23. Of Kings and Common Men

“The past is never dead: It’s not even past.” William Faulkner

The war had been safely fought and won over a kitchen table. For the chroniclers of history, the good guys won and the bad guys had lost. Great Britain and her Commonwealth partners had pitched a good game; managing to keep the score close. But in the late innings America stepped up to bat and smacked a home run with two men on. A new player had swaggered onto the field and changed the face of the game.

The British Empire: that global power and economic juggernaut on which the sun never set was about to step down from the world stage. During the reign of Queen Victoria, Britannia controlled over 25% of the world’s population and land mass. After the war, decolonization took hold around the globe as one country after another opted (mostly unopposed) for self-rule. India and Burma in 1947. Palestine in ’48. Across the African continent former colonies chose to opt-out. The trend would continue through the rest of the 20th Century when Prince Charles officially handed Hong Kong over to the Communist Chinese government. The greatest empire in the world would be reduced to a small island no bigger than Oregon. On the plus side however; Oregon is our 10th biggest state.

As the English emerged from their backyard Anderson shelters and from the depths of the Underground they could finally take a collective breath of fresh air. Publishers wouldn’t have to print schoolbooks in German after all. A grateful nation showed its appreciation to Winston Churchill by unceremoniously booting him out of office. Clearly the English felt that after 6 years of sacrifice it was time to step off in a new direction. Anything that resembled the past was held up to the looking glass; and found wanting. Out with the old. Like the artifacts in a museum that are tucked away in storage rooms beyond sight, you know they’re there… you just don’t get to dwell on them. But before they locked the door and turned out the lights, the British paused to place their pride on the top shelf along with their bowler hats and world maps.

Keep in mind that the hardships brought on by the war didn’t magically disappear with the arrival of VE Day. Like millions of Europeans on the Continent, the British were literally digging themselves out from under the rubble of their bombed cities. Rationing would continue in Britain until 1954; fifteen years after it began. Tea and sugar were among the last items on the list. To the average American that would be akin to a ration on Cokes and Big Macs. Most people would think that the British don’t celebrate the Fourth of July but they do. That’s the day that rationing officially ended. Unfortunately, Fish ‘n Chips makes lousy barbecue food so our celebration tends to over shadow theirs.

That same summer, an Englishman; Roger Bannister, did something that sportswriters said could never be done. He broke the 4-minute mile. Suddenly it was okay to be British again. The flags came out and were waved about and then just as quickly were locked away again. There they remained closeted until 1966 when England not only hosted the World Cup – but they won the darn thing. And while the country flirted with the notion that just perhaps, there’s nothing wrong with a little national pride, Bob Doe was enjoying the quiet life for the first time in 27 years, having retired from the RAF four months earlier. Incidentally, England, appropriately enough, defeated West Germany in the finals. And ironically, just as in the fateful summer of 1940, America didn’t field a team.

Back in Sussex, the three of us sat around and lamented the decline of the British Empire: all the good, bad and indifferent of it. Any nation that can produce Stonehenge, the Magna Carta, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the King James Bible, the Pub, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Mary Poppins, Winnie the Pooh, Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Rudyard Kipling, Winston Churchill, George Orwell, the Spitfire, James Bond, the mini skirt, John, Paul, George and Ringo, Royal Albert Hall, the British Museum, the Tate Modern, Monty Python, the mini skirt, the Underground (Mind the Gap), Margaret Thatcher, the Routemaster bus, Big Ben, the BBC, Fish and Chips, Yorkshire Terriers, the mini skirt, Dame Judy Dench, English muffins and my ancestors, can’t be all bad.

Bob and Betty both felt that the pendulum had swung too far to the left. I mentioned how nice it was to see that they flew the flag at their home and how my friend Alan in Manchester had pointed out to me that there’s no sense of pride in being English these days. They both echoed that sentiment. Bob said that he felt compelled to ask his neighbor’s permission to fly the flag on their regulation-height pole in the yard.

“He’s fine with it as long as the wind doesn’t blow it around too much.”

It seemed sad to me that a nation that had contributed some of the greatest literary, cultural and scientific works to the world had allowed itself to become so uncomfortable in its own skin. Being humble and unassuming is one thing. Being embarrassed is completely different. By birthright I am an unabashedly proud citizen. As a Southern I have had to weigh the wrong-doings and misdeeds of my heritage against the innumerable contributions from those same people. From the indecency of slavery sprang the dignity of Rosa Parks. From African dirges came the Blues, which in turn, begat Rock and Roll. And as an American… well, there’s no limit to all the points of pride that we can hold up at Show and Tell. But, if Americans can wave the flag and yell, “Look at us” after only 230 years as a nation (great though we may be) then the British should have every right to sit us down and say, “That’s terrific; but when we were your age….”

Another spot of tea later and we had moved on to more trivial matters. I suppose any subject broached after what I had just experienced was bound to be trivial. Betty asked me how I liked the Canary Islands. I gave her the punch line to my experience with Cerstin. She thought that was just horrible and I felt better having her on my side. I said that perhaps dating a German girl hadn’t been such a good idea. They looked at each other as if to say. “That’s what you get.” I glossed over the moment by saying that what I was really looking for was a nice English girl. “At least we’d only be separated by a common language.” To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw.

Betty chuckled. “Good for you. Oh, that’s much better.”

The hours past delightfully by. For the first time since arriving I noticed how dark it had become outside. It had been hard enough finding this house in the daylight that I think I can safely say that the thought of driving back at night made me quite anxious; in the correct sense of the word. Besides it was 7:00 pm and I was probably keeping them from their supper, though neither of them made any moves or suggestions that it was time for me to leave. Still, I felt as if I had extended my welcome as long as I should have and that I could impose on them no longer.

“I really should be letting you both get on with your evening.” I interjected. “I’ve probably taken up too much of your time already.”

“Oh nonsense.” Bob responded. I think Betty suggested that I was being a “Silly ole pudding.” I had never heard that expression before and it caught me off guard. Perhaps I didn’t hear it right. It was obvious however that she was echoing Bob’s sentiment.

“It has been an absolute pleasure to meet you.” Bob continued. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciated getting your kind letters.”

“And he really means it.” Betty added “He shows them to everyone. They’re his letters from a Hollywood stuntman.”
I didn’t think I could be humbled any further by my experiences here today but I felt my face flush a bit and as I broke into an embarrassed smile. I reached up to casually dab at my eyes, which had begun to glisten slightly at his unexpected humility and humanity. I thanked him for his graciousness and for taking the time to meet with a stranger from “across the Pond” and for regaling me with his remembrances of the war.

“It’s such a terrible waste…war is. There’s just no reason to it is there?” It seemed that we had fast-forwarded 60 years and were suddenly talking about the current war. I felt like he was bringing me full-circle and that I needed to leave with the understanding that war is not romantic nor is it heroic. It is a sad and lonely affair that degrades and diminishes everything and everyone that it touches.

I said something very profound in response. I only wish now that I could remember what it was. I thought about Andi’s nephew Charlie. It had been less than a week since he was killed in Iraq. I mentioned him to Bob and Betty. They were both disturbed by the news. I said that in all my sheltered, pampered life that Charlie was the only person I knew that had been killed in war.

“It’s always the politicians that get us into these messes.” He said.

“But they’re not the ones that are asked to pay the price.” I added; not very profoundly. Betty voiced agreement and the conversation trailed off. I stood up and reached into my backpack. I broke the silence by asking if Bob he would mind signing two copies of “Spitfire Ace”. I wanted one for myself and one for my best friend Tom. I apologized by saying that I had tried unsuccessfully to find his book before I came but no one had it in stock. He happily obliged.

