Jeremy's War

1. Sleepless Nights

Jeremy Armstrong lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. Wondering.

He took another swig of beer, and realized he was getting quite drunk. It didn't matter. He had nowhere to stagger to. He was already home, in bed. Strangely, that was part of the problem.

The coal fire had nearly burned itself out, but the embers still glowed sufficiently fiercely to cast shadows around his room. The odd flame shot up, fought gallantly for a while, and then succumbed. Jeremy would watch its demise on the ceiling, and his mind drew a parallel between the struggling flames and the workings of his tired mind. Life itself too seemed but a short lived flame. He felt cynical and bitter.

The words of Macbeth, mourning his fate, mourning the death of his wife, aware of his enemies approaching, came back to him.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life is but a walking shadow;

a poor player,

who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

and then is heard no more.

It is a tale,

told by an idiot,

full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing...

There were times he had thought he was getting the measure of what life was all about. Times when flickering flames of understanding and passion had licked out hungrily from behind the careful, controlled facade of his existence. But...

Everybody lived behind their own disguise. Everybody suspected everybody else to be living behind make-up.

Make-believe. Woe betide him who threw off his mask. Jeremy had tried it.

He had asked questions. He had dared query established values. It had brought him grief and trouble...

He swigged at the beer again, burped noisily, and thought back bitterly to that evening's so-called entertainment. It was always the same. Whatever social function he attended, there was always somebody back from the trenches, on leave. Everybody would crowd around, and listen to the stories, and ask questions about the war. The news from Flanders had not been good, and the casualty rate had been staggering, although the newspapers tended to play that side down.

Jeremy wondered for the thousandth time what the war was all about. And, more importantly, if he should join it.

Should he fight?

Uneasy stirrings inside him told him that he should. He was getting funny looks, and, on the social scene, a certain coldness towards him had crept in, that hurt his feelings. Tonight though had been the first time there had been open sarcasm. The jibe – from that idiot Donaldson – about the womenfolk 'keeping the home fires burning', accompanied with a knowing look at the others, and a nod of the head towards Jeremy, had struck home grievously. He had pretended to ignore it, and retreated behind a cool aloofness, much to poor Emmy's dismay. Donaldson, of all people. That imbecile of a miner's son, common as muck, full of himself now he had become a war hero...

Jeremy had felt like punching that smug expression into the middle of next week. But...

Maybe he should join up. And fight. Ignore the doubts, the logic, the reasoning. Just accept that everybody else was right. He probably thought too much anyway. Emmy said so. Maybe he should just accept the cause, believe in it, and fight for his country.

Two questions, however, always returned to haunt him.

Firstly, would he be a coward when it came to it?

Secondly, what would his mother say?

The second question was the easier one. His mother was totally, passionately, fiercely against it. She had fought and argued loud and long against him joining up, for no other reason than that she loved her child, did not want him hurt, and was convinced he could serve society better in some other way. At home.

That was a huge obstacle. He loved his mother, and they were very close.

The first question... was more difficult. Would he be a coward? Would he flinch from it? It was often as if three separate identities were all arguing inside his head at the same time. He liked the one with the quiet, confident, reassuring voice.

The Comforter.

Of course you wouldn't flinch! You've got guts! Nobody could say otherwise. If it came to it, you'd stand your ground for sure...

Jeremy could identify with those sentiments; it sounded so convincing, so comforting, so eminently sensible, that he wondered what all the fuss was about. But then, at other times, the nagging, insecure, worried identity would cut in: How can you be sure? What have you ever done that required real guts?

The Doubter's words always cut deep. He would brood and brood over that one. He knew the answer. Nothing. Playing good rugby, tennis and chess was all fair and good, but it didn't require real guts.

No, he had never really done anything that required out and out courage.

He would become agitated, and start doubting himself.

Sometimes the voice of the Doubter would make him angry.

