RELUCTANT HERO
A True Story
by
John Hickman
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
John Hickman at Smashwords
Reluctant Hero
Copyright © 2011 by John Hickman
ISBN 978-0-9870945-0-6
Cover design by Jeremy Taylor www.jeremytaylor.eu
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
As author it has been my choice to write under my own name. Other names have been changed out of consideration for relatives I have been unable to contact. The writer acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of narrative non-fiction, which have been used without permission.
The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
The author states opinions expressed are not his own. Characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are true as communicated to him. To the best of the author’s intentions this work is a faithful rendering of the facts as told to him.
As stated, Reluctant Hero is a work of narrative/creative non-fiction. This is a true story as told to me by my family; Mum, Dad, Gran, Gramps, Uncle Charlie, Aunties, Cousins who all knew my dad. Some of Dad’s ex RAF crew visited during the 1950s. His bomb-aimer, a sandy haired man presented me with an expensive drum set from Harrods department store. When he presented it to me, he laughed and slapped dad’s arm.
‘Your boy hitting that drum might remind you of knocking noises in engines, Bill.’
I have had remarkable clarity with most of the story. Where memory has failed or a gap has been discovered of which I was unaware, the tone has been recreated with the general content for dramatic flow.
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
People who contributed to this story have had to wait a long time to see it appear.
Sadly, for some it has been too long. Many have passed away before publication.
I hope I have done their memories justice.
There are people alive I would like to thank for what has been an historical journey
of some magnitude for me to write RELUCTANT HERO.
Carole, my wife, is appreciated as always for her patience in tolerating what has become my obsession. She has been a model of calm and reassurance with her recall of our family folklore, as she knew dad for more than thirty years.
Pamela, my sister, the scholar of our family, deserves sincere thanks for her meticulous maintenance over the years of family photographs and records. Our reminiscences were a delightful reflection.
Tricia Eban, my editor, who gave her time unselfishly, kept me focused, and never gave up on me. She prevented my story from becoming a boring diary of events. Her many valuable suggestions and changes allowed my voice to come through.
Hon. Yvette D’Ath, (Federal Member—Petrie), for valuable guidance through myriads of government departments. Hon Greg Combet and his office (Federal Member—Minister of Defence Personnel) for assistance with government liaison overseas. Air Historical Branch (UK), RAF (UK), Ministry of Defence (UK), National Archives (UK), Veterans (UK), RAF Disclosures (UK), Service Personnel & Veterans Agency (UK), Ministry of Defence Medal Office (UK), and to those dedicated staff at RAF Cranwell (UK) who prefer not to be named individually but helped me in my labour of love to delve back over sixty years.
Acknowledgement of photographs:
The Photographers who are named; Williams Pioneer Studios Ltd., 529 Oxford St., Marble Arch.
William Frederick Honey (deceased 26/02/1972).
Sara Jayne Fornaro
The other photographs are attributed to unknown photographers.
Other sources:
The New York Times
Daily Mirror
Daily Telegraph
The Times
Daily Express
Wikipedia
John Hickman 2011
PROLOGUE
This is a story that needs to be told about my dad, Bill.
As a child, I sat mesmerised by what Mum told me about his time as a Lancaster Bomber pilot in the Second World War.
When I grew older, I became interested in why and how? Dad was reluctant to talk at first. Perhaps hesitant to give away too many pieces of himself, divulge his inner thoughts, his involvement in those extraordinary circumstances.
When I asked questions, occasionally he brushed me off, but not too often.
And now back to where my story began, the slums of Notting Hill, London in the 1920s. An area as bleak as the Gorbals in Glasgow. Dad blamed his parents Lily and Fred for his rough childhood. He had issues all right, lots of them, and we’re about to go there.
He hated his life, his surname, but most of all his lack of opportunity for a good start in life. Dad became frustrated. He wanted to escape the class-conscious restrictions in which he lived, but didn’t know how. He felt inferior, inadequate and these feelings never left him.
But soon a dark side mirrored his rebellious nature.
Neither Bill nor his family knew how these traits would influence him in the years ahead although few were not aware the Second World War was on its way.
Neville Chamberlain’s efforts and pieces of paper had done little to convince anyone there might be a treaty. When what little goodwill there was ran out, menacing clouds intensified, ready to unleash unspeakable horrors. War machines started to rumble throughout Europe but no one, least of all Bill, considered what part he might play. A role that would involve frequent death defying missions over hostile Germany, when terror was given a voice that culminated for him, in the awful bombing of Dresden.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
BILL’S DARK SIDE 1932 to 1936
‘Get up, Honey, you’re a bloody girl,’ sneered Alf, as he aimed another kick at Bill’s head. But Bill didn’t hear his taunt, nor did he feel Alf’s boot connect with his jaw. Instead he lay stunned and silent.
It had begun as nothing more than a typical schoolyard confrontation. Three bullies had flushed Bill’s conkers down the loo, and then set about him for sport. After fists had come at him out of nowhere, he’d attempted to brush something hard off his cheek. Dazed, he realised, cobbled playgrounds don’t move.
Alf prodded Bill with his size twelve boot, ‘Come on, Honey. Get up.
Fight like a fuckin’ man.’
Bill’s head was in a whirl as if wrapped in cotton wool. He felt a slow trickle of blood ooze from his mouth. It felt warm and sickly against his tongue.
Where did that come from? he thought.
Concussed, a succession of weird notions crossed his mind. He tried to focus but all he could see was Alf’s boot. It was dirty and unpolished, battered with torn stitching,
My boots are shinier than yours! he thought.
He strained to get a better view of Alf, and when he did, he saw muscles like those of a fighting dog. Tight as cords, flexed in use, as if from his toes up. It was too much for Bill. He lay back with a great sigh and wondered how many men, older and bigger than him, had fallen victim to Alf’s kicks. Then frightened of being kicked again, he cowed back defenceless, and shrunk into a ball. He blotted their world out and stared at the school, eyes seared with wanting, hoping a teacher might appear.
Why couldn’t it be like his favourite fable? In Alice in Wonderland the rabbit would appear to save him, but no one came to his aid.
