Lie Father Lie Son

October 1938

A Piece of Paper

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

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

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

“What will happen now, Peter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter framed the letter and displayed on the wall of his office. His only worry was the lions might not be respecters of leg length. He read every book and article on the subject of air warfare he could lay his hands on. He made a nuisance of himself to politicians, journalists and military men alike, bombarding with them with demands that they support rearmament on a significant scale. The newspapers of the day were singing a different tune with the honourable exception of William Connor,

‘Cassandra,’

of the

Daily Mirror

. He visited Germany regularly and wrote in April of 1938:

“Before this visit to Germany I always had a sneaking feeling that there was a strong undercurrent of opposition to Hitler. I am now certain that I was wrong. I now know that this man has the absolute unswerving confidence of the people. They will do anything for him. They worship him. They regard him as a god. Do not let us deceive ourselves in this country that Hitler may be dislodged by enemies within his own frontiers.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What about these new types?”

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

“Good God, Pinky, you make it sound as if we haven’t a clue what we are about.”

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

“Ex-brat? What’s that?”

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

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

January 1939

Reasons to sleep soundly

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were right, it is pretty beastly.”

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

“It’s quite all right you know. You don’t have to try to impress me.”

David shot her a pained smile.

“I’m sorry. I never know what to say when I talk to girls.”

“What would you talk about to a boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know, anything. Whatever was happening at the time.”

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

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

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

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

David looked miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you would be in it, if it happens, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I’m to go to Cranwell this summer. Flying training takes a while, you know.”

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

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