Then the third identity, the Agitator, would add his two penny worth. Once, at Speaker's Corner, that corner of Hyde Park where all the demagogues, the idealists, the quacks and the nut cases gather to spout forth, Jeremy had listened to a man with a strange accent, who had argued some of the crowd to the point of fury. But there had been a strange persuasiveness about the man and his arguments...

The Agitator always started quietly.

"Jeremy Armstrong a coward? What makes a coward? A man who does not wish to kill? A man who wants to live in peace with his neighbours? Is that a coward?

But the Doubter would strike back: We are not talking about peace loving neighbours! We are talking about a warlike people who threaten our country...

The Agitator would raise an eyebrow, and say: Is that so? Verdun, the Marne, the Somme, these are all places to be found within the confines of this country, are they? When English blood is spilled in the mud of France, when young men in the flower of their youth lie dying, their stomachs torn out, their legs blown off, their eyes gouged out... then they die knowing their death served a purpose? They died defending this country, did they? Then what were they doing abroad? In a foreign country?

The crowd would gasp in horror, and cries of 'Shame! Shame!' would temporarily drown out the Agitator. He would appear quite unruffled. When the fuss had died down a bit, he would continue, sweetly, reasonably, striking an altogether more conciliatory note:

Comrades, I might be wrong... (shouts of: 'Bloody right you're wrong!') ... I am only a simple man. Uneducated, from working stock. If I am wrong, I say to you: tell me, where am I wrong...?

Five angry, strident voices would be heard. One by one they would shut up, yielding to the most powerful, the most strident. The strident voice would put in a determined defence of British policy, and decry the Agitator's unpatriotic attitude. (cheers, and 'Hear!, Hear!'). The Agitator would listen with head bowed, in mock solemnity, as if in a pose of penitence. But the moment the strident voice had spluttered into silence, the head would bob up, the eyes would sparkle devilishly, and he would launch his next missile...

"So you, kind Sir, believe the sacrifices made by our gallant men are in the most noble of causes? I see. You believe this is a war of principle, of purity, of Evil versus Good? I see. (a pause while his words sink in).

Can you then explain to us, kind Sir, why it is that the manufacturers of the guns and the bombs grow rich and fat upon the proceeds of this most noble cause? (laughter)

Or would you, kind Sir, have us believe that the gentry who supply the war effort, who sell the guns, the bombs, the boots, the uniforms, the airplanes, the ships...

Would you, kind Sir, have us believe that the gentry supply these goods for free? For the sake of principle? (laughter) In a spirit of self sacrifice? (loud laughter) Would you have us believe they do NOT make a fat profit out of the misery and blood of our boys in the trenches???"

(laughter, fury, screams, shouts, pushing and jostling)

Jeremy finished the one bottle, and opened another. He debated getting up and throwing more coal on the fire. It was going to be a long, long night again. He would toss and turn, but wouldn't sleep.

Sleep. How long since he had enjoyed the luxury of deep, peaceful, unconscious, slumber? Hell. Hell and damn and blast. What was the purpose of it all? The Agitator had a point. Jeremy knew there were those who were growing fat on the war effort.

His father for one...

* * *

Five miles from where Jeremy lay drinking, brooding and worrying, Emmy Houghton sat sadly gazing out the window, absorbed in her own, private, unhappy meditation. She was quite a beautiful girl, but in a quiet, uneffusive, understated sort of way. She was blond, with shoulder length hair, which needed very little encouragement to curl delightfully. She was slim, elegant, with soft eyes that hid just below the curls that fell from her forehead. Her nose was straight and strong, and her mouth was round, kissable and yielding. Only her teeth, about which she was sensitive, were less than perfect. Although clean and white, the bottom row was oddly jumbled, as if one or two teeth too many had resulted in the stronger trying to force the weaker out. Emmy was aware of her teeth, and tried to smile quietly, without revealing them. That shy smile, coupled to a gentle, very feminine nature, combined to drive hot blooded men insane with desire. But Emmy was not attracted to romantic lovers. She had a strong maternal instinct, which found expression in her work as a district nurse. She was aware that men lusted after her, and was uncomfortable with it.