Later at home Bill’s mum, Lily, attended his wounds. Quick as her darning needle into one of his trouser patches, she prepared a bowl of warm water from the kettle on the hob, collected cotton wool and Dettol. As she worked her thoughts were of Alf, his crony mates and what they’d done to her only child, ‘Shush, I’ve got you, Bill.’
Lily turned away and bawled for her husband Fred. ‘Come look what they’ve done to your boy.’
Fred was slumped in his chair as if the day had beaten the spirit out of him.
He looked up, unsympathetic. He didn’t give a damn, ‘It’s time he learned to stand up for himself, Girl.’ He often called Lily, ‘Girl.’
‘What if he’d died? You’d be sorry then,’ cried Lily, embroiled in her own thoughts.
More than Bill’s pride took a hit that day, he’d lost four front teeth but his life as a victim continued to deteriorate.
‘Honey’s a girl! Honey’s a girl!’ The same chant followed Bill home most afternoons. When Fred heard about it, he showed no concern. ‘He’ll have to tough it out, Girl. That or I’ll box his ears till he sees stars.’
Lily wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Fred.’
She smiled a pained expression at the sight of her son’s distress, and then swore softly under her breath.
By age ten Bill had few friends at school. Fun was often made of his surname, Honey, which he despised. On those days he hated every one. At home he never felt the support he longed for not even from Lily, but for him as with Fred, there were never extenuating circumstances or shades of grey. Childhood was like that. Bill was punished, then punished again when he complained. Not suited for cheating or deception, he tried not to protest but his rebellious spirit led him off course.
Fred exhaled noisily. ‘Falsies are expensive. You’d best learn to bite into your food without them.’
To eat an apple Bill quartered it then cut it in to sections. He chewed slowly to include the pips and core and as he did, he inhaled succulent juices he’d not noticed before. He told Lily. ‘They make my nose tingle, Mum.’
‘Like a damsel in a rose garden,’ laughed Lily. And as a bonus his pocket penknife that he carried for the purpose made him feel grown up.
‘Trouble is, Mum, without front teeth I can’t whistle properly.’
Lily looked thoughtful. ‘It’s good you can’t whistle, Son, because whistling is uncouth.’
Fred put down his newspaper. ‘That’s right. Whistlers have bad reputations.’
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Since the times of Dickens, whistlers have been distrusted, Son. It’s how pickpockets pass signals between themselves.’
Bill promised himself when he could afford the best of false teeth he would try to whistle, but then he wrestled with self-doubt. He didn’t want people to think poorly of him.
This led to daydreams about when he might be content enough with his station in life to whistle. What in older men might be called silent thoughts?
‘You shouldn’t get ideas above your station in life, Son,’ Fred would say.
‘Don’t grow up wasting your life with pipe-dreams.’
That seemed unfair to Bill. His dad worked as a guard on the railways and was always quick to point out how he’d sorted things out at work, told those bosses a thing or two as without him the trains would never have run on time. Bill wondered, if his dad was only a guard, why was he always full of bullshit?
‘I’ve been on the railways for years. Worked my way up from porter to guard,’ boasted Fred.
‘You should listen to your dad, Son. He knows best,’ sighed Lily.
Bill wondered. Could she be right? He gave her a sideways look, which said eloquently, I don’t think so. People are only impressed with him because they’re gullible enough to believe anything.
Life was becoming seedier by the day in Notting Hill. Harsh reality was to work hard, live in semi-squalor and get on with it. Most walls carried every howl, sob, scream and crash. Cracks were so big in some walls you could talk to your neighbours through them.
‘If you’re clothed and fed you should accept your lot and think yerself lucky.
And yer find a job—any job,’ ranted Fred.
Since 1932 the gathering storm of military matters had preoccupied the nation.
Many were aware the country was rearming, about to prepare for war.
‘Those bloody Germans are at it again. I tell yer the only good German
is a dead German.’
‘If it’s not the Germans, it’d be those wretched French,’ sniffed Lily.
December saw an unprecedented 1,250,000 copies of the Daily Mirror sold with news of the appointment of British army chiefs and threats from Japan. Ten editions were distributed in London alone. Fred brought a newspaper home. ‘It’s not looking good, Girl.’
The British government supported the notion of how the Japanese air force comprised antiquated aeroplanes flown by pilots with poor eyesight.
‘Their rice diet prevents them from flying above 5,000 feet,’ quipped Fred. But the commonsense of these statements was never questioned.
Lily’s older brother, Charlie, was different from the rest of their family. A well-to-do bookie, he lived in an upmarket semi-detached in leafy West Kensington. Drove a brand-new Ford saloon car that cost £100, smoked big cigars and looked bastard-arse rich.
Bill admired his Uncle Charlie. He was special and different. He wore a bow tie, striped shirts, had a loud voice and acted really smart. Charlie enjoyed The Daily Telegraph crossword, which he’d submitted for years. There were good prizes to the value of two guineas and Uncle Charlie had won twice. Admiration for him shone in Lily’s eyes whenever his name was mentioned.
Deep down Bill nursed a secret wish his own dad could be more like Uncle Charlie, especially as he gave generous gifts at Christmas.
* * * * *
December 1933 saw Bill score a brand new cricket bat from Uncle Charlie.
He’d never been close to a proper one, or watched the game played, but he’d seen newsreels.
Fred told him, ‘It’s a game rich people play on a village green. Pretty to watch and they dress in matching whites.’
When Bill held that bat he felt different, as if transported to another world.
He forgot his name was Honey with tatty hand-me-downs. Socks with so many darns he was embarrassed to remove his shoes. Patches in his backside that made sitting down uncomfortable. How Bill longed to be on a village green dressed in resplendent white. And when he gripped his bat he was. Not stuck in Notting Hill.
He played out his fantasy in an unhurried and gentlemanlike manner. In his mind spectators lounged in deck chairs and watched him as he took his place at the crease. On an enormous clubhouse veranda people enjoyed afternoon tea and when Bill scored his first century they all stood as one, and applauded him.
