‘I want to ask him…’
‘Yes?’
‘If I can marry you.’
All John could hear was the deafening silence that engulfed him. The moment seemed to be frozen in time as Dorothy’s hands slipped from his and her mouth fell open. For a second or two he thought she might even faint.
‘John, you don’t have to, I –’
‘I want to Dorothy, I want to marry you more than anything in the world. I need to see your father.’
‘Hadn’t you better ask me first? What if I refuse?’
‘I know you won’t Dorothy Shaw, I’ve known from the day I first danced with you that you’d be my wife someday.’
‘Cocky little sod aren’t you?’
John picked up his bag and reached out his hand.
‘Well… will you marry me or not?’
Dorothy Shaw slipped her hand into his and they started walking. ‘C’mon, let’s go and see what Father has to say.’
‘Is that a yes then?’
She kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘It’s as good as you’re going to get. Now come on before I change my mind.’
The elation of the moment quickly disappeared as they came to the exit of Greaves Park. The colour had drained from John’s cheeks.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘I’ve felt better.’ John walked through the door of Belle Vue Terrace cursing his knees as they knocked together, his legs heavier than the worst ever day running on Redcar beach. As they walked into the lounge John Shaw stood in his familiar position that John Holmes knew so well. Immaculately dressed as always, he was knocking his pipe out into an ashtray on the fireplace.
‘Ah…young John,’ he announced with a smile. ‘How’s it going at Redcar? Tough work I hear. Real tough going for Flight Engineers I’m told.’
‘Yes Mr Shaw but I’ll get through it, I’m really enjoying it and…’
John Holmes tailed off. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be. He was rapidly losing the will to live, his courage deserting him at a rapid rate of knots. It was now or never. Ask him. Ask him, he told himself.
‘Yes, John?’
Ask him. Ask him.
‘C’mon boy spit it out.’
He reached for Dorothy’s hand and she sidled up close. He reached deep inside his soul, pulled out everything he had and squeezed her hand tightly.
She smiled, John smiled. They looked at each other and then both of them gazed over to John Shaw as his pipe fell noisily into the fireplace.
‘I would like to marry your
daughter, Mr Shaw. I would like your permission please.’
John Shaw had asked Dorothy to leave the room. He’d instructed a nervous 19-year-old to take a seat and he’d joined him at the table. He wanted to talk to him man to man. He wanted to know how soon they wanted to get married.
‘Next month.’
John Shaw raised his eyebrows. ‘That quick?’
If John Shaw suspected his daughter was pregnant he controlled his emotion very well. He never asked and John felt it unnecessary to tell him; he would find out sooner or later. He professed his undying love for Dorothy and swore he would never leave her, and that he would protect her until the day he died. He meant every word. John Shaw saw the sincerity in every movement of John’s lips. He gave his permission and called his daughter in to tell her. He pointed to the kitchen door.
‘You’d better get your mother in here our lass. She’s a wedding to arrange.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden spoke to a hushed House of Commons. It was December 1942. The MPs who had gathered in the house could not take in what he was saying. It had taken World War Two to a new level. It appeared Hitler wanted to wipe whole nations, cultures and races from the face of the earth. It was intimated he had started gassing Jews at huge concentration camps in Germany and Poland.
Anthony Eden read out a United Nations declaration condemning ‘this bestial policy’. He said news of German atrocities had been sent in by the Polish Government and the information had been confirmed as credible but it would only serve to strengthen Allied determination to fight Nazism and punish all those responsible. After his announcement the House rose and held a one-minute silence in sympathy for the victims.
Looking at John Holmes getting ready for his wedding in his small back bedroom in Ashton Drive you could have quite easily forgotten there was a war on. John positively beamed back at his reflection in the mirror that hung just to the left of his single bed as he straightened his tie. For John, life couldn’t get any better. He was marrying the girl he loved, about to embark on the second part of his training with the Royal Air Force and within a few short months he would become a father. He was proud. So, so proud.