“How do you want it to read?” He asked as he turned to the title page “Do you want me to sign it ‘Wing Commander’?”

I started to say that whatever title he felt was appropriate was fine by me but Betty interjected. “Oh he doesn’t want all that. Just sign your name.” And so he did.

John, with my best wishes – Bob Doe

“Now, shall we be getting your autograph?” Betty inquired. She explained that late last year they had a visit from a Canadian who wanted to meet Bob and take some photos of him. A few days afterwards Betty told her grandchildren about this nice young man named Bryan Adams (as in: the rock star). The Grandkids gave her fits for not getting his autograph and she didn’t want to go through that again with. I assured her that her family had never heard of me but that just to be safe I would send them autographed pictures when I returned home.

“May I ask another favor of you? I put forward. “Do you know of an easier way to get back to Gatwick?”

Bob immediately sprang to the rescue and turned to Betty. “Why don’t you ring up Tim?” Their son-in-law. Betty did, and explained the situation to him. She made the introductions and passed the phone to me.
“Hello John.”

“Hi Tim. Sorry to trouble you.”

“No worries. So where are you off to?”

“I’m staying at a hotel near Gatwick.”

“Oh…well take the A26 to Tunbridge Wells....”

“Hold on just a moment….” I flipped through my note pad. The one that I hadn’t written a single word in since entering this house. So much for a career in journalism. At the same time I fumbled around in my backpack and fished out a pen.
“Okay.” I reported “Take the A26…”

“That’s it. When you get to Tunbridge Wells take the A264. You’ll see signs for M23 just before the airport.”

Simple. I thanked Tim and handed the phone back to Betty who also thanked him. I put away the video camera and the books, being careful not to bend the print that Bob had signed for me. I slung the pack over one shoulder as Bob and Betty both stood up to see me off. Bob and I shook hands again. This time I took his into both of mine.

“Thank you again so very much.” I offered. “I’ll keep in touch if that’s okay.”

“John, please do. That would be marvelous.” He intoned.

Betty saw me out the door and to the car. “Now you know how to get back to the main road?”

I assured her that I did. She gave me a warm hug and stood in the drive as I backed around and then headed out the driveway past the flagpole on which the Union Jack proudly flew. Less than 45 minutes later I was approaching the M23 and Gatwick. The drive had been uneventful. Even in the dark of night and with a brief mixture of snow and rain around Tunbridge Wells I had no trouble finding my way. I did overshoot the turnoff to the M23 and had to figure out how to get turned around the other direction. Then I got trapped on a roundabout for a couple of turns as I tried to determine where to exit. Eventually I made it back to Gatwick and dropped the car off at the rental place.

The clerk asked how I had gotten along on the English roads. I assured him that there was nothing to it. He asked where all I had been and if I had found it to be a satisfying experience. I smiled.

“I just interviewed Bob Doe, who flew Spitfires in the Battle of Britain.” I proudly stated, as I headed off into the English night.

22. The Remaining Few

I was running down my list of questions. I knew from my reading, that during the Battle of Britain Bob Doe was credited with 14 1/ 2 kills: making him one of the highest scoring Aces during the Battle. As a policy, Fighter Command frowned upon the practice of recognizing individual records, as opposed to the Germans, who tended to glorify personal triumph, often at the expense of the squadron. That was deep rooted in the God-like status of the Red Baron in World War I. And while it was the British press that felt the need to glorify the flyers, among themselves, the pilots considered it bad form to brag about their exploits: “Line shooting” as they referred to it.

When I asked Bob Doe about the planes that he had shot down he simply acknowledged that the number was accurate. I think I phrased it in some innocuous way; avoiding the term “Kills”. Like most of the young men who chose to hurl themselves around the sky in metal crates at 360 m.p.h. Bob Doe was a gentle warrior. He, and the others, did what they had to do because, quite frankly, there was no other choice. Many pilots recounted that they weren’t trying to kill the man; they were trying to destroy the plane. The Poles and Czechs who flew for the RAF, on the other hand, took things much more personally. For them it was a chance for retribution.

I glanced over at my notepad on the table to search for a good question. “You flew both Spitfires and Hurricanes. How many physically did you have… Where you had to bail out or crash land?”

He got quite still. I feared I had crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. He looked down at the table and shook his head.

“God knows. I don’t know. I have no idea.”

Bailing out of a plane must be tricky enough under the best of circumstances. I don’t imagine that there were many of those scenarios involved in combat. You had to remember to unfasten your straps, unhook your oxygen mask and communications lines from your flying helmet and then, if all was going according to procedure, you would slide back the canopy, roll the plane upside down, and fall out of the plane. That doesn’t account for the possibility that the plane is on fire, you get caught on something, you’re injured or that someone is shooting at you. Oh yeah… and pray your chute opens. If you survive all of that you automatically become a member of the Caterpillar Club: as in silk worms. Ergo, “Hitting the silks.” Bob Doe is a member.

Just after noon on October 10, while flying a Hurricane with 238 Squadron over Dorset he got tangled up with a BF109. Wounded in the leg and shoulder, and with a crippled airplane, Bob Doe had to bail out. His Hurricane crashed near the 1000-year old Corfe Castle. The battle diary for that day listed 8 aircraft damaged or destroyed with 6 pilots killed and one wounded. Twelve days later Bob Doe received the Distinguished Flying Cross. Only one medal, the Victoria Cross, is more honored; and only one of those was awarded to Fighter Command during the entire war.

Two months later he was flying again. And then on January 3, 1941 while returning from a night sortie the oil in his plane froze and the engine stopped. He crashed into a snow-covered field at 160 m.p.h. His harness snapped and he broke his arm. That was the least of his injuries. His face smashed into the gun sight obliterating his nose and knocking one of his eyes out of its socket. Doctors were able to reset the eye and he was placed under the care of Dr. Harold Gillies, who arguably was the Father of Plastic Surgery. While at Park Prewett Hospital Bob Doe underwent 20 surgeries just to regain the ability to talk and eat properly. He was even allowed to pick out a new nose from pictures of various styles in a book.

With a piece of his hip now forming the boney bridge of his new nose he walked out of the hospital four months after his horrific crash and rejoined his squadron.

Of course he mentioned none of this to me. I wouldn’t learn about his personal sacrifices and suffering until well afterward. So for the moment I was left hanging with a discomfited silence that seemed to last as long as it probably took to read that explanation.

Thankfully Betty, perhaps sensing trouble, or else trying to extract me from my awkwardness, came to the rescue.

“You didn’t always have the same plane….” She volunteered; deftly steering us back on course and away from the conversational rocks.

“I nearly always had the same plane.” He seemed to brighten up again. “Occasionally it had to be serviced or repaired.”

Crisis averted. Betty has been a real lifesaver throughout this process. I suspect that is in both the literal and figurative senses. She was a natural editor for Bob’s remembrances. I’m sure she has sat in that same chair across from me on countless afternoons as Bob recounted his life to other captivated audiences. She was a trusted partner in the business of “Bob Doe – Fighter Pilot”. I knew that he was in very capable hands having her by his side.

As we talked Betty would unapologetically light a cigarette as though we were back in 1940’s London, sitting around a cozy table at the Savoy Hotel or taking a break between dances at the Hammersmith Palias. I found it rather charming. She refilled my glass with a spot more Brandy and put the kettle on for tea which she served up with a plate of absolutely mouth-watering biscuits (cookies). She arranged the flowers that I had brought in a crystal vase and set them on the counter near us. While she tended to us Bob signed a print for me of a pastel portrait of him as a young pilot.