Bill snapped out of his daydream, back to reality. Those gentry weren’t on their knees crawling between horses’ shuffling feet, dodging being kicked. Yesterday, he’d chased after a ball in a filthy cobbled street. Dodging horses’ hooves as they backed away was one thing, sliding about in their piddle and poo, quite another.
‘Mind you don’t fall under a wagon, Bill,’ warned Lily.
‘There’s not much chance of that, Girl. He’s quick when he wants to be, as fast as if the devil’s after him.’
As days passed into weeks Bill became so enthralled with his bat, it turned into something of a status symbol. He carried it with him everywhere. Like a holy grail of relics he knew it could never be replaced.
‘You certainly know how to stand out from the crowd, Son. Why don’t you leave that silly bat at home?’
But Bill didn’t listen to his mum. Why should he? When he carried his bat he lived the dream.
Alf and his bullies were a quarrelsome bunch. More used to being sent to bed with a mouthful of knuckles from their drunken fathers than fantasising about cricket. When they saw Bill with his bat tucked under his arm they picked on him. Perhaps to them the bat represented a sign of betterment contrary to their surroundings. That, or they were bored shitless and didn’t like cricket.
‘Come here, yer sweet little toothless bastard. We’ll have that fuckin’ bat, sweet Willy Honey. It’s too fuckin’ good for the likes of you,’ sneered Alf.
Bill knew Alf was a nasty item. He had cruel features, accentuated by baring his yellow or blackened teeth as he laughed. Bill thought his face looked like a vulture’s with blackheads and more zits than anyone else, because he never washed properly.
Before Bill knew what had happened, Alf and his mates had him helpless.
He couldn’t move, his arms and wrists were pinned firm. Stan, another shitty piece of work and Alf’s best mate, goaded Bill then aimed a blow at his head. His swing missed but Bill caught his foul breath full on. He felt ill.
‘I’d rather have no teeth at all than rotten ones like yours,’ taunted Bill.
Stan tightened his grip. He disliked Bill for more reasons than the bat. At home he rarely had anything more than a piece of toast for his dinner, let alone tripe and offal, as he knew Bill did. Added to that, word on the street was when Stan’s father wasn’t drunk he was dead drunk, whereas Bill’s father Fred was known to be sober. Unbeknown to Bill, in Stan’s nightmares his family were only one step from the poor house.
Jack, who had small crooked features, the type that looked as if they’d been added as an afterthought, held Bill from behind. An arm of his short strong body tightened around Bill’s neck, which meant now Bill could hardly breathe. Déjà vu. He felt as helpless as he had over his conkers. Victim of their sour breath and loud voices, they laughed out loud as Alf wrenched Bill’s prized bat from his hand smiling a gap-toothed leer.
‘We’ll have that, yer little honey sucking shit!’
‘No, gimme me back me bat,’ yelled Bill in panic. ‘It’s mine! Me Uncle Charlie gave it me for Christmas.’
‘Oh, did he then, we’ll see about that.’ Alf weighed the bat in his hand. His cold glance skewered at Bill. ‘It’s a nice bat, sweet honey boy.’
Alf was big for his age, a giant of a boy without a neck. His arms had the girth of other men’s legs; his hands the size of dinner plates were adorned with large callused knuckles and sausage-like-fingers.
‘I’ll tell me Dad on you,’ whined Bill.
‘Tell who yer like, sweet Willy boy. We’re gonna make you very fuckin’ unhappy.’
‘I’m already fuckin’ unhappy,’ snapped Bill, as he tried to wrestle free.
Bill watched powerless as Alf stepped up to the old iron railings that separated the basements from the pavement. They stood like sentinels in a long straight line only with breaks for entry gates and steps. He heard Jack’s hard bark of laughter, then silence.
Alf re-weighed Bill’s bat in his hand as he eyed the railings and as he did he took pleasure at Bill’s tormented face.
‘No!’ shouted Bill.
Alf brought Bill’s bat down hard on the first railing and waited to see Bill’s pained expression. Content with the result he slowly, deliberately continued to hammer Bill’s bat along the top of each iron railing.
Bill winced as each strike tore at the unseasoned surface of willow.
Alf slowed, he enjoyed Bill’s distress but by the fifth strike Bill was sobbing with anger and frustration, forced to watch helplessly while his tormentor pummelled his prized possession.
‘You fuckers!’ shouted Bill. ‘You’d better have eyes in the back of your heads. I’ll get yer for this. You’re bigger than me, Alf and I know I can’t beat yer fair, but I’ll get back at yer somehow!’
Alf stopped dead in his tracks. His face paled at such an unexpected reaction from Bill. Stan and Jack were uneasy too. Stan rotated on the spot, his mouth open in astonishment. Bill’s eyes were wild, his face flushed. He shook from head to foot.
Shaken, they released Bill and backed off.
‘Here, take your fuckin’ bat then, little Willy Honeykins,’ Alf sneered, as he threw it down at Bill’s feet. Something about Bill’s reaction, his viciousness towards them had unsettled big Alf and his bully mates.
‘It’s only a fuckin’ bat,’ muttered Stan.
Bill looked at them each in turn. He knew this moment would be etched forever in his mind. ‘Yeah, but it’s my bat. You had no right!’
‘Yeah, well yer can have your bat, or what’s left of it. We’ve got better things to do,’ said Alf.
The gang sauntered off, whistling and cat calling to their mates. Bill was left standing alone in the street, his breathing ragged. He made a pugnacious fist but no one cared.
‘I told you to put that silly thing down and leave it here,’ scolded Lily, when Bill arrived home. ‘If you’d done as you’re told, none of this would have happened.
You’d better not let Uncle Charlie see what you’ve done to his bat.’
‘It’s not his bat, Mum. It’s mine. He gave it me. I didn’t start it, Mum.
I couldn’t help it. They’re bigger than me.’
Fred’s eyebrows bristled like a dog’s hackles. ‘Be quiet. Stop arguing with your mum. You’re giving my arse headache,’
Over the top of his newspaper he stared at Bill. He saw a runt of a lad, not unlike how he remembered himself at that age. Fred and his father before him had grown up in the slums. He’d known nothing else. He’d never been a fighter himself, but he knew to shy away from a fight was unthinkable. As he pondered Bill’s situation, he felt bad for his son.