The stars were out in force, and Emmy listened to the silence. She liked the quiet of the night, and the peace of silence. An opened Bible lay on the dressing table beside her, a passage from Corinthians underlined in her delicate hand:

For the preaching of the cross is to them that perish foolishness; but unto us which are saved it is the power of God.

She thought of Jeremy, and their strange relationship.

She sighed, and wrapped her silk dressing gown closer around herself. She stood up, and walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold pane. Her slim figure remained there, a statue in the portal of the big window, framed, looking out over the troubled world.

It was an odd relationship.

They had met two years earlier, when they were both eighteen. They had argued at a Bible study evening. From there they had met over coffee and buns in the village teashop, to continue their theological arguments. He had at once both infuriated and fascinated her.

Emmy was deeply religious. She studied the Bible, and believed in God without any difficulty. This was odd really, considering her parents were complete agnostics.

Loving, caring, warm, protective, they puzzled a little at her deep religiousness, but accepted it without murmur.

For the preaching of the cross is to them that perish foolishness; but unto us which are saved it is the power of God.

Jeremy openly wondered if Christianity was 'foolishness'. But he queried it in such an open, honest fashion, that Emmy had to respect him for it. Jeremy was... an unusual man. He had respected her faith, never mocked it, and he had never made a pass at her. This was a relief for Emmy, and one reason she felt attracted to him. She had let it be known casually very early on that she would never marry or even court a non-believer. He had accepted that on the face of it without a murmur, and agreed to be 'just good friends'. Thus they had met frequently, discussed Life, Death and the Universe, and gone for long walks, without ever a kiss or an embrace.

Most people regarded them as a couple. What did she think they were?

A slight draught of air played with her dressing gown, and for a moment her small, tidy breasts peeked out at the world. She rearranged herself, and then sat down, gazing into the fire. Was she in love with Jeremy Armstrong? Was he in love with her? Somehow, she felt he desired her. It was in his eyes sometimes. In the way his deep blue eyes followed her around the room. He was capable of great loving, that much she knew. He felt things passionately. His endless soul searching was quite amazing, and she felt protective towards him. He was in some ways a big brother to her. Did she love him? A lot of her wanted to say: Oh, no! We're just good friends..., the way she had done so many times to her unbelieving friends. But in the privacy of her room, there were no friends to impress. There was only herself. Again, did she love him?

A dull crack from the fire indicated some coal or piece of wood had split under the heat. A spark shot out, and impacted on the old rug. It went out immediately.

Again, did she love him?

It was hard to say. But this much she knew: the prospect of him going to fight in France filled her with fear and foreboding. She dreaded his departure. Dreaded it with all her heart and all her love.

He was a gentle person. A kind person. Underneath the tough, occasionally foul mouthed exterior, there lurked a nice, warm, loving person. An idealist. A dreamer.

Who wrote stupid poetry.

She smiled as she remembered some of it.

He had suffered a bad case of 'unrequited love', when a flaming redhead had stood him up at a dance in favour of a medical student. With the earnestness of youth, he had struggled long to get over it, finally mocking himself with the 'ballad of the beauty', who was swept off her feet by the evil vampire.

The beauty and the vampire,

skated round the room,

She kissed him on his forehead,

and plunged me into gloom.

For I had loved her dearly,

and gazed upon her face.

And watched her in the morning

from a hidden, lonely place.

She scorned me with her dancing,

and mocked me with her eye.

My love was not worth tuppence,

to the raven from the sky.

Alas! Her head quite soon forgot,

(as off she walked the path of strays)

the times her heart beat close to mine,

and loved my simple, foolish ways.

Discarded like a well worn boot

Ignored, disliked, aghast,

I tried to feel raw anger

and push away the past.