I commented on the American pilots penchant for painting the name of their girl, or some other form of nose art, on their plane. I had noticed in pictures that the British planes seemed devoid of that.

“Some people used to put the number of swastikas on the side that you’d shot down. I never did.” I could sense that he viewed that as a visual form of “Line shooting”.

“I always had a ‘D’ on my plane. ‘D’ for Doe.” That sounded like something I would do. I don’t know if it’s superstition or just something neat to do. Even now I wear “90” on my ice hockey jersey because it was my number when I played football in high school: Just a year or two younger than many of those pilots. It was probably the only thing that I would be able to empathize with. I joined his smile with one of my own.

“One of the nicest things that happened, I think, during the Battle of Britain, was on one occasion – as I told you… we had no C.O. and no “A” Flight Commander at all – they posted a new C.O. in and… he came up as my #2 on his first sortie. We eventually came across a JU-88 over Winchester area, or somewhere. I shot this thing down (laughs). I say I shot it down because I was the only one near it. It crashed in a field not far from the airfield.”

There must have been a bit of personal (and professional) satisfaction involved with that. I’m not certain how things worked in the RAF but I imagine that if I shot down a German bomber in front of my boss she would be very impressed, to say the least.

The imagine of the bomber, burning away in the field, reminded me of something that I hadn’t thought of in probably 30 years. I told them about the English Literature book that my mother had when she was going to school in Mississippi. It had obviously been published in the early ‘40s because when you opened up the cover, there inside, across two pages was a painting of a JU-88 that had just crashed in a field. Flames licked the outside of the mangled fuselage with the swastika was still emblazoned on the tail fin.

Bob eyes danced with the image; both his and mine. He laughs. “How lovely… (still laughing)… How lovely.”

He sighed. It was a relaxed and satisfying gesture. I looked for a sign that he was getting tired of reliving his experiences but to the contrary I think he actually pulled strength from doing so. We were soon back up at 20,000 feet again, a smoldering JU-88 scattered across a field in southern England below.

“…. I got a bullet through my main spar in the process. The weird thing is – when you’re coming up behind an aeroplane to shoot at it: the Germans used a lot of tracers… and when the tracer starts out it comes straight towards you and as it gets close to you it goes past.” He held his finger out from an arm’s length away and brought it straight back toward his beautifully reconstructed nose as he described the sensation of being fired on. At the last moment he passed his finger past his ear.

“It’s really a funny feeling.”

I would hopefully have to take his word for that. In my relatively cloistered life-experience I have never thought to use the word “funny” in the same sentence describing being shot at.

“You get down deeper behind the engine, you know, because the engine would stop most things.”

Note to self: In the event of gunfire, dive behind a 1200 h.p. Rolls Royce Merlin V12 engine.

“The interesting thing was, on this incident where I had a bullet through my main spar – there was an RAF; not RAF… a Spitfire repair place down at Hombolt which was sort of a grass airfield near Southampton. I was asked if I would fly my aeroplane down there the next day to get it repaired.”

The defense of Britain was augmented by the use of the Civilian Repair Organization. These journeymen; many from British Railways, repaired almost 4200 planes during the Battle of Britain. Often times salvaging parts from crashed planes. 60% of the aircraft that they eventually rebuilt had been written off as total losses by the air stations.

“It was flyable. Not safely flyable… A bullet through the main spar, it wouldn’t really be would it? Anyway, I flew it down there. It was a lovely day. At that time we were so tired. My over riding memory of the Battle of Britain was tiredness. Over-whelming tiredness. We didn’t much sleep, and I think it could have a lot to do with tension as well, you know. The two go together don’t they?”

“I arrived there and the first thing I do is went to sleep on the grass. It was a civilian place with civilian people doing all the work; and the foreman – a nice man, came over to me, where I was asleep on the grass and said, would I like to come home and meet his wife and have dinner with them.”

These early days of the war were not simply the Battle of Britain. In fact, the German never referred to this phase of the war as that. To them it was, “Kanalkampf” (Battle of the Channel). For the English; and you must include the Scots, Welsh and Irish, it was a battle for Britain. Everyone shared in the affects and hardships brought about by the Luftwaffe’s campaign.

On August 24th two German bombers, off-course and lost in a nighttime fog, jettisoned their payloads before turning for their bases in France. Unfortunately they happened to be over a blacked-out London at the time: and the Fuehrer had expressly forbidden the capitol city to be bombed. Churchill repaid the favor with two nights of bombing raids on Berlin. Göering had to eat his words. Many Berliners, having grown tired of the Reichsmarschall’s swaggering boasts, took him at his word and began referring to him as “Meyer.”

When Göering asked his top fighter ace, Adolf Gallant, what he would need to defeat the RAF, Gallant responded, “A squardon of Spitfires.”

Enraged by the indignity of the Berlin attacks, Hitler ordered the full-scale bombing of London to commence. What had begun as attacks on coastal radar and airfields turned into the indiscriminate bombing of cities and civilians. On September 4th, Hitler ordered the first raids on London. The Blitz was about to begin.

On September 15th, what be be later known as the Battle of Britain Day, Göering launched the entire might of the Luftwaffe against England. At one point every plane that Fighter Command had was in the air. This was literally, Do or Die.

Bob Doe did not see action that day. Reflecting on 234 Squadron he recounted just how quickly things transpired during the Battle. “We were out in just under 28 days because we only had 3 pilots left.” He paused and then felt the need, I’m sure, to re-assure me. “They weren’t all killed.”

Fighter Command had won the day. On the 17th, Hitler cancelled plans for Operation Sea Lion. Bombs would continue to rain down on London, Manchester, Liverpool and the other cities and towns throughout England. But never again with the intention being to eliminate the RAF. Instead, Hitler now hoped that by bombing the cities, the people would turn against Churchill and the war. He was grossly underestimating the will of the British.

Bob Doe would return to action. He would survive countless crashes and agonizingly brutal injuries. The Summer of battles over the fields of England gave way to increased forays over German-held territory. The RAF was now taking to fight to Hitler. 1940 turned to 41. America was still a year away from joining the war.

In May he was promoted to Flight Commander and posted to No: 66 Squadron and after three months joined No: 130 Squadron on August 18th. Later that year, on October 22nd he was posted to 57 O.T.U. (Operational Training Unit) as an instructor. On June 9th 1943 Doe went to the Fighter Leaders School, at Milfield and then joined No: 118 Squadron at Coltishall in July. He then joined No: 613 Squadron in August until October when he was posted to Burma. In December 1943 he was tasked with forming No: 10 (Indian Air Force) Squadron and commanded it throughout the Burma campaign until April 1945.

“We were flying Hurricanes carrying two, 500 lbs. bombs and four cannons. It’s like flying a barge. I don’t know how else to describe it.” He laughed hard. “As an airplane it was useless…but it did the job.” He gave a satisfied and definite punctuation to that staement.

“We were dropping bombs 50 yards from our own troops. In the middle of the jungle. So your map reading had to be pretty accurate.”

“That’s precision bombing.” I marveled.

“It was. It was. Precisely.”

Their orders were to give close support of the ground troops and to stop the Japanese advance. With the formal surrender of Japan On August 15th, 1945 it was all over. Six weeks later, on October 2nd Bob Doe received the Indian DSO, one of only two men to be honored with this award.