‘Surely, no father wants to see his son worse off than himself,’ roared Lily.
Alf put down his paper and gazed into the hearth for a while, almost as if he was searching out some hidden message in the flames. ‘When your brother gave Bill that bat he gave him an activity. Instead he’s carried the bloody thing around with him like a disease.
But all said and done, Alf’s done more than steal someone’s spoons this time, Girl.’
Fred had decided to advise Bill how to defend himself.
‘Look upon this more as a tactical retreat, than defeat, Son.’
Tears of anger and frustration welled into Bill’s eyes.
‘Never go looking for a fight. That’s wrong, but if one comes looking for you that’s different. You must win by fair or foul. You hear me?’
‘But they’re bigger than me, Dad.’
‘Forget Queensbury rules. Size doesn’t matter. Think foul, fouler the better. Strike a decisive blow because if yer don’t you’ll end up the loser. Believe me, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. At the end of the day, size has nothing to do with it.’
‘But how, Dad?’
‘Pick-up whatever’s to hand, Son. Better make sure it’s something heavy and start swinging.’
‘Whatever are you teaching him, Fred? I’ve never heard the like,’ scowled Lily.
Fred ignored her. ‘Always go for their ringleader, Son. He’s easy to spot.’
‘Biggest mouth and trousers, you mean,’ Lily muttered from deep in her washing up.
‘Bring him down, any way you can, Son. Eyeball him and keep the fucker down.
End it, and fast. If nothing else, kick him hard in his balls. That’ll fix him.’
‘Fred. Watch your language in the house! You know I don’t approve.’
‘Sorry, Girl. But the boy needs help.’
‘And not before time. Him almost without a tooth in his head. Judging from the size of that Alf there might be value in your Dad’s advice. That or an approach from behind.’
‘Your mum’s right, Son. But sometimes I wonder what I’ve married into.’
Lily shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I know little of those things, but that’s how Charlie protects his patch at the track.’
Fred turned back to the hob, pulled his chair closer to the blaze. Lily joined him and in silence as sweet as music they had a cup of tea.
Lily frowned. ‘That Alf’s a danger to the public.’
‘So is the dentist, Girl, but he roams free.’
* * * * *
Bill brooded for days before his darker side emerged. There was almost a constraint in the air when he took his bat out from under his bed and held it firm. As he swung it back and forth angry tears of white-hot rage welled up inside him. He swore retribution would be his. There were no shades of grey only black and white.
Not much of a cricket bat anymore, but it’s a fine weapon, he thought.
Bill waited. He knew he needed to find Alf, and bring him down by fair means or foul.
‘Bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ Fred had said.
That night Bill hardly slept but when he did, he dreamed of victory over Alf and his bullying mates. Towards dawn he dozed, to the muted sigh of the wind in their chimney. When he rose he shook from head to foot, but not from the cold. It was anticipation and excitement at what lay ahead of him. Now it made perfect sense. Fred was right. If he could defeat Alf, their ringleader, he shouldn’t have to fight Stan or Jack.
Bill was determined to get those three monkeys off his back once and for all. The question was no longer, if he could defeat Alf, but when. And the when, he’d decided, was now.
His bat held firmly under his arm he hoped for the best but planned for the worst.
At least I can’t lose any more front teeth.
Driven by ferocious determination, Bill took long, slow breaths, and then began to search the streets for Alf, his tormentor.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
BILL’S REVENGE Summer 1936
Bill spotted Alf rolling a smoke outside the school toilets. Engrossed with chatting up a girl, he never noticed when Bill stepped quietly around the back. As he stood silent in the shadows, Bill plotted his attack. Strong toilet smells and coping with his sweaty fear
began to turn his stomach. Not a good time to retch.
His wait seemed eternal. He clutched his bat until his grip was so firm he had trouble loosening it. Finally the girl became bored, wandered off and left Alf alone with
his smoke. The coast was clear. Bill knew he would never have a better moment to seize
his opportunity but fear of failure almost consumed him. If Alf sensed a problem or pre-empted Bill’s attack, he knew he would be lost. The bigger boy would disarm Bill and thrash him severely.
Bill took one last deep breath. No turning back now! He stepped out of cover with his raised bat and lashed out at the big boy’s knee.
Alf saw the bat coming but distracted with his smoke, too late. Whack! The bat connected. Alf let out a shriek and went down like a sack of spuds. That’s easy, thought Bill. He’s down! Now to keep him down.
‘You little fucker!’ cried Alf.
Bill didn’t hesitate. His dad’s words rang in his ears. ‘End it, and fast.’
He knew to win he had to finish it. He brought his bat down so hard on Alf’s foot he thought he heard it crush his toes. Alf groaned and stayed down with a whimper. Bill hit him again hard across the fleshy part of his back. He heard—a dull splat, like a slab of raw meat dropped onto the counter at the butcher’s shop.
He realised he dare not get too carried away. If he hit Alf on the head he might kill him and although he wanted to, he was afraid of the consequences.
Down came Bill’s bat, again and again. Woofs and sighs as he pummelled into Alf. Every sinew in Bill’s body was pumping. Every now and again, a wet clap followed by a groan.
‘Try and get up,’ roared Bill. ‘Come on, fight like a fuckin’ man!’ But Alf couldn’t. He started to sob. His eyes went bloodshot.
‘Please, Bill. Stop! You’re hurting me.’
‘At least yer called me Bill. I’m not sweet little Willy Honeykins any more, am I? You big useless fucker!’
Alf inclined his head. His mouth gaped open in astonishment at the punishment he’d received.
Bill paused, rotated on the spot. His eyes wild. ‘Your reputation’s bad, Alf.
If yer don’t want to defend yourself like a man, here’s one more. Arsehole!’
This time Bill swung his bat higher and harder. Thump! The big one! He hit Alf across his right hand. Alf screamed with pain.
Bill smelled victory and it was sweet. He promised more and worse to come with his clenched fist. ‘If yer ever come near me again, I swear, I’ll fuckin’ kill yer, Alf. Yer hear that?’