In vain I sought the bitter,

and wallowed in my pain

But Life is meant for loving,

and so I smiled again.

I know that I shall always,

treasure in my heart,

the times we had together,

wher'ever now thou art...

It was not a good poem. It lacked sophistication. Compared with Keats, or Shakespeare, or Shelley, or Wordsworth, it was a complete nothing.

She liked it though. She wondered why. Probably because it was such an honest, bad poem. It was intelligible, and sincere. Jeremy had been heartbroken for a period. Six weeks? Then he had come out of it. More or less.

Was there such a thing as 'bad poetry'? If people enjoyed writing it? If they were sincere? Did it all have to be such hard work to decipher the 'hidden meanings'?

She raked the red hot coals, and pondered Jeremy Armstrong fighting a war. For she knew he would. Eventually. Even though he did not know himself, Emmy knew, with that instinctive intuition of womanhood, that he would go and fight.

Tonight had been the final nail in the coffin. Mark Donaldson had driven it in. By mocking Jeremy in front of friends and family, by suggesting he was a coward, Mark had pushed the gentle, dreamy, naive poet down the path to war. There was no hatred in Jeremy. How would he fare in battle? She felt sorry for him, desperately sad and sorry.

The final nail in the coffin...

The analogy suddenly hit her, and she shuddered in horror.

She went to bed, and slept badly. Dreams disturbed her. A vampire was skating delightedly around a coffin, whilst a flaming redhead sat on it, casually cleaning her nails.

2. Butterflies

He gazed in awe at the flying machine they called an 'RE8', and wondered how he could ever hope to learn to fly. Butterflies roamed around his stomach, and a vague dizziness refused to go away. Their instructor, Captain Kershaw, was droning on at great length, but Jeremy was hardly listening. He was standing to attention amongst a dozen or so fellow trainees, all of whom were wearing the new Royal Flying Corps uniform. After a week of classroom preparation, they were now to be given their first lesson. It was rumoured that the first flight was a 'shake-out', and that the RFC was anxious to rid itself of unsuitable candidates at an early stage. Jeremy thought wryly back to Mark Donaldson, and wondered what that worthy would remark if the news were to go home that Jeremy had got kicked out at the first hurdle.

At all costs, he could not let that happen...

...and these are the ailerons. Captain Kershaw pointed them out with his baton. Kershaw was an old cavalry man through and through. He probably wore spurs to bed, Jeremy reckoned grimly.

"...the starboard aileron moving up, will be counteracted by the port aileron moving down, as we have discussed in detail in class.

Now, moving on..."

Jeremy thought of the funny little sergeant in the recruiting office, and his strange logic. He had wanted to know if Jeremy had ridden horses. The affirmative answer had pleased him immensely, a beatific smile crossing his plump little face.

In that case, you're just the man the country is looking for!

The mock solemn statement had failed to impress Jeremy, who was nonetheless sufficiently amused by it to reply in similar vein: I know. It's taken a while, but I'm here now... I'm sure the cavalry will be delighted?

But the funny little man had surprised him.

The cavalry? He had laughed heartily. A shade too heartily, Jeremy had thought. The cavalry? Nonsense, my lad! It's the Royal Flying Corps for you!

...move up when the stick is pulled back. Notice the elevator cables moving here...

An airplane came in to land. Everybody's gaze slid slyly across the airfield to watch. Captain Kershaw noticed, and bellowed loudly: Pay attention! You'll have plenty of time to watch airplanes later!

Jeremy's mother had moved heaven and earth to persuade him to change his mind. In doing so she had incurred the wrath of Jeremy's father, who was quite delighted to see his son march off to war.

Jeremy, on the surface, had been resolute. Only Emmy knew the full story...

...you can take it easy for the first few minutes, and get used to the idea of flying. I will then waggle the stick, and you can take control, and place your feet firmly on the rudder bar...