Almost seven years to the day from the start of the war, Bob Doe finally returned home to his beloved England and his mum’s backyard; The one that he was just trying to keep “those Bastards” from coming into. The gardener’s son from Surrey, the 17-year-old boy that memorized the Moment of the Arm retired from the RAF on April 1st, 1966 having obtained the rank of Wing Commander.

Epilogue: 2,917 men flew in the Battle of Britain against the Germans. As of May 28, 2006, 150 are still alive. Bob Doe is one of the remaining few.

21. Tally Ho

Some estimates placed the number of German fighters and bombers at 2,500. The RAF had roughly 650 Spitfires and Hurricanes. If England were to achieve victory in the air then these fresh-faced boys of 19 and 20 years of age would have to shoot down battle-hardened veterans of the German Luftwaffe at a ratio of 4-1. Anyone could do the math. Fighter Command would be asked to do the impossible.

Churchill said in a speech to the House of Commons on June 4, 1940, after the evacuation of Dunkirk. “…. The Royal Air Force engaged the main strength of the German Air Force, and inflicted upon them losses of at least four to one….”

It was a very optimistic claim. Figures listed the RAF losses at 106 planes versus 390 for the Luftwaffe. The fact that this wasn’t true didn’t seem to concern anyone. It was a huge public relations triumph and an important morale booster. It wasn’t until after the war that it was discovered that the German losses amounted to no more than 132 planes.

Throughout the Battle of Britain the number of planes shot down on both sides would be greatly exaggerated. These inflated numbers were more often the result of confusion in the heat of battle; with several pilots claiming the same “kill”. When asked his opinion of suspiciously high kill counts, Air Marshal Hugh Dowding said, “I'm really not interested in dealing with propaganda. If we're right, they'll give up. If we're wrong, they'll be in London within a week.” Actually I don’t know for a fact that he said that. Lawrence Olivier, playing Dowding in the 1969 movie Battle of Britain said that.

Still, it would have been easy to overlook Churchill’s boasting of the RAF. Dunkirk was seen as a Naval triumph, aided by the privately owned “little ships.” It was his closing remarks in that same speech that grabbed the hearts and minds of the British (and perhaps a few Americans as well). “…. 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….”

Now the war was moving from the confines of continental Europe and was being fought in the skies above Great Britain. The average Brit was no longer an innocent observer, or a politically detached participant. You could step outside your home, look up into the sky and follow the battles being played out 20,000 feet above you. Planes crashed in your fields. Bombs, initially intended for airfields, errantly fell on your village. Everyone now had a stake in the outcome.

On August 15th Göering launched, what he told Hitler, would be the knockout blow to destroy the RAF and pave the way for the invasion of England. He sent 1,790 planes in five waves against 584 fighters for the RAF. He even gave it a name. Adlertag. (Eagle Day). That was the day that Bob Doe was first ordered into battle.

At 17:00 hours the call came in to 234 Squadron. “Scramble.” They formed up with Hurricanes from 87 Squadron and 213 Squadron. Their 20 planes were sent on a course to intercept a wave of bombers over the Channel. What they found was a combined strength of 125 German planes, including fighter escort. In their first action they were already at a 5-1 disadvantage.

F/L Ian Gleed of 87 Squadron quickly accessed the situation and the odds. In a moment of inspired lunacy, he radioed instructions to his flight. “Okay chaps… let’s go and surround them!” Though heavily outnumbered, the scrappy RAF pilots managed to break through the formation. Bob Doe found himself behind a BF110 twin-engine heavy fighter. He closed up within range and began firing his 8 machine guns. To his utter astonishment the fighter turned over and dived into the Channel. Perhaps somewhat mesmerized, he followed it down and watched it crash into the sea. As he pulled out of his dive he realized that someone was shooting at him from behind. The pursuing German over shot him. Bob Doe was able to settle in behind the 2nd plane and he shot him down too. In less than a minute he had claimed two of the three BF110s that crashed into the Channel.

The successes were not without losses. Three of the five Hurricanes from 87 Squadron that heeded the call to surround the Germans were shot down. One pilot died and another was reported missing. The third received injuries making a crash landing.

With the earlier disappearance of their C.O. and one Flight Commander, 234 Squadron was already down two men going into its first major combat.

“Two more of our people landed in France with their wheels down.” He stared deep into my soul. His gaze… I couldn’t quite place it at first…Deliberate. The pause lasted only a few beats but the implication hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. He seemed to be willing me to understand. I replayed his words in my head. “… landed in France with their wheels down.” - And then I got it. Those pilots weren’t shot down. They chose to land in France. The war for them was over. Life in a P.O.W. camp preferable to slugging it out in the air.

He punctuated the sentence. “We had four pilots went LMF: Lack of Moral Fibre we called it; in our first sortie.” He offered no other explanation nor did he editorialize.

The term “LMF” seems to have originated within the ranks of Bomber Command as a way of describing an officer or airman that refused to do one’s duty for whatever reason. It could have been a moral objection, exhaustion or saving your skin. It seems obvious that “LMF” was a proxy for “Coward”. The label might not seem particularly sensitive in this day of political correctness, when the individual’s feelings supercede those of the greater body. One good thing can be said for the term. Even though it was intended to shame and humiliate the individual it was a much kinder reputation to acquire than “Coward”. That word had legal ramifications that, in the heat of battle, that could get you killed: by firing squad. Better to forego a promotion or peel potatoes than be shot. Maybe that’s just me.

In accessing their performance Bob Doe was quite succinct some 60-odd years later when interviewed by another television crew. “We did everything wrong that we could possibly do wrong. We flew off in close formation, which is about the most stupid thing you can do... We got the same height that we were told the enemy was at, which, again, is very stupid. You want to be above them. We proceeded to troll up and down the sun which is idiotic because half the time you can’t see a thing behind you.”

For all the mistakes that were made that day, and there were many; the RAF had been bullied and bloodied, but not beaten. It was the first significant test of Hugh Dowding’s Fighter Command and they had passed. If the German insisted on coming they would be made to pay dearly.

On August 20, Winston Churchill rose in the House of Commons and paid homage to the pilots of the RAF and forever galvanized a nation.

“…. The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the world war by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

The pilots had finally gotten their due. Earlier questions raised during the Battle of France were forgotten. No longer were they viewed as a swaggering cadre of elitists. These pilots were from among their own ranks and social class. They were now playing to a world stage. And with the official anointing from Churchill they had just attained “Rock Star” status. Men wanted to buy them drinks. Girls wanted to go out with them. From across the nation they had become, almost over night, “Our Boys.”

It seemed like a good place to ask one of the stupid questions I had written down when I was sitting on the balcony in La Gomera waiting for Cerstin to return from the beach. Wow. Was that yesterday? Two days ago? I was literally and historically a world away.

“How many Sorties would you fly in a day?”

“Four or Five.” He said very matter-of-factly.

I think I audibly exhaled in disbelief. “So you’d land – because of fuel, or to rearm…. What was the turn around time before you’d go up again?”

“Oh… it depends on how quick you were. You could turn around in ten minutes.”

This time I definitely audiblized. It was a cross between a laugh, a gasp and a spit-take. “I had no idea it was that quick.”

“Our ground crews were fantastic. They really were fantastic. They took more interest in what you had done than anyone did. They used to leap on the wing as you got in and help you take your straps off. They’d say, ‘How’d you get on today?’. They knew you had been in action because when you’d come back, underneath the wing, where the guns fired would be gunpowder. They used to wash it off every time so they knew if you had been in action. They were wonderful. They really were wonderful.”

I was curious about the relationship between the pilots and the airmen that made up the support team. “Did you have the same ground crew?”