There was a long dazed silence. Bill felt a muffled nothingness, as though he had watched this scene played out from inside a glass bubble. Suddenly he felt exhausted.
Alf knew he was in trouble. The second day would be worse and nothing could stop bruises from showing the third day. Alf sucked in his breath. He looked pitiful. ‘I’m sorry about your bat, Bill. I’ll never bloody do that again’
‘Do yer promise?’
‘I promise!’
Bill felt sudden remorse but tried not to show it. Alf’s tear stained face and lank brown hair no longer made him look threatening. Bill straightened up and as he did Alf flinched and cowered back.
Bill placed his bat back under his arm. ‘You and I are through, Alf. Unless you or your bully mates want otherwise.’
Bill didn’t walk away; he swaggered, pugnacious and arrogant with victory.
Next day Alf was in awful shape. He felt so crushed and disjointed, he wondered what joints might be broken. He had more discolouration than if he’d been wrapped in cases of fruit fallen off a lorry. His knee cap swelled-up and swirling purple galaxies of blue-black bruises spread across his entire back, which he kept hidden. His damaged hand was twice its normal size and throbbed like hell. As he limped about his breathing was ragged; word was he passed blood in his urine for days.
When he was asked what had happened to him, Alf evoked the Notting Hill code of silence. No one suspected Bill. Everyone thought Alf’s comeuppance was from bigger boys he’d upset. After much shaking of heads the matter quickly became old news.
From then on Bill changed. He became more confident and strutted around like a cock in a henhouse but always with his comforter, the bat. When Alf’s crew were nearby he turned and faced them. Bat high in the air ready to strike without taking his eyes off theirs. But as predicted, Alf and his mates gave Bill a wide berth and left him alone.
‘For Christ’s sake leave him be,’ Alf told his cronies. ‘If yer don’t, he’ll come up behind yer with that bloody bat in his hand.’
‘He’s not that big. We could always take his bat from him, again,’ suggested Stan.
‘Fuck no! Without his bat he might use something worse,’ said Jack. ‘Like a claw hammer.’
‘Just leave him alone,’ groaned Alf.
The tables had turned and Bill savoured his hold over them. Their talk near Bill was conducted in knowing nods and shrugs and whenever they could they avoided him.
Bill became cocky and baited them.
‘Come on then you arseholes. Let’s see how tough you are now. Weekend warriors are yer? I dare yer. Try to take me bat and I’ll fuckin’ kill yer with it!’
‘Fuck-off, Billy boy,’ Stan said nervously, ‘we’ve got no fight with you.’
Bill continued to provoke them. ‘Love me or hate me, yer bastards. But yer can’t ignore me! If yer do, I’ll have yer.’
And Bill, without any provocation, would wade into them with his bat, scattering them and causing those big bully-boys to back-off and run away.
Like kicked mongrel dogs they looked for easier prey to intimidate. They never messed with Bill again.
Lily was supportive. ‘Whoever Alf’s God is in his mercy, He might forgive him for your missing teeth,’ she sniffed. ‘But I never will.’
‘Thing is, Dad, when the worst of the damage was being done to him, it didn’t sound that bad.’
‘I told you, Son. Sometimes it’s more blessed to give than receive,’ smirked Fred.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
CUT-THROAT 1937 to 1939
Bill did what was expected of him and left school at fourteen.
‘It’s all to do with combinations of seven, Son,’ Fred beamed. ‘At seven you’re a child. Fourteen is twice seven. Time to move on. Most men marry and have kids by twenty-one. That’s three times seven. You’re back’s buggered by fifty-six, that’s eight times seven.
And you’ll be pushing up daisies by seventy.’
‘Ten times seven,’ laughed Bill.
Bill craved to be successful but didn’t know how. He wanted to belong, to fit in, but for him that became a worry. In his topsy-turvy way, he felt sure to remain in Notting Hill, meant he had to stagnate. And that he refused to do. His emerging competitive nature became stonewalled. He felt lost, up against formidable odds, while his parents worked as hard as ever to pay rent and provide food on their table.
‘What I can’t stomach, Mum, is hypocrisy, idleness or fraud,’ raged Bill.
‘No, Son. You tell them!’ You’re dumber than a bag of wet mice, she thought.
But Bill had decided he didn’t want to be part of life in Notting Hill. His problem was how to achieve it. If only it could be as easy as when Alice in Wonderland followed the rabbit. He was about to exercise an exceptional will to improve and get out of the slums, to find something better.
‘It’s not only the greyness and the drizzle of the weather depresses me, Dad.’
‘You can’t escape that, Son. Not even your Uncle Charlie does that by living in a
posh suburb.’
‘It’s the greyness of the people, Dad. They look unwashed.’
‘Working class coarseness, yer mean. We’re not good enough for yer, Son?’
‘It’s not that. What’s happened to all the greenery and trees we only seem to see in picture books? Why in the parks are we forbidden to walk on the grass?’
A lack of answers and the deafening sound of silence, threatened to capsize Bill.
‘I’m dragging myself up by my bootstraps,’ announced Bill. That was how he liked to explain his slow progress. It was an exceptional attitude for a man so young.
He begged Uncle Charlie for an opportunity in his betting business but was turned down flat. ‘It’s a risky business, Bill. Up one day, down the next. I’ll be getting out soon myself, with a bit of luck before I lose everything. I’m doing you a favour, Son, I really am, by not taking you in.’
Bill was devastated. He’d thought fish might fly before his Uncle Charlie turned against him. A major escape door had closed in his face. Rejection by his uncle was a new experience for Bill and the hurt cut him deeply. * 1st
Short on qualifications Bill decided to become an apprentice of something.
He chose a manufacturing jeweller in Portobello Road. They used concepts of basic arithmetic. Unlikely to induce any awful recurring headaches, thought Bill.
‘Bill’s got it made, Girl.’
They were sure he had, until a critical day when Bill used cyanide to clean gold unsupervised. Without thought he placed his tobacco pipe down on the workbench. Its stem, the part he put into his mouth, had come into contact with the smallest trace of deadly poison and he almost died.