Poor Emmy had looked crestfallen. But she had not argued, although her eyes had spoken volumes. Emmy... she quite fascinated him. He loved their discussions. She was at one and the same time very strong, and very feminine.

She could maintain a line of reasoning with an almost iron determination, regardless of his doubts or disagreements. But, once he had got to know her better, he had learned to recognize that slight wobble of the mouth, that intense look, that heralded Emmy's peculiar character reversal. The moment when the strong woman became the little girl again. The moment when a strange vulnerability crept into her eyes...

The approaching aircraft they had been forbidden to watch obligingly touched down within their field of view. Jeremy's pulse quickened, and he longed to get airborne for his first flight. Now that moment was so close, he reflected that he had no idea what to expect. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was actually going to fly.

What did it mean? Flying...

...remember to move the controls gently. We don't shove the stick roughly. You'll soon see why. It'll feel horrible, and you'll probably make yourself sick. On the subject of that, anybody spewing up can bloody well clear up the mess...

He knew he missed Emmy. They had seen a lot of each other, and it had always been possible to go and visit her. That possibility was now denied him since his journey to Hendon. Her face floated in front of him, and he remembered her saying goodbye to him at the railway station. Her chin had wobbled again, and he had experienced once again that hot desire to kiss her for the first time, full on the lips. Then to hold her tight, roughly, feeling her every quiver. Instead, they had shaken hands, and said goodbye. He had experienced mixed emotions, part of which had been a savage satisfaction to see her troubled...

...which I think you will find enough for your first flight. But I want you to try hard to recognize the warning signs we have talked about, and to start getting a feel for the aircraft as soon as possible. Would someone care to remind us again of what happens when we fly too slowly...?

He had thought he might miss his parents, but it had almost surprised him how he relished the independence. Although he was close to his mother, it was as if he had discovered a new freedom. He could marshal his own thoughts in his own time now, and somehow, it all felt right. He could now tackle the world his way. The future was exciting as well as intimidating...

...Perhaps Mr Armstrong would be so kind...

The mention of his name dragged him back to reality, and his brain reeled for a second. His eyes refocused from the distant horizon to the shape of Captain Kershaw, and he started involuntarily. His eyes and reaction had betrayed him, and even as he fought to bring himself back to the present, he realized he had been caught napping.

Errr... sorry, Sir, could you repeat the question?

He felt utterly foolish, and a grim voice in his brain whispered angrily: Idiot!

There was no reply, and the pause lengthened into a horrible silence. Captain Kershaw approached slowly, almost casually, until his face was six inches from Jeremy's. When he started, he was quite mild, but Jeremy was not fooled. The voice rose progressively, until in the end Jeremy's eardrums were ringing.

When it was at last over, he felt his cheeks burning with shame. How could he have allowed himself to get into that sort of mess?

One thing was for sure: he had joined the RFC, and nothing would – ever – quite be the same again.

* * *

When his turn came to fly, his legs suddenly seemed wooden. He made a dog's dinner out of getting in, and fastening his harness. A smell of factory fresh varnish assailed his nostrils. His fingers trembled uncontrollably, and he was aware that his breathing was shallow and fast.

The previous student had seemed glad to be down, and had looked sickly and pale. The engine was kept running during the changeover, and now that he was actually seated in the aircraft, Jeremy marvelled at the power of the propeller to push back a wall of air, that made his clothing flap. It was all too much like a dream, and his brain seemed to be unwilling to come to terms with what was happening.

Kershaw made a signal, and the ground crew pulled the wooden chocks out from the wheels. The RE8 instantly started to move forward, and then kicked to the left with a mighty roar as Kershaw applied rudder and power.

Jeremy suddenly felt like a prisoner, bound and trapped, at the mercy of a man he hardly knew, and a strange machine that jostled, bumped and shook him as they taxied across the uneven ground. He knew suddenly that, given the choice over again, he would never have volunteered for the Royal Flying Corps. Mark Donaldson was right: he was a coward. He wished fervently he was back at home.