“Yes, yes. An airframe fitter and an engine fitter. The rest of them were just around all of the aeroplanes.”

These were the men that made it possible for the planes to stay in the air and though they weren’t taken the Germans on head-to-head they were nonetheless just as vulnerable to attack. Perhaps more so. With the Luftwaffes’s initial emphasis on bombing airfields there were many causalities to the ground crews. There were instances throughout the war of the heroic, selfless and unheralded sacrifices made by the ground crews as they tried to save planes or pilots from imminent danger; usual resulting in their deaths.

“One I have met since, but I think they’re all dead now. I remember our Flight Sergeant was an ex-bus driver. A London bus driver.” Bob Doe smiled fondly as he reached back to recall his crew. He probably hadn’t thought about them in years but doing so now seemed to please him.

In the first letter that he sent to me, Bob Doe included a photo of him standing in front of his Spitfire; still wearing his Mae West life vest and holding his helmet. To the left of the photo, sprawled on the grass field beside him, was a dapper looking fellow in full uniform. Officer’s hat and all. It seemed a strange juxtaposition. The casual pose somehow at odds with the rank. And yet, while my eye was first drawn to that detail, there was another, more important feature to the photograph. For there, on the wing, stood Bob Doe’s ubiquitous airman; ready to assist his pilot at a moment’s notice.

20. The Calm Before the Storm

In the years leading up to this moment the prevailing winds from the Air Ministry held that any invasion of England would be proceeded by a softening–up campaign from the Luftwaffe. They were correct. However, for the British, the assumption had been that the Heinkel, Junker and Dornier bombers of the Luftwaffe would have to carry out their missions without the benefit of escorts as the German fighters didn’t have the range to attack from bases located in Germany. That all changed with the fall of Belgium, France and the Low countries of the Netherlands. Now the Nazi’s could enjoy the security of fighter escorts across the Channel and beyond.

Back in Leconfield the fighter boys of 234 Squadron were still lamenting their consignment of Fairy Battles; The ones that were being, “… shot down like flies in France.” Well aware that these planes were no match for the Messerschmitt BF 109 the Luftwaffe’s lethal killing-machine.

In 1939, Alex Henshaw, the chief test pilot of the Spitfire traveled to Germany to tour the Messerschmitt factory. Prior to the beginning of the war Germany was very keen to show off their military prowess; and showcase Nazi pride. Mr. Henshaw was impressed with what he saw. Turning to his German host he remarked, “Well, we have the Spitfire.”

“Oh yes,” replied the Luftwaffe Major, “A pretty little toy. But the Messerschmitt is a fighting machine.”

That boast would soon be put to the ultimate test.

Bob Doe recalled one afternoon in March of 1940. “One day a Spitfire landed on our airfield and taxied over to our hanger. And we walked around this thing. We looked at it. We sat in it. We stroked it. I fell in love with it.”

I could certainly empathize with his sentiments. I remember being just slightly younger than Bob Doe was then when my father came home and presented me with my first car. It was a 1961 Cadillac Coupe de Ville: tail fins and all. Well, perhaps the stakes were a little higher in the case of 234 Squadron but there’s no getting around the love affair that develops between boys and machines. You don’t have to know how it works or why. The fact that it does what you ask of it is enough. It’s the perfect relationship at a time in your life when you probably haven’t experienced a proper one. You nourish and respect her and she responds in kind. Requited love without guilt.

“It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was beautiful too! Its lines…” He searched for the right words; recapturing his youth in a phrase. A thought. You could practically smell the grass of the airfield; see it bend and dance in wide rows as the wash of the prop beat it down. Suddenly, sixty-six years peeled away like the pages of a paperback novel on a windy beach. “It was meant to fly. It just looked like that.”

“The following day fifteen more showed up. That’s how we became a fighter squadron. And we were all bomber trained pilots.”

During the month of March the weather was exceedingly good. The pilots were afforded the rare opportunity of flying nearly everyday. They got to know every nuance of their new love. Once the Battle of Britain began in earnest this would prove to be a luxury that few of the squadron’s replacement pilots would ever know. Many would be lucky to get nine hours in the cockpit before being asked to take it up in combat.

“About this time we realized that the C.O. and one Flight Commander – we had one C.O. and two Flight Commanders – (They) weren’t doing any flying at all."

234 Squadron was part of 10 Group, one of four that made up the patch work of Fighter Command. Imagine the British Isle divided horizontally into thirds. 13 Group controlled the Northern-most region including Scotland. 12 group held the Mid-lands from Wales in the West to Lowestott in the East. It also mercifully protected the city of Grantham. The lower third was divided in two by a line running north from just left of Southampton. 10 Group anchored the western defenses while 11 Group was charged with the defense of Southeast England, including London. The latter would bear the brunt of the attacks. Fortunately they were commanded by Air Vice Marshal Keith Park.

“11 Group; Keith Park. They were very well organized and they kept the squads informed of everything that was happening in the latest tactics and everything else.”

With the use of the newly developed radar the RAF was able to detect the swarms of Luftwaffe planes as they formed over the Channel. In that way Fighter Command could send up squadrons that were in the best position to meet the invaders while other squadrons could be held back in reserve or stood down in order to affect repairs. All the four Groups would see heavy action. With London and the radar installation along the eastern coast obvious targets, 10 Group was on loan to 11 Group.

“One day we were ordered up to Middle Wallop, which was a battle area just inland of Southampton. At that stage, the C.O. and Flight Commander who hadn’t done any work; they just disappeared. They walked out. That left just one Flight Commander and a bunch of young lads.”

“We arrived in Middle Wallop… in the middle of the afternoon. We were told to park over at the far side of the airfield, away from the hangers – which we did. On our way up to the mess; in the meantime, the place was bombed (laughs). And the hangers were all knocked flat (still laughing).”

It must have been a surreal scene; the juxtaposition between the horror of destruction and a comedy of errors. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he recounted the event. He could just as easily have been describing the movie Steamboat Will. Jr. where Buster Keaton nonchalantly stands in the middle of a storm while the entire front of a house falls down over him.

“But the aircraft were on the other end of the airfield… so we were quite happy about that. We weren’t worried in the slightest. I don’t know why we weren’t worried… we were expecting it I think. Probably.”

Try as I might I could think of nothing in my life that could relate to that. War; in all its incarnations is the penultimate of human experiences. Those who have never been a part of it feel that they have somehow missed out on a grand adventure. I think there is an under lying understanding that you are a part of something historic. So add to my overwhelming sense of admiration for the Bob Does of the world a touch of envy.

Bob’s story was picking up momentum. I felt badly about interrupting him to ask for a clarification of some point or another. I tried to keep my questions to a minimum as I didn’t want to break the spell. I knew that in the historical timeline we were traveling it was all about to hit the fan. I felt like I was reading a book that I didn’t want to end. I wanted to be able to put it down, absorb the verbal pictures and wallow in a world not of my own making. To that end I wanted to be clearer about the various Groups.

“We were on loan to 11 Group. They controlled us in the air. But we had no information on them at all. 10 Group hadn’t a clue and (they) didn’t tell us anything… and since we were only on loan to them, 11 Group never told us anything. So we were on our own; almost entirely.”

In another television interview he elaborated. “No one told us anything. I’d only fired my guns once. We were given, I think, 20 rounds per gun. We were told to go shoot them into the North Sea.” He paused. “Well you can’t miss the North Sea really….” A slight wry smile breaks across his face.

