Introduction
The story is fiction and is intended for the reader's enjoyment. It is an attempt by the author to write a story which melds history and erotica. As far as possible, the contents are historically accurate with the exception of RAF Langton, RAF Fulnetby and 362 Squadron; none of which existed, although Langton and Fulnetby are real places. As it is an attempt to be historically accurate there are words with which many English speaking people, including some younger Britons, may not be familiar and a few references which may offend the politically correct. An examination of the context should provide answers to the former and, as for the latter, if you are easily offended then don't bother to read it.
Chapter 1
"No flying tonight boys, the Met. Office says it's one hundred per cent cloud cover from here to Vladivostok. It looks like Happy Valley and the Big City are definitely off the menu."
Flight Lieutenant John Robert Lindsey opened an eye and peered; firstly at the bearer of the message and, secondly, at the window of his quarters. It looked, as usual, that Flying Officer William Patterson, the bearer of the good news, was right; outside the sky was almost black and the window pane streaked with rain; inside it was cold and damp; nowhere near the standards he had enjoyed in Canada. He looked at Patterson and asked,
"What about tomorrow, Billy?"
"Ah, sorry about that Jack, it looks like it's going to be fine."
As Patterson left, Jack reached over and picked up a letter from his bedside dresser. He had received it the prior week and had been surprised to find it was from a Pilot Officer Andrew McLeod asking if they could meet. He had recognised the name; it was Sophie McLeod's son who, from the address in the letter, was with 419 Squadron, RCAF at Middleton St. George. The letter didn't mention why he wanted to see him; just that he had leave due and could be in Langton on Thursday or Friday. He had replied he would be pleased to see him; but had reminded him he was on active service and there was no guarantee he would be available. Two days later he had received a telegram from McLeod saying he had managed to beg a ride on a plane which was flying into RAF Coningsby and would be in Langton sometime on Thursday afternoon. Today was Thursday and, as he re-read the letter, he wondered why Sophie's son would want to talk to him so urgently; particularly as they'd never met.
Jack Lindsey -- only his mother called him John - was a twenty-one year old pilot with 362 Squadron, Bomber Command, stationed at RAF Langton in Lincolnshire. He had been seventeen and at school when the war started but, even then, had a singular ambition; to follow his father and become a pilot in the RAF. In spite of the odds -- only one in seven of Bomber Command air-crew were pilots -- he was now the pilot of a Mark lll Lancaster; responsible for both it and the lives of six other young men, whose immediate goal in life was to drop four tons of high explosive onto Germany and return -- thirty times. They had visited the Third Reich twenty-nine times and each time returned successfully; their next sortie would be their last. He was looking forward to it; he found it hard to believe he had survived so long when so many of his friends had perished in the night skies over Europe. His last two years had been years of firsts; his first time away from home; his first time abroad; his first experiences of sex and his first experience of real danger and, while he had enjoyed the first three, he'd had enough of the last one. He was tired and had no reserves left.
His story was typical of a Bomber Command pilot. He had inherited his desire to fly from his father who'd fought in the Great War, firstly in the army, then the Royal Flying Corps and finally, from April 1918, as a member of the fledgling RAF. His father was a natural pilot who loved flying and, when the war ended, had left the RAF reluctantly; returning to Lancashire and the family engineering firm. Throughout the post-war years he had maintained his love of flying and in 1937, at the first signs of the coming war, convinced he would be needed when the war started, he had bought a second-hand de Havilland Gypsy Moth and had started flying again. He was pleased when his son asked to fly with him and, when pressed by Jack to teach him to fly, had gladly given him flying lessons. Three days after his sixteenth birthday Jack had qualified as a glider pilot and by the late summer of 1939 was looking forward to gaining his pilot's licence. Then the war came and changed everything.
On September 3rd, 1939 Jack and his family had listened to the wireless as Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, told the British people a state of war existed between Great Britain and Nazi Germany. His mother and father had exchanged knowing looks and then his mother had started to cry. To Jack war offered adventure; to his parents, who were old enough to remember the Great War in which his father had fought and his mother's oldest brother had been killed, it offered only heartache.
As the war progressed he gradually came to appreciate war wasn't just an adventure. The wartime restrictions such as the blackout, rationing and petty irritants, such as always having to carry your gas mask, were onerous. In spite of the restrictions, the phoney war of late 1939 and early 1940 provided little insight to those who hadn't fought in the Great War into the horrors of war and the hardships which were to follow. In May 1940 the situation changed dramatically. The Germans attacked and occupied the Low Countries and France, driving the British army out of France and back to Britain and, simultaneously, the Luftwaffe started nightly air raids on the principle cities of Britain. Manchester and Liverpool were extensively bombed and, although little damage was inflicted on his home town, each time Jack visited Manchester it was obvious the bomb damage was getting worse.
Jack knew he would have to join the forces and, if he waited to be conscripted, he wouldn't be able to choose in which of the forces he served. He wanted to be a pilot and the only way to ensure he had a chance was to volunteer. At eight a.m. on the third of June, 1940, his eighteenth birthday, he appeared at the local RAF recruiting office where he was accepted and sent home to await his call-up papers.
Over the next seven months he completed his final year at school, played cricket and football, had his first two love affairs and waited for the postman.