This was a big, big mistake.

The noise from the engine increased suddenly, and it reminded him of the stiff paper and cardboard they had fixed to their bicycles as children. Fastened to the wheel fork with clothes pegs, the cardboard had touched the spokes. When the wheels turned, a satisfying rhythmic buzzing had resulted, which increased in pitch and beat the faster they pedalled. Now this strange, alien machine was making a similar noise, and he wondered fleetingly where they attached the clothes pegs...

The cockpit attitude changed, and he could suddenly see forward much better. He realized from watching other aircraft taking off that their tail had come up.

They now seemed to be hurtling across the ground at breakneck speed. His brain was frozen in horror, and for the first time, he tasted deathly fear. There was nothing he could do, but sit and endure.

Then, unexpectedly, a strange thing happened. It was so unforeseen, so extraordinary, that, for a few seconds, he quite forgot his terror. He had been expecting to fly up into the sky. Instead of this, quite strangely, the ground simply fell away...

* * *

Emmy wondered how Jeremy was getting on, and found herself fretting and worrying. A thousand times she tried to put him out of her mind, and concentrate on her work.

She had been seconded to St. Thomas Hospital, a bleak, Victorian building, which had high ceilings, was impossible to heat, and had once been a 'poor house' for the destitute. The atmosphere retained a strange mixture of despair, damp, and pointlessness, and it seemed to work its way into the disposition of the staff.

But a thousand times, Jeremy floated back into her consciousness. She was quite appalled by how much she missed him. Was she in love with him? No, she reminded herself, that was out of the question.

A critically ill man cried out in agony, and tried to get up. She hurried to his side. On the other side of the ward, an embittered young soldier, both legs amputated, studied her body closely, and mentally undressed her.

* * *

The sheer surprise left Jeremy's brain reeling for answers. The experience was devastatingly new to him.

So this was flying... the ground fell away further and further, and he peered over the side in utter amazement.

He swivelled his head to look ahead, and saw nothing but sky and cloud beyond the blurred outline of the air screw.

He became aware that he could already see for miles, and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. His brain was rapidly coming back on song now, and quickly assimilated that this was the way things looked from an airplane. His head spun everywhere, trying to take in the breath-taking adventure. Suddenly, he was aware of a big smile erupting across his face. The smile became a grin, which split his face from ear to ear.

This is... brilliant!

Kershaw, observing closely, noted the grin with approval. His pupil's rapid head movements and evident enjoyment pleased him. He knew from experience how much easier it was to train an enthusiastic student.

This guy looked keen, even if he was a bit of a dreamer.

He decided to carry out a gentle turn, and watched his student carefully. There being no sign of terror or airsickness, Kershaw turned the other way, and then levelled off at one thousand feet. No sense in climbing much for such a short flight...

By the time Jeremy saw the airfield approaching again, he had quite forgotten his earlier fears. His disappointment at the imminent end of the flight was exceeded only by his elated spirits. He had taken a turn at flying, which had been a strange but intensely satisfying experience.

The aircraft had – wonder above wonders – actually responded to his gentle stick movements, and he could feel it quite clearly. It had given him all at once a feeling of power and knowledge, and a burning desire to go up and do it again.

As they floated down towards the grass, the thought briefly crossed Jeremy's mind what it would be like to crash. But he had confidence in Captain Kershaw, and he found himself remarkably untroubled.

The RE8 seemed to float for a very long time at maybe five feet or so, and then slowly settled towards the ground. Jeremy distinctly felt the slight bounce, and then the machine was trundling along the grass. The air screw was turning much slower now, and he could see the blades quite distinctly.

They taxied towards their group, and Jeremy noticed the next man waiting slightly apart from the others, kitted up and looking very frightened. It gave Jeremy a feeling of superiority, and he felt a desire to tell his fellow student not to worry.