Newsreels and movies featuring the RAF pilots cast dashing, romantic leads. David Niven, Trevor Howard. Scenes of young (which they were) fair-haired (not necessarily) flyers lounging about in deck chairs spread around the grassy airfield just outside the command hut. They would nap in the sun, play checkers, read, listen to the Victorola playing the latest hits from Bing Crosby or Vera Lynn. A state of readiness was always maintained. The phone would ring and everyone would spring to awareness; ready for action, only to be told that the NAAFI wagon was on the way. (This was a portable diner of sorts that brought tea and pies out to the airfield. I have no idea what NAAFI stands for.)

“You were on call in those days from half an hour before dawn; which in August was very early – to a half hour after dawn. So we had… 24 hours of the day, of which, what, 20 were daylights? Probably. Nineteen. Twenty. Something of that order. We had an old Nissen hut (the fore runner of the Quanson hut) which we had some camp beds in which we could go to sleep on if necessary. We were then scrambled.”

Some historians have placed the start of the Battle of Britain as early as June 10... others say June 30th. Both days saw increased acitivty by the Germans as they probed and prodded the English defenses. July 10th is another day recognized as the official start as Göering ordered attacks on coastal convoys and radar installations knowing that it would force the RAF to send up its planes to meet the threat.

What isn't in doubt is the 13th of August: Aldertg as it was named by the Germans. "Eagle Day." This was truly the first major offensive. Göering promised the Füehrer that the Luftwaffe would sweep the RAF from the skies within four days. Hitler had assumed that the British would be leery of another protracted war and was betting that they would to sue for peace. Had Chamberlain remained in power that would have been a strong possibility. However, Churchill’s election changed the rules. The new Prime Minister had been railing against Hitler since 1930 when he said, "If a dog makes a dash for my trousers, I shoot him down before he can bite." Now it seemed as though Hitler would have little choice but to invade the island. Operation Sea Lion was his plan to land 260,000 troops along the English coast. Aldertag marked the date of Hitler's orighinal invasion time table. But before such an invasion could take place the British air defenses would have to be neutralized. Fortunately for fans of Western civilization both Hitler and Göering grossly underestimated the tenacity of the British people as a whole and the small band of RAF pilots in particular.

“The air force in those days were full of Bluebloods….”

I saw a chance to contribute. “It was very aristocratic?” I thought it was a well chosen word.

Bob/Betty – “Oh very much.” “Very”

Bob continued. “It was full of Bluebloods…because of my background… no one ever said anything to you but I was made to feel an outsider. I was made to feel inferior…”

World War I had glamorized the idea of the “Gentleman’s War”, at least in terms of the air battles. Gallant pilots, their silk scarves flapping behind them, would fire a few rounds into the opposing fellow’s plane and then give a sharp salute as the doomed pilot would ride his hurtling crate into the ground. Up there, a sense of chivalry could still be observed. Down below in the muddy trenches; that was where the enlisted men slogged. The working class soldier. Flyers were officers. The ruling class. Flying was a rich man’s hobby. The officers that piloted the bi-winged fighters in 1914 were the products of the finest public schools. (In England the public schools are what we would consider to be private schools).

Ironically it was that very perception of entitlement and sense of elitism that had become very evident to the Air Ministry. The war that was coming would not be a Gentleman’s War. The British would need to cultivate their flyers and fitters from every walk of life. In a battle of attrition a live pilot was worth considerably more than a wrecked machine. It was into this new school of thought that young men, boys really, from all over the Empire were able to forego a formal education and study at the one thing that they all had in common: a love of flying. With the adoption of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve these common fellows would break down social barriers that had been so prevalent in the military and in doing so make a lasting impression on British society at large. But it would take some time. Respect must be earned. It can’t be endowed.

“I felt inferior to start with mind you – but I was made to feel even more inferior. As a result, when we went into action the first time I was convinced I’d be killed. But, because I was more scared of calling myself a coward, than have anyone else doing it, I went."

" In fact, I shot two down on my first sortee… That was my introduction to war. “

19. All This and World War Too

Robert Francis Thomas Doe was born March 10, 1920 in Surrey, England, just 16 months after WWI ended. In 1914, when the “War to End All Wars” began, the population of Great Britain and Ireland was 46,089,249. By the time of the next official census in 1921 the population was only 42,769,196; reflecting the 3,190,235 causalities suffered. The ensuing drain on manpower, material and manufacturing pulled England deep into the post-war doldrums.

“I had to leave school when I was fourteen.” Bob Doe conceded. “Jobs didn’t exist in England in the 1930’s. This was the time of the big depression.”

He had no way of knowing it then, but his humble beginnings, and the social class into which he was born, would have profound changes on the British military in general and the RAF in particular; and all within one, very short, and short-lived, generation.

“…. It wasn’t a rich background. My dad was just an ordinary gardener. And he worked for a man who owned a business in London… and when I had to leave school at Christmas… he went to his boss and said, could he find me a job in his business. He owned a newspaper. A very famous newspaper.”

That newspaper was, the News of the World. It outsold the other papers by almost 10 to 1, making it by far the biggest tabloid in England. Interestingly, Heinz Medefind, a German journalist, and all around good Nazi, had worked in London for five years before fleeing to Germany in 1939. Upon returning to the Fatherland he wrote of his experiences with the English press. He noted that the Times, “…. has the lowest circulation of about 200,000, due to its academic style that only a limited part of the population can understand.” Of the largest of the papers he commented, “The News of the World has the lowest intellectual level, but its circulation of 3 3/4 million is the highest.”

“I got a job of an office boy.” He said this with such clarity and glee it was as if he had just gotten the job.

Bob Doe was almost 15-years old. The British economy had sputtered and failed. As Prime Minister, James Ramsey MacDonald was out, and Stanley Baldwin was back in. Baldwin had previously served as PM from 1924 -1929 but lost the ’29 election to the Labour party’s MacDonald, who would serve from 1929 to 1935 before losing the post back to Baldwin and the Conservatives. Confused? Imagine the British electorates. I bring this rather dry detail to light because it was during this crucial time that the world stage was being re-dressed. The British government’s attitude toward their military was, by and large, “We have the greatest Navy in the world… what’s to worry? And don’t forget that the French have the Maginot Line.” Besides, there was the League of Nations*; founded to prevent future wars by embracing a policy of tolerance and negotiated settlement between nations. How’d that work out?

* Did You Know? Quiz time boys and girls. Who proposed the formation of the League of Nations? That’s right. U.S. President Woodrow Wilson, as part of his Fourteen Points speech and the adoption of the Treaty of Versailles. Ironically, Congress voted against joining the League of Nations, which began a period of U.S. Isolationism. Hitler came to power in 1933, and began rearming Germany.

“But wait” You say. “Didn’t that violate the terms of the Versailles Treaty?” That’s right, little Johnny. Hitler ignored the treaty. Can anyone tell me what else did Hitler did? “He took over the Sudetenland from Czechoslovakia?” Very good Becky. You see, in 1938 Neville Chamberlain was now the Prime Minister and he flew to Munich to meet with Herr Hitler, Benito Mussolini and Édouard Daladier (of France). They agreed to take the Sudetenland away from Czechoslovakia and give it to Germany in hopes of appeasing Hitler and staving off another world war. How’d that work out for them?

My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time. Neville Chamberlain - Heston Airport, London. September 1938.

“But I’m confused. What did the Czech President Edvard Benes˙ think about this Munich Agreement?” Well you might well ask, Keeshana. Unfortunately no one asked him. Chamberlain and Daladier made the decision on their own. Benes later resigned before the German invaded and he went into exile in England with his family. His daughter eventually made her way to America where she married and ended up being John Grantham’s 1st grade teacher. See how this all comes together?

