My Mother the Spy. Part 2 (James's story)
WW2 drama.
I cannot emphasize this enough, you need to read part one or you will have no idea what this is about. it is not a stand alone story. It cross references parts of part one quite a lot.
It is more of a love story but has cuckold references in it, very little sex though.
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"C'mon you orrible bunch of worthless smelly shitbags, get over that wall!"
"Sarge I can't, I am trying." Fat Samuels was almost crying.
"That is Flight Sargent you orrible little scrote!"
Samuels was trying his hardest to keep up to the rest of us but he was just too overweight. Myself and Collins were perched on the top reaching down to get him offering our outstretched hands.
"Get the fuck up that wall Samuels, NOW or you will feel my toecap up your fat arse." The F/Sgt screamed at the poor lad who was trying his best to grab our hands.
We managed to get a wrist each but couldn't even get him off the ground. F/Sgt Green started to throw rocks and stones at us screaming for us to leave him and complete the course. We had to abandon him and catch the rest of our colleagues.
Those eight weeks were the hardest of my young life, I was not used to the constant barrage of abuse and hard exercise. For a scrawny 17 year old used to his mum, this was a total shock to me. Up at dawn every day to run, march and be screamed at. It was hell on earth. It was such a relief when it was finally over and we could start the real training, to be pilots.
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In my youth my uncle Jock had a Gypsy Moth biplane to fly post between the smaller Islands up in Western Scotland. Whenever we managed to visit him before the war broke out he used to take me up. My mother used to panic every time her brother suggested that I help him but my father always talked her around, that's where I got the flying bug. I had all the basics before I signed up so it was a huge advantage.
My father had got to know a lot of high powered people in the government through his job. He had risen to the rank of Wing Commander before his accident, now he worked for some government department or other. So when I told him I wanted to be a pilot and help in the upcoming war effort if there was to be one, he understood. He was happy to help by pulling a few strings getting me straight into the RAF as a flying officer.
My dear mother was not happy the day I told her I was going to sign up, she broke down into tears.
"Oh James, how could you! You know your brother was sent to Sudan three months ago. We have no idea if he is alive or dead, I cannot bear to think of losing you too!"
This was different, I would be based at home. Not abroad.
Three weeks later I was thrown into an intense physical course then onto pilot training. As luck would have it we got to train on aircraft very similar to my uncles, so I was familiar with all the controls and passed out with 180 hours under my belt.
It was late June 1938, when I got my first posting. Debden in Essex, not too far from home. I was allowed passes to travel home most weekends with help from my father and within a few months I was flying Hurricanes across the Thames Estuary. In those days the landmarks to pick out were far and few between but St Paul's and Parliament always took my breath away from the air, they were stunning.
There were lots of rumours of war on the horizon and my mother was getting herself into a frenzy about her youngest boy being a pilot. My dad tried his best to comfort and console her but she had it in head that I would come to harm.
News came from my elder brother Brian that he was fine and had been promoted to Major, my father was very happy but secretly wished he had been a flyer. The news tempered my mothers anguish over me slightly which was good.
That summer was beautiful in Essex, flying into the clouds seeing splashes of the green fields below and bright sunshine above it was almost spiritual. But the winter was harsh on those airfields, for some reason it always felt twenty degrees colder the minute you set foot back on base. The wind cut through like rusty nails being fired from a shotgun, my face and fingers lost all feeling on the walk from barracks to my aircraft.
It was late December when I saw my first spitfire up close, it was a thing of beauty. Three were delivered by female pilots with the promise of ten more to follow. It was rather novel to be instructed by these ladies on the maneuverability of these machines, but we all hung avidly on every word they said.
I will never forget the day I got my first flight in one, 10.45am. January, 17th, 1939. Up until that day I felt my whole life had been leading towards this specific moment. I sat in the cockpit waiting to hear that Merlin engine kick in, I had goosebumps and felt incredibly proud. I followed all of my training procedures, but more importantly took note of the WAFS that had delivered them for the little idiosyncrasies that these planes had.
The sound of that first spitfire nearly brought me to tears, it often does now when I think back to those times. Takeoff was a touch more bumpy than my old Hurricane but once airborne they were chalk and cheese. If it ever did come to war, Jerry would not stand a chance against these.
By April 1939 I had amassed over 350 hours in spitfires so was quite proficient in them. Rumours were rife now about war, it was on everyone's lips in local shops and pubs. It was becoming more and more obvious that we would be called upon to fly our machines in anger.
19th May 1939. I was transferred nearer to home, Biggin Hill in Kent to train new young pilots in the ways of spitfires. I was promoted to Flight Lieutenant to enable me to teach these new raw recruits. I remember laughing to myself as I was barely 19 years of age at the time and I was to be a teacher. When I arrived it was like the Ritz compared to our little base. Tea urns, sandwiches, even a Sunday roast for the pilots.
I was in charge of 18 young officers, English, Polish and French. It was sometimes quite hard with communications but as pilots we all knew which were the right switches and buttons as and when they were pointed out.
It was ok but I had this horrible feeling that these young fella's would be the ones called upon to fight if war came, not me. More and more young flyers were arriving every day, us older pilots were being used to teach these young upstarts. Promotions were being issued on a regular basis as more men arrived. I was made up to Squadron Leader within months and my unit grew to 27 men. I remember that entire month was manic, we crammed a years-worth of flight training into 40 days. It was very obvious now that the people in the know, knew war was on the immediate horizon.
I managed to get 4 days leave with my dad's help to spend time with my parents at home. My mother was beside herself with worry now, but seeing one of her boys around the dinner table calmed her. My father took me aside telling me how much they both loved me and to be extra careful over the coming months, it was obvious now that he was very worried too. I received a call from base on the evening of my third day home telling me to get back the next day, I was to hear all the details from a man from Whitehall on base.
I asked dad if he knew anything and he made a few calls.
"Sorry James, I couldn't find out a thing. It is all very hush, hush."
I arrived back on site late June 1939 to be told of three new recruits that were here and to keep them separate from everyone on base. I was to accompany them at all times, they were not to be left alone and no more flight duties until further notice.
"What of my squadron, my men?" I asked.
"They will be disbanded and dispersed across five other squadrons." was the reply.
I was distraught, I had invested so much time training my men. Made relationships and it was all taken away at the stroke of a pen.