Bill came to, dizzy and disorientated. His mind clouded with half-forgotten names of long dead relatives. He’d been laid-out on the floor amid spinning rooms and nausea for several minutes. When he recovered, he was wiser and none the worse for the experience but hungry to learn.
There were clouded hints of self-improvement without support of his under-arm symbol—the bat. He continued to educate himself. The flame to learn burned brightly but only one flaw could be improved at a time. Opportunities of going back to full-time school was rarer than wedding tackle on action men.
At sixteen Bill had health issues; awful abdominal pains. Doctors misdiagnosed he’d poisoned himself at work then realised he had appendicitis. An appendix operation was major surgery in 1939. Bill was lucky to survive.
After convalescence he reviewed his dental plan. He acquired false upper and lower dentures. It was a big improvement at meal times but when he whistled, it was never quite the same tune.
New teeth or not he felt cursed with a natural pessimism, which he blamed on being born in the slums. This became his Achilles heel. Disillusioned by what he perceived as dread came upon him in waves, similar to grief. He feared mediocrity, which threatened to overwhelm him. Scared of sliding into obscurity in Notting Hill, Bill couldn’t wait to plan his great escape. But how could he make it happen? As he pondered he became more aware of his every failure. He saw clear contrasts between the brightness of his dreams and the utter botch-up of their carry through. But this was to become an even greater recipe for deep despair.
At home Lily and Fred never talked about what interested Bill. He became a loner. He took long walks unaccompanied and became an avid reader. Technology, high-class fashion magazines, diets and clothes fascinated Bill. That better educated people tried to lose weight intrigued him. His mum Lily could have benefited from losing a few stone although Bill never said anything to offend her. She was a rotund jolly woman with enormous breasts and a continuous sniff.
As a kid she pulled Bill towards her to give him a big, big hug and he disappeared laughing in to the warmth and security of the giant folds of her bosom. A beautiful woman inside and out, all four foot nothing of her. Her warm green eyes danced with humour and when she let her hair down it was so long she could sit on it. But years of living in Notting Hill had taken their toll. Lily’s hair had turned prematurely grey and worn up in a bun, made her figure resemble a massive upside down light bulb.
Lily often poked fun at her own appearance. ‘My problem was being born with duck’s disease.’
Another feature was her feet being too small, so tiny she often toppled over but when she did she blamed her bunions. Her enormous breasts might have contributed, but she never mentioned them. Her falls became legendary during Bill’s growing years but were never serious. No broken bones; only grazed dimpled knees, which were invisible to everyone except Fred.
Bill thought Lily could have given some of her bulk to Fred and then some, but neither Lily nor Fred ever pursued good health. Nobody did in Notting Hill. No one ever went to a gym unless they were athletic like boxers in a ring. And no one ever jogged or ran anywhere, not unless they were late for work or had a bus or train to catch. Lily walked to their local shops or caught a 52 bus near the end of their street.
Fred cycled to work on an ordinary black-framed bike with a big basket on the front without a chain guard. He wore cycle leg clips to keep his uniform trousers from flapping into the well-greased chain.
When he returned home from work Fred hoist his cross-bar up onto his shoulder and carried his bike of about eighty pounds weight up six flights of stairs to their little flat on the third floor.
‘That and a day’s work is exercise enough for me today,’ quipped Fred.
He stood his bike against a wall, often in their bedroom. If left downstairs in the passageway it would have been easy pickings from the street.
Fred smoked un-tipped Senior Service cigarettes when he could afford to buy them. Otherwise he rolled his own. Most people smoked but Lily didn’t. They were ordinary people Lily and Fred, and they drank and ate whatever they could afford.
Bill’s attempts at improvement were ridiculed whenever someone found out.
To him those bloody goal posts were being moved only to make life more difficult for him. Dimly aware whenever he entered a room he made little more impression than a draft he soon became ultra depressed and moody.
Bill turned against the Church. ‘History is scattered with so called holy men who lived like lords, fat on the offerings of poor people. Through ignorance they bought blessings rather than bread for their children. That’s not true Christian conduct.’
Lily and Fred agreed with him.
‘If there is a God, He’s got a lot to answer for. I for one would like to sit in on His judgment, Girl.
‘For hundreds of years the Church has held the pen,’ ranted Bill. ‘And what they wrote is supposed to be fact. I believe it’s mostly lies, written by dishonest men who suppressed the history they didn’t like and wrote what was more favourable to them.’
* * * * *
In September 1939 Britain declared war on Germany and along came the Second World War. Over one million men would serve in Germany’s air defences, with another million and a half providing ground defences.
Uncle Charlie shook his head in disbelief. ‘Goes to prove, if there is a God, He must have a weird sense of humour, I suppose.’
‘Personal tragedy has no time-table,’ sniffed Lily. ‘I wonder whatever will become of us all?’
Fred lit another cigarette. ‘It’s been proven throughout history, it’s not a real war unless someone’s making a good profit. I’ll bet this one will turn out to be a real doozy.’
* * * * *
CHAPTER 4
DECISION TIME 1940 to 1941
In February 1940 Bill was seventeen years of age and a touch less than six feet tall. His body was not yet filled out to fit his frame.
‘He’s hollow in the chest, not much weight behind him, Girl.’
‘Skinny as spaghetti, you mean. Lean as, with that raw-boned look of an adolescent.’
But despite his physique, Bill was about to enter the most extraordinary period of his life and prove to be a man useful to employ.
Britain braced for German invasion. March 1940 to September 1941 the Luftwaffe bombed targets in Britain at will. From as far apart as London to Liverpool, Glasgow to Portsmouth they reigned supreme. The primary aim of most British plans during the summer of 1940 became defensive. London and several other major cities came under attack from enemy bombers. More than 40,000 British civilians were killed in London alone during the Blitz. An average toll of two hundred and fifty fatalities were recorded a day following hits over sixty consecutive nights.
‘Our troops abroad are getting about as much support from home as measured by a fart in a thunderstorm,’ ranted Fred. Lily made a face.
In May 1941, Egyptian born Nazi Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy and third in command, flew to Britain on a peace mission. The Daily Telegraph reported he baled out over Scotland at 6,000 feet and told a Scottish farmer in impeccable English, ‘I have an important message from Hitler for the Duke of Hamilton.’