But I digress….

Like many boys during the heady days of the 30’s Bob Doe was crazy about airplanes (or aeroplanes). He was walking home from school one day when an RAF bi-plane made a forced landing in a field nearby. Although painfully shy, he approached the plane and was able to feel the heavily doped fabric under his touch. It kindled an indescribable yearning in him.

“Every time I saw a picture of on aeroplane I’d cut it out and stick it in a book. I was just mad about aeroplanes.”

By 1936 it was pretty obvious to some within the British government (Churchill for one) that war was inevitable. There was much debate regarding what the best use of resources would be. Most felt that bombers were the future: That you must take the war to the enemies’ cities. Other’s argued, “The bomber always gets through”, meaning that fighters were needed to combat the threat. The “Threat” was openly acknowledged as being Germany. The Air Ministry ordered 600 Hurricanes and 310 Spitfires. However the Spitfire program was running a year behind schedule. It was such an advanced aircraft that it was difficult and expensive to manufacture. As late as 1939 there were discussions about scrapping it all together. And while they might not yet have the number of planes that would be need if war came, the Air Ministry could make certain that they would have enough pilots. That same year, The Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve was commissioned. Bob Doe remembers…

“Whilst I was there (at the News of the World) the government introduced a scheme where they would pay you to learn to fly, if you would give up your time. Now I leapt at that, as you can imagine. I did about 75 hours flying with the VR in old B2s.”

The salary was £25 a year.

“I realized the war was coming. It becomes obvious after a while. I was working in Fleet Street. The old Air Ministry building was literally 1/4 mile away. So I walked into the building; lunch time, and said to the commissionaire, ‘I want to be a pilot. What do I do?’”

I interrupted. “It was that simple?”

“I just remember being terribly, uh….”

“Green…naïve….” Betty offered up.

“Yeah. Green. I was that… all those things. I was terribly naïve.”

“Not very educated – “ Betty continued.

“Well, I left school at fourteen, let’s face it. I failed the only exam I ever sat, in fact” Bob laughed.

I asked him how old he was when he walked into the Air Ministry.

“Seventeen. I went to various offices and every time they found out I had no education I was pushed on to another office.”

That’s when he ended up in sitting in front of the officer with the “scrambled egg” on his hat.

“Anyway – he and I got along like a house on fire, and he discovered that I had done 75 hours of flying which, at that time was pretty good. Eventually he said, ‘Because of your lack of education I’m going to sat you an exam which you have to sit in the Ministry here next week. Wednesday.’ And then he took a book out of the drawer of his desk and he marked a chapter in this book. He said, ‘Learn that by heart before you come.’ This was the Moment of the Arm…, which I had no clue what the Moment of the Arm was. It’s where you put your foot on the pedal on a bicycle and the forced is not applied on the pedal, it’s applied on the fulcrum.”

“Oh yes, of course.” I agreed. Probably because I didn’t want to sound ignorant. I had no idea what the Motion of the Arm was.

“I knew nothing about that… however, I learnt this verbatim, by heart, and he sat me this exam that was a dead simple one apart from one question: “What is the Moment of the Arm?”, Which I knew, word for word. That’s how I became an officer in the Royal Air Force, sir. And that’s the honest truth.”

That was 1938 – one year before the war came to Europe.

“…. I became a short service officer and started flying with the air force in, what was it… February ’39. And I was right on through the normal things. I was trained on twin engines. Recommended for heavy bombers and eventually, the end of the course, which finished in the beginning of November ’39, after the war had officially started, I was posted to form 234 Squadron.”

Assuming that the average American school kid is still taught history in school they would probably tell you that WWII started on December 7, 1941. Tell that to Poland. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland using the Blitzkrieg tactics of dive-bombers and massive ground troops. Everyone declared war on one another and then… nothing happened. There were some minor skirmishes here and there but for the most part it was all quiet on the Western Front. This period of seemingly inactivity came be to known as the Phony War; as christened by an American senator: more likely than not to illustrate why America didn’t need to involve herself in the conflict. Churchill referred it this as the Twilight War, though many in Britain called it the Bore War. Even the always hilarious Germans jumped on the band wagon; referring to it as Sitzkrieg (Sitting War), an obvious pun on Blitzkrieg.

“We arrived in Hull; we were stationed in Leconfield in Yorkshire. We arrived at Hull Station in the pouring rain. It always seemed to rain in Yorkshire. They sent a three-tonner over to fetch us up and back (laughs). We finished up in the mess where we met the C.O. and two Flight Commanders and we said, ‘What sort of squadron is it, Sir?’ And they didn’t know. We went down to the flights the next morning to find that reason they didn’t know was, our equipment was 1 Tutor, which was a WWI flying dual aeroplane, 1 Gauntlet, which was the predecessor of the last biplane fighter we ever made; the Gladiator…so that was something like 15-years old… 1 modern, two-seater trainer, the Magister, which was a very basic trainer. That was our total equipment, thank you very much.” He breaks out in a broad smile. “That’s why we didn’t know what we were.”

“A bit later, a load of Blenhiems (twin-engine, light bombers)… turned up and we were flying those around the place. They’re quite a joy to fly. Remember, we were trained as bomber pilots. Then they took the Blenhiems away and sent them to Finland to help them fight the war against Russia.”

The Finnish-Russian War was a brief, six-month affair over border disputes. World opinion, such as it was, sided with the Finns, but the Russians, with their superior numbers, eventually got what they asked for. Ironically, when Germany declared war on the USSR in 1941, Finland, in one of those historically stupid moments, allied itself with Hitler, hoping that they could regain the lost territories. Great Britain now declared war on Finland. In the end, Finland lost more territory than they had originally given up and were also made to pay $300,000 in reparations to the USSR. That would be over $ 3 billion today. Ouch.

“They gave us Battles….”

“Fairey Battles?” I inquired. I have no idea where I pulled that name from.

“Fairey Battles. This was the time that Battles were being shot down in France like flies. Their total defensive weapon was one .303 (7.7mm machine gun). Their total defensive; and offensive weapon….” He let that point hang in the air. “They could carry one thousand pounds worth of bombs and had one .303 and that was it. It was, it was… well, it was about four times the size of a Hurricane with the same engine so you can imagine how effective it was.”

Flown for the first in March of 1936, the Fairey Battle was designed as a light bomber to replace the Hawker Hart biplane.

“It (Battle) was the first aeroplane in the air force to have retractable undercarriage and people kept landing wheels up all over the place – they put the word “wheels” in lights right across the dashboard.” He laughed at the thought of RAF pilots needing a reminder to lower their wheels. “This was very unpopular, as you can imagine. Letters about an inch high! One chap, I found out, had turned the lights off, which meant turning the engine off as well.” (Laughs).

Although they had only been in production a few years, the Battle was already obsolete by the time the war really started to heat up. Even the formidable German Stuka, which had proved to be so devastatingly lethal in Spain and Poland, would soon be pulled from service. A new era of aerial warfare was about to begin.

“I was very worried because, as I said, Battles were being shot down like flies in France. In fact, I don’t think we ever got a Battle back from France. Um, one came back.”

His story had pulled me in and I wanted to somehow participate in the adventure. I fumbled for an awkward opening. “This would have been before Dunkirk?” I tentatively asked and proclaimed in the same breath, like a schoolboy volunteering an answer he wasn’t 100% was correct.

“Er… around the time of Dunkirk. Just before.”

Yes! I thought smugly to myself. I’m historically in the groove.

