LITMIR.BIZ

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the colour of his pipe tobacco from a teapot rarely allowed to run dry, two sizes bigger than his head. And all in a small flat, with only one smoking chimney. While Lily had ironed and folded the washing, Fred had washed and shaved over their kitchen sink. Bill chatted excitedly about his plans how he might become a fighter pilot to avoid death in the trenches.

      Fred was enthusiastic. ‘Sounds a good idea, Son. ‘If yer can pull it off.’

      It had been a big day for smiles and nods, but what had seemed logical then, had fast become foolhardy, now a distant mirage.

      Bill rubbed his sweating palms on his knees and tried to concentrate. Pondering his fate with the exams, he twiddled with his pencil. He felt stonewalled again. Perhaps he should give up.

      *2nd footnote. Rudolf Hess was an expert pilot. On 10 May 1941 he flew a Messerschmitt ME-110 fitted with long-range fuel tanks for the 900-mile flight of five hours. He navigated to within thirty miles of the Duke of Hamilton’s residence in Scotland before baling out. After parachuting safely to the ground he encountered a Scottish farmer and told him in perfect English, ‘I have an important message for the Duke of Hamilton from my Fuhrer. His plan was to approach the British government through the Duke whom he knew personally. Despite his attempts to negotiate a peace settlement with the British government, he was ridiculed until Churchill ordered Hess to be imprisoned for the duration of the war in solitary confinement. If the British government had handled his intervention diff erently, might not his eff orts have saved millions of lives? No one will ever know. Many, including Bill, believed it was the usual whitewash and cover up.

      *3rd footnote. Young Eric never returned home. He didn’t survive the trenches. A telegram stated he was—Killed-In-Action. One more unfortunate casualty of war, another name added to the ever-growing list of thousands killed or missing. Nothing was left of Eric but cameo memories. No one ever imagined a death toll of over sixty million. But why had so many died for so little?

      CHAPTER 5

       WEEDING-OUT

      Bill broke from his muse of negativity. With the world locked in mortal combat he shouldn’t expect life to be easy. But if only this exam was as effortless as when he defeated Alf.

      He’d been so nervous about call-up he’d enrolled in evening classes where he achieved more than expected. Gone to the top of the class and allowed to give out the pencils. He’d felt prepared to face anything—until now.

      Might his competitive edge be about to fail him?

      Being government inspired tests, the majority of questions bordered on absurd. They looked baffling. There was one in particular he read quietly aloud, again:

      ‘A rectangular diagram of a field with shaded blobs to represent trees accompanied this question. Underground warrens were shown with dotted lines. Dimensions, compass points and entry for said rabbit was clearly marked with a big X.’

      Confused and in a state of rising panic Bill looked around the room. This test was insurmountable but everyone else appeared busy and confident. Some were diligently making frenzied calculations, others engaged in Pythagoras theories. A few longhaired intellectuals had slide-rules.

      Bill’s discontent only helped him remember why he should have worn clean underwear.

      His idea of pi despite evening classes was something to have with chips and peas. He’d always counted on his fingers and still did, content to pull down A’s and B’s in sincerity and honesty. He cast his mind back to questions at his evening classes.

      One question had been; how far could a train travel into a tunnel?

      It was a trick question, thrown into the mix as light relief and not to be taken seriously.

      The answer they wanted was; half-way (because after the mid-way point the train would be on its way out).

      Surely not, thought Bill. But the question was clear; ‘How far can a rabbit run into a field?’

      Was it possible the only answer the RAF wanted was same as with the train?

      He took a chance and wrote half-way.

      The next paper they handed him was even more confusing. Large letters at question number one stated. ‘FIRST READ ALL the questions slowly and thoroughly.

      Do not attempt to start this test until you have read the final question.’

      Bill was impatient. He went straight to the final question number thirty.

      It stated. ‘You are not required to answer any questions in this test. Please place your name here and sit back with your arms folded. You have completed the test.’

      As he looked about him, a few sat bolt upright their arms folded and smiling.

      Others were writing like mad.

      As Bill bumbled along he started to feel as if fate had rolled out a welcome mat.

      The kid from the slums might scrape through their tests without too many trips to the toilet.

      When he found out he’d passed their Mathematics Exam and General Knowledge test, his excitement flooded over.

      At home Fred was surprised. ‘I didn’t think yer had it in yer, Son. Well done.’

      For the first time in Bill’s short life he felt a sense of accomplishment. But wait on. Why would they choose him over bigger, stronger, better-educated and more athletic looking applicants?

      ‘I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or go jump in the fuckin’ Thames, Dad.’

      More surprises were to come.

      He needn’t have worried as the bravado types were quickly eliminated soon after the rabbit had run into the field. Like rabbits running out again, they were assigned to other duties and trades, including His Majesty’s kitchens. Big strong men convinced they would be taught to fly were trained to wash dishes or peel potatoes the RAF way. Their dreams of soaring above the clouds evaporated with the steam as they washed plates.

      Whatever strategies the RAF and its powers-that-be implemented in their selection criteria, the gung-ho types were allocated elsewhere.

      Some candidates appeared to be straight from Central Casting. One swaggered around Base with a revolver strapped to his hip, with an ego to match. Another wore cowboy boots stretched almost to his scrotum. Against them Bill felt inferior.

       It’s a certainty they’ ll get tickets to fly before me.

      On Sunday 7 December 1941 the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbour and the USA officially entered the Second World War.

      ‘This place is half as big as New York Cemetery, Bud, and twice as dead,’ laughed Cowboy Joe. His handshake crushed Bill’s hand until his toes curled up. ‘Our President Roosevelt will soon sort these fuckin’ Nazis out!’

      Worldly, strong and clever, thought Bill. And he wished he were more like Cowboy Joe. Some had panache for the aeronautical, sounded confident and knowledgeable about machines that flew. How he wished he were more like them. Others had experience, if only as a passenger and wore outrageous flying apparel. Another had done eight hours solo.

      Some sported bushy style moustaches waxed to perfection. If they didn’t resemble Clark Gable, they made Dick Tracy look like a pansy. They knew everybody worth knowing. One even spoke of a get together while skiing in St Moritz. They all had an edge over Bill. They walked the walk, looked the look and spoke the part.

      A couple sported suave leather jackets like rebels without a cause. He envied them their longer hair and rebellious clothes, which he couldn’t afford and wasn’t allowed to have. There was even a robust Australian proud of his tough guy tribal tattoos splattered over his arms.

      When Bill told Fred, he laughed. ‘So tough, you mean he has them emblazoned on his testicles.’

      ‘Ouch! Enough to make your hair

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