Jumping to the ground, he looked around at his instructor, with a face that was still grinning. Kershaw beckoned him closer, and shouted a question:

How did you find that then?

Jeremy, for once quite speechless, could only grin hugely. Kershaw, satisfied, nodded and waved him away.

The next student climbed in, looking pretty miserable, and Jeremy, walking on air, left them to it.

He had flown... Away up in the clouds, where only birds and dreams reigned supreme... It was too beautiful for words. He turned around, and watched the RE8 take off. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, and adopted the knowledgeable expression of a veteran airman.

3. Kershaw’s Chicks

The next few days were exciting and stimulating beyond anything Jeremy had ever experienced before in his young life. Unbelievably, incredibly, he, Jeremy Armstrong, rumoured stay-at-home-Pansy, was learning to fly. Haltingly at first, with many surprises, and much bemused wondering why it was that on occasions the mercurial R.E.8 – nicknamed Mathilda – would suddenly take on a mind of her own.

Because turning the aeroplane in any direction was delightfully easy, Jeremy assumed 'steep turns' would be just more of the same. His mind was already leaping ahead to more advanced exercises, and he regarded steep turns as nothing to worry about. Jeremy was not to realize it until much later, but he was lucky to have in Captain Kershaw a conscientious and capable instructor, who took his duties seriously. A man with active combat experience, he was typical of the front line pilot sent back to teach – and recuperate. He was untypical in his sincerity, and his desire to teach the little darlings how one day they might just be able to save their little lives. Thus Kershaw, having announced the purpose of this particular sortie as 'the exploration of steep turns', was at pains to brief beforehand what he required to see:

No height loss, constant angle of bank, and smooth flying with the aircraft 'nicely balanced'. Jeremy puzzled at the emphasis on 'nicely balanced'. He had by now flown several times, and he was coming on in leaps and bounds, but 'balance' was something he just 'felt', rather than something he understood or analysed.

Once again, the students, now numbering ten, three having departed, gathered in a group to watch the show, and await their turn. They were becoming more relaxed and less self-conscious. The three drop outs were the topic of animated conversation. Nobody quite knew what had happened, as it had been dealt with quietly and behind closed doors. One chap was rumoured to have panicked, becoming frozen with terror. Kershaw had dumped him out over near the mess. Everybody had wondered why.

Jeremy by now was totally enraptured with flying, and awaited his turn with rather more impatience than apprehension.

Climbing into the cockpit with relish, his nostrils were suddenly assailed with the unmistakable smell of vomit. The previous student, a plump little fellow from Bolton, had got out slightly pasty, and Jeremy cursed him mentally.

They sailed up into the sky, and Jeremy suddenly longed for the day he could go and explore the clouds by himself. To escape from the narrow confines of Hendon and its immediate environment, and to go wherever he wished.

The thought of flying over his home, and waving at everybody, and seeing Emmy waving back, worrying about him, had occupied his mind a number of times. This day, that thought seemed powerful, and he realized how much he wanted the dream to come true.

Kershaw demonstrated the normal turn once, and then, as agreed, waggled the stick and handed over to his student for him to practice ordinary turns once again. This Jeremy accomplished with increasing skill, and after about ten minutes, Jeremy was not surprised to feel the stick waggle in his grip. Kershaw took over, and demonstrated first, as always, what he wanted his student to emulate. It was a much steeper turn, quite exciting, and the aircraft seemed even more alive and powerful.

Then it was Jeremy's turn, and, thinking back to the briefing, he entered the turn confidently enough. He remembered to note the position of the nose relative to the horizon, and for a moment felt all was nicely under control. Then the R.E.8 decided otherwise...

The nose of the aircraft seemed to fall away from the horizon, and the sound of the wind increased quickly and alarmingly. He was also being thrown against one side of the cockpit. An invisible hand was pressing against him, and his whole grip on the situation was lost. From a relatively confident frame of mind, he had moved in a matter of seconds through a stage of puzzled bewilderment into a state of astonished disbelief. Still the aircraft continued downwards, the noise of the wind deafening.