Accused of displaying signs of mental disability he was swiftly declared insane and locked away in solitary confinement as reward for his odyssey.
‘Something’s not quite right, Girl. It smells suspicious to me.’ * 2nd
Bill’s eighteenth birthday approached. With ears like radar dishes he sat spellbound listening to cousin Eric, on leave from the infantry.
‘Conditions at the front line are bloody awful enough to frighten anyone.’
Fred shook his head and lit a smoke. ‘Despite propaganda bullshit, news from there is never good two days in a row.’
Eric went on to recount his horrors of the trenches, the mud, drenching rain and death in stupefying detail.
Lily bent from the waist to pick up her sewing, the exertion seemed to leave her breathless. Her lips retreated to thin lines. ‘It’s enough to swear anyone off having babies. They’re cannon-fodder for the British government, that’s all they are.’
Then Eric started to lose it. ‘You’ve got no idea what it’s like. It’s bloody terrible.’
His torment came in waves. Lily cried as he talked.
When he finished, there was a long pause.
‘I know it’s hard out there, Eric. I knew those trenches in the last war,’ Fred said quietly. But nothing deterred Eric.
‘We worry we’ll be killed in a bayonet charge and all the while we lay in mud. We’re lucky to get any food at all. When we do everything tastes the same. Yuk! Even our smokes get wet.’
At home Eric spent most of his time in idleness. He cried often. When he visited Lily and Fred he warmed himself at their hob and stared unseeing at the floor. Occasionally he gazed out of a window. Otherwise he fought to hold back his sobs, which upset Lily big time, and embarrassed Fred. All this scared the crap out of Bill.
As to what lay in front of Eric, his demons were beyond anyone else’s control. He was too upset and frightened. ‘I don’t want to go back, Lily. It’s terrible. I don’t want to die,’ sobbed Eric.
‘But you have to go back, Eric. You can’t change your mind. It’s too late now.’
Fred steered Lily out of the room. ‘Not much I can say to the kid, Girl. He’s barely in control of his own bladder.’
Lily was in tears. She composed herself and they rejoined Eric. ‘It’s not as if you picked a bad day for it. If you don’t return to active duty and they catch you, they’ll shoot you for sure,’ Fred said.
Now Eric understood. At fourteen, he’d lied about his age, as many had and joined up. Enthralled with excitement and filled with a sense of adventure he’d seen war as a free ticket to see Europe and get laid.
‘You had no idea what you were getting yourself into,’ said Lily.
Fred changed tact. ‘What people don’t understand about being in the army; is its inaction. When men aren’t scavenging for food or smokes, they’re in trenches full of water. All because some idiot educated beyond his intelligence said they should be there.’
‘You’re right, Fred,’ said Eric. He lightened up. ‘We were shifted in the middle of the night once by another nincompoop. Corporal said it was a less than defensive position from where we’d been.’
‘We never slept properly, our equipment was always defective,’ continued Fred. ‘And when supplies arrived, if they ever did, they were never what we expected.’
Bill was candid. ‘Now I know why I’m terrified of being drafted into the army.’
Fred frowned. ‘History will confirm those in charge have been lax with birth dates. But mark my words sending children as young as fourteen to the front line won’t be talked about much in the future. They’ll keep that under wraps for sure.’
‘Poor babies,’ sniffed Lily. ‘They say it’s being called to arms. It’s their mother’s arms they’re wanting.’
Now Eric had had a taste of reality, he wished he’d been less hasty.
Lily tried to mother him.
‘There,’ she said, ‘I’ve made you a pack of your favourite sandwiches.’
Fred rolled him some smokes and gave him pocket money from their rent jar on the mantelpiece. They both tried to cheer him up. Fred told him one of his favourite stories from his war, the First World War.
‘It was the war intended to end all wars, Eric. At least that’s what they told us then.
Back when radio communication was in its infancy, it was hard to understand. According to the crackle, ‘Reinforcements are coming and we’re going to advance.’ Or was that, ‘Three and four pence and we’re going to a dance?’
Everyone laughed, even Eric.
When they saw him off from the railway station the next day, the three men shook hands and Lily kissed him on the cheek. ‘Be strong. You’ll be fine, Eric,’ she whispered.
They waved and promised to love each other forever but Lily couldn’t hold back her tears. * 3rd
After he’d gone, Bill was unable to shake memories of Eric from his mind.
Fred held court. ‘It might be simpler if we stayed in England and shot 5,000 armed men every week, Girl.’
Bill’s morbid sense of foreboding had him worried. He visualised desperate unwashed men at the front, sweating with anger and fear as he had with Alf. He racked his brains for a less physical alternative but time was against him. He didn’t want to wait to be called up for fear his freedom of choice would be taken from him. If he was conscripted into the Army he knew he would be up against Germany’s finest and he knew Eric’s prospects of survival were poor.
‘Trouble is bloody Germans are all hulks of troopers, Son,’ said Fred.
Death had never been busier and would become more so, but thoughts of being skewered by an eight-foot Hun death machine in hand-to-hand combat, with or without his trusty cricket bat, caused Bill to wake up most nights in a cold sweat.
‘You’re behaving worse than a whore in church,’ laughed Fred.
Bill’s recurring nightmare was being effortlessly attached to the pointy end of a German bayonet and flicked around for amusement as if he were a giant Catherine wheel.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Lily, ‘If big boy Alf doesn’t join the Army.
He likes to fight and they’d be a profit in it for him.’
‘Judging by the size of him,’ laughed Fred. ‘They should have a war, just to employ him.’
‘Worse in the Navy, Son,’ frowned Lily. ‘There you’d be trapped on the rolling deep.’
Visions of his permanent seasickness, while a delightful addition to the crews’ endless amusement, clouded Bill’s judgment. In the Navy his days would end as prematurely, but instead of playing ring-a-ring a roses with German bayonets and dodging bristle skulled troopers, seas would rise up to swallow him whole.
‘No mercy out there, Son,’ Fred shook his head. ‘Not with the briny less than friendly.’
‘They say drowning is a pleasant death, although I can’t see it myself,’ sniffed Lily.