He was expecting a waggle of the stick, but none came.

A lot of his brain seemed now to be shutting down, and he found it hard to think. The portion of his brain that was still at work suddenly decided that this was getting damn silly. He levelled the wings, and started to pull out of the dive. Immediately, the stick waggled, and Kershaw took over. They eased out of the dive, and climbed back for height. Kershaw repeated the manoeuvre once, and Jeremy tried to follow his example. It was slightly better this time, but still the exercise felt strangely wrong. They returned to the field, and Jeremy felt low. A fear had entered his mind that he might be axed.

It was therefore with relief that Kershaw had seemed quite jovial at the debriefing. He had sounded quite pleased, and the reason manifested itself as being the fact that Jeremy had 'stuck it out', righted the aircraft, and not 'given up'. The reason for everything going pear shaped, was 'insufficient back pressure on the stick'. Jeremy, relieved, found himself listening with fascination to what Kershaw had to say, and asking questions with the spiritual hunger of the determined seeker of Eternal Truth. Moreover, Kershaw enjoyed the questions, and the interest his pupil displayed.

The R.E.8 also seemed to behave remarkably oddly at low speeds through the air. Kershaw seemed to regard it as essential that his pupils fully grasped the dangers of slow flight close to the ground. He briefed often and fully on the warning signs. Jeremy found invariably that Kershaw was right in everything he said, and was increasingly fascinated by the exploration of all the characteristics of flight. Certain ideas Kershaw promoted seemed a bit far fetched, but turned out to be remarkably useful. The stick forces and 'feel' could actually tell you a lot about what was happening. If the aircraft was travelling at high speed, the controls through the stick felt delightfully 'crisp' and sensitive. There would be plenty of air flowing across the ailerons on the wing and the elevators on the tail. Small control surface movements had a big effect. However, if the aircraft was going very slow, the controls felt 'sloppy' and 'spongy'. This, Kershaw never ceased to hammer home, was a warning that the aircraft could be about to stall. If you stalled low... Jeremy had discovered a scrapyard behind the furthest hangar, and his initial joy had soon turned to horror at the realization of the destruction wrought by an aircraft contacting the ground out of control. Splintered spars, scraps of torn fabric, and unrecognisable cockpits had set him wondering what had happened to the unfortunate occupants. Nobody seemed to know however, or be willing to tell him.

This experience had the effect of tempering his out and out wild beginner's enthusiasm, and some innate cautious streak prompted him to listen seriously to Kershaw's warnings, and to ask questions when he was puzzled. Sometimes he felt that the others were content to let him do all the asking. Either that, or they were extremely smart, Jeremy decided wryly.

There were other warnings an alert pilot could pick up if he had inadvertently let his air speed drop very low. Apart from the 'sloppy' controls, there was an odd sort of 'buffeting' that took place. His first experience of that occurred early on, at the end of an exercise on 'climbing and descending'. As promised beforehand, Kershaw had chopped the power, whilst in a gentle climb, and Jeremy had tried to maintain the nose of the machine in the same position relative to the horizon, for as long as possible. After a while, it had been as if some giant had been secretly grabbing the aircraft by the tail and shaking it. This shaking had become increasingly vigorous. Kershaw had opened up the engine again, and inquired of Jeremy's impressions afterwards on the ground. Jeremy had relayed these, and in particular the idea of a giant shaking the tail, to which Kershaw's only comment had been:

Good. That warns you that you are about to stall. More of that later!

At the same time that Jeremy's group was being instructed by Captain Kershaw, another group of a dozen odd pupils were receiving the attentions of a Captain Fisher. He was a solidly built man, of a very determined bearing. He shouted a good deal, and Jeremy formed the impression his charges feared