‘Bloody hell no, Girl. The cold, the exhaustion, they can keep that to themselves. I’d rather take a bullet.’
Cold sweats and nightmares exhausted Bill. If he wasn’t dodging giant Hun troopers he was desperate to keep his head above the icy cold wobbly stuff. Father and son sat quietly by the hob after Lily had taken herself off to bed. For a while they tried not to disturb the air they breathed.
‘Fuck those bayonets, Dad. They leave a hole!’
‘Army’s out then, Son.’
‘And a pox on their damn ships!’
‘Nothing nautical then, Son.’
* * * * *
The British Government promised everything possible to attract young men to arms. Bright new buttons on their uniforms, even a free haircut. Things were hotting up.
There was an opportunity to trade an empty stomach and tatty clothes for a sense of belonging. Death and misadventure were not promoted.
‘They make going to war look romantic,’ sniffed Lily.
‘Provided they overlook dying for their meal ticket, Girl.’
In London it was as if everyone rallied to the flag.
‘There’s more flags than at a dawn service,’ quipped Fred.
Men in uniform were everywhere and the ladies were easily impressed, even by boys as fashionable as Sabre Toothed Tigers in flared trousers.
The propaganda machine was in full flight. Bands marched, wirelesses blared.
Who wouldn’t want to take part? Bill began to relax.
Fred shook his head. ‘Those bloody politicians are on their band wagon and everyone’s being primed to fight.’
‘The kids you mean—not the politicians,’ corrected Lily.
Who wouldn’t want to make that ultimate sacrifice? These were crazy times.
After filling adventurous days with killing there was an added perk.
Volunteers would be de-mobbed immediately following the cessation of hostilities.
This guarantee of an early discharge was seen as a massive advantage not to be missed.
‘First out of the services will beat the long queues for the best jobs,’ Fred said encouragingly.
Bill thought he’d be spoilt for job offers. He perked up. But he was to learn the hard way, how politicians are for the most part a waste of skin. This pledge, as with many others, would never be kept. Assurances were only given to achieve their own short-term agendas.
Advertisements portrayed aircrew as supremely glamorous. Odol Toothpaste showed a delighted RAF officer with a pretty woman on his arm and urged: Cheer up and smile—keep smiling even if you’re running risks.
What risks? Their testosterone fortress only had to defeat Hitler’s hairy little one-balled arse, which shouldn’t take too long, His Majesty promised.
The Battle of Britain was around the corner, as was the Luftwaffe under Field Marshall Hermann Goering, an ace fighter pilot from the First World War. Weighted down by his Iron Cross for bravery but now a little too large in the bum to squeeze into a cockpit, he burned with speeches. Mainly about how he would throw more planes and bombs at England than anyone had ever done before him. And in that he would succeed.
Germans were a formidable foe. Their armaments were supreme, their discipline extreme. They were superior Teutonic beings who did everything better than everyone else.
The Luftwaffe had no such concept as a tour. German pilots didn’t retire after thirty missions or ops (short for operations as the RAF called them.) They flew until they died or survived the war but German moral was higher than high. Their military intelligence ran circles around the British, as did their technology.
Hitler was on a roll. He promised to wring England’s neck like that of a chicken.
‘Some chicken; some neck,’ quoted Winston Churchill.
‘Churchill’s up for the top job, and he does nothing for anyone except on cash terms,’ said Fred.
‘He’s good at speeches,’ retorted Lily. ‘I’ll give him that. But I’m not sure dying is preferable to cow tailing to those Germans.’
‘No! Nor drive their wretched Volkswagens, or own a Dachshund, Girl.’
* * * * *
...We shall go to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight in the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender...
Winston Churchill, 4 June 1940
(An excerpt from his speech in the House of Commons, after he became Prime Minister).
It was on for one and all as paranoia gathered momentum in triumphant procession.
‘Wherever Churchill goes people flock to cheer him,’ Lily said.
‘People,’ sneered Fred. ‘We’ll cheer anyone, if frightened enough. And don’t forget Churchill needs to break the old guard, Girl. New brooms replace the old.’
Rationing was in and the first items under the hammer were bacon, eggs, tinned ham, butter, sugar and precious icing sugar. To begin with the Germans had an underdeveloped air force but by late summer 1941 they’d seriously upgraded.
Nazi Germany dominated continental Europe. August 1941 saw over one hundred British aircraft lost. The following month was worse with losses of over one hundred and thirty. Many were shot down over English cities. One in four British planes perished but worse were to come. October saw more massive losses.
The Germans missed their East End docks target. Instead their bombs dropped on London. Hitler became angry that civilians had been attacked unnecessarily and issued an apology to the British Government. Churchill saw this as an opportunity to accelerate hostilities in his favour and ordered the RAF to attack Berlin as reprisal.
An angry Hitler ordered the Blitz on London.
Nobody’s perfect, thought Bill.
* * * * *
Often on smoggy days in London it was impossible to see a few yards ahead. Other times a heavy overcast sky appeared laden with snow, when it wasn’t. Even on those better days distance was relative as any horizon became lost in a sea of smog. Pilots reported visibility reduced to less than a few hundred yards. The days grew shorter as winter approached. Children went to school and came home in the dark. Any warming sun might appear sporadically about noon and disappear soon afterwards.
It was on a miserable day like that in January, with dismal thoughts about weather in mind, Bill came to terms with reality. In the face of so much horror, he decided not to lie about his age as Eric had done
One month before his eighteenth birthday at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London, Bill joined with hundreds of other would be hopefuls, for duty at the feet of a bunch of aeroplane enthusiasts. His Majesty’s King George VI’s Royal Air Force.
Bill filled out their masses of forms and stood in line for selection. He knew the next few hours might well be a turning point in his life. Aware time, once behind him, could never be retrieved or revisited his mood became mixed. He reasoned as a Leading Aircraftman he should be far removed from strapping eight-foot Hun troopers with pointy bits. If by some stroke of luck he made the elevated status of flight crew he would be even further removed. Bill had lifted his hands for emphasis. ‘Way, way up higher than high. And far, far above any rolling deep seas too.’