Dunkirk. Victory through defeat. Army Group A of the Nazi war machine rolled through the Ardennes, flanked the Maginot Line and cut a swath through France. Army Group B swung down through the Netherlands and Belgium. Caught between the pincers of these advancing armies were 330,000 men of the British Expeditionary Forces, literally stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk; the English Channel at their back. What happened next would provide fodder for historians for the next 66 years and beyond.

The German panzers stopped. Faced with an opportunity to wipe out the B.E.F. the German High Command halted outside the town of Dunkirk and didn’t press their advantage. This allowed the British to commandeer a flotilla of privately owned boats known as the Little Ships. Over 700 of these vessels were used to ferry the stranded soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk safely back to England in what was classified as Operation Dynamo. The resulting “Disaster turned to Triumph”, as the British press referred to it, allowed the British army to live to fight another day.

“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.' Winston Churchill - To the House of Commons, 18 June 1940.

The war was now at their doorstep and the Battle of Britain of about to begin.

18. Meet Bob Doe

As Betty was escorting me toward the house I suddenly remembered the flowers and wine that I had brought. I ran back to the car and popped the boot. I also grabbed my backpack with cameras just to be safe. I joined Betty near the door and presented her with the flowers.

“They’re lovely aren’t they?” she said as she admired the bouquet.

“They seem so inadequate after all the help you’ve been so far.” I offered apologetically.

“Nonsense. Let’s get you in and warm you up.” Betty ushered me through the door. There, standing beside the kitchen table, was a bear of a man. His physical presence caught me by surprise. For some reason I had always pictured a fighter pilot as a small, wiry guy. My assumption being that the cockpits were small and cramped in order to allow for the lowest possible profile of the plane. Bob Doe did not fit this description. He was more John Wayne than Tom Cruise in sense of stature: both actors having played the part of a fighter pilot.

“John. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He intoned as he swallowed my hand in his, the grip strong and firm. The flesh soft and supple.

“It’s an honor to meet you Mr. Doe.”

“Bob.” He corrected me.

I had, of course, seen him interviewed for the “Spitfire Ace” series, which aired originally on British TV and was later rebroadcast on the Military Channel here in the States. The show had stirred me. Emotionally. Historically. I was moved to contact some of the pilots who waxed so poetically about those heady days, almost 66 years ago. And yet, even though I had seen his image and heard him speak, I was still unprepared for the deep, rich, honey-smooth timbre of his voice. The accent alone was enough to give instant credibility to anything he said.

Now, I’d like to think that after all the time that I’ve spent in Hollywood I’m somewhat immune to the allure that celebrities have over people. I’m not jaded… just not overly impressed. I’ve been around astronauts and actors, athletes and authors. Most were interesting and engaging and I’d like to think that I showed the proper respect for their particular station in life. But I was never much of a fawner. The only possible exception was meeting Jimmy Stewart.

But as I stood here in the kitchen of an English country home in East Sussex, shaking hands with an 86 year-old man, I can honestly say without fear of embarrassment that I was in awe. I stammered an awkward, yet heart felt, introduction and a sincere thank you for him having taken the time to write me back, and for extending the invitation to visit him in his home.

True to her word, Betty brought me a glass and gave me a generous two-finger pour of brandy. We all sat down around the kitchen table, on top of which rested a collection of papers and books; a beautiful old magnifying glass nearby at the ready. This was where they spent most of their time Betty explained. The light was good, which gave her husband a comfortable place to answer the correspondences that he still receives from all over the world. Bob added that it was also just easier to be in here: after twenty-one surgeries as a result of the war, he doesn’t get around that well anymore.

“Bob is always getting invitations to go on speaking tours but he has to turn them down. It’s too hard for him to deal with all the traveling.” Betty offered.

I looked around at the cozy confines of this wonderfully lived in room. It spoke volumes of the life of these two. I could picture children and grandchildren sitting around the table talking, or standing at the counter helping prepare a meal, waiting for the water to boil for teatime. Everything you needed was where it ought to be. It was a warm and welcoming room that enveloped you in a resigned sense of well-earned peace. It was, as if, the room itself was a member of the family; a living participant in the lives of the household. The steaming teapot formed its breath. The windows framing the door were its eyes, through which the passing of time was witnessed, acknowledged and respected. The laughter and conversation supplied its voice. This was a good room.

“I’ve always felt that the kitchen is the most important room in the house. It’s where all the socializing and living happens.” I volunteered.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Betty agreed. “Well come, you should see the rest of the house too.”

I stood up to take the official tour. I was surprised when Bob did so as well. (It’s going to take some getting used to, calling him Bob.) As we were leaving the kitchen and about to pass through the door he pointed to a box mounted high on the wall near the corner.

“That, is the original butler’s bell box. If you remember, the master’s of the house would ring for the servants and the signal would come through to the kitchen. It hasn’t worked in ages but, isn’t that marvelous?”

Marvelous, like its cousin Fantastic, is another of those evocative adjectives that the British use so deliciously; stretching out the first syllable as it flows, dark and dewy into the last two. I can’t think of when I last heard an American use the term, but wafting off the tongue of a Brit it’s poetry in one word.

Just off the kitchen was the scullery. Harkening back, once again, to the days when a home like this had servants, this was where meals were prepped, vegetables were prepared and the dishes and utensils were stored. Beyond this was the main hall from which the other rooms branched. We went into the dining room, which, like the kitchen, served as an office from which Bob could spread out the things to be signed on the larger table. Several prominent aviation artists have featured Bob’s exploits in their paintings and many of the originals hang on walls of this room. One of these was called, A Gentleman’s War, by artist Geoff Nutkins. It depicts Bob Doe’s Spitfire, wingtip to wingtip with a crippled Me109 belching smoke. They were cruising ten feet off the surface of the English Channel. Moments later the pilot of the Messerschmitt would ditch his plane.

“I just didn’t have it in me to kill him. I probably should have because he was rescued by an E-boat and came back and killed more of our boys.”

The Luftwaffe pilot was German Ace Hauptmann Rolf Pingel. He survived the war. After his death in the 1970’s, some thirty years removed from the event depicted in the painting, Frau Pingel wrote a letter to Bob Doe thanking him for his act of chivalry in letting her husband live.

The limited edition prints, like the ones that cover the dining room table, are offered with the signatures of the pilot’s that are portrayed in them. I’m assuming that this has financial benefits for the veterans. I would certainly hope it does. These pilots performed the duties of their job before it was fashionable to set out a tip jar. If the kid at Starbucks expects to be tipped for handing me a Venti serving of Sumatra, imagine what an RAF pilot in the Battle of Britain could have reaped.

“One chap was selling articles that I had signed by saying that I was dead.” I couldn’t discern whether this amused him or not. I know that I wouldn’t ever want to be called out by Bob Doe.

The next stop on my tour was the family room, located at the rear of the house. It looked out onto the backyard: or more correctly, the expansive lawn. As it was February the gardens weren’t in bloom but you could see where the various areas had been laid out for flowers and vegetables. There had been a pool once but they had long since filled that in. A small statue of a deer adorned the lawn: a gift from their children. Betty said that she would leave chicken carcasses, leftover from their dinner, on the porch outside the large glass doors. At night the foxes would come right up to the house and eat. That seemed like fitting thing to do in a land so closely associated with hunting foxes.

This room – like the kitchen- felt warm and welcoming. Pictures of children and grandchildren lined the mantel above the fireplace and occupied the hearth beside it. Visual echoes of the people that have called this house, home.

Back in the kitchen, we once again settled down around the table. I asked if it would be all right to videotape our talk so that I wouldn’t forget any of the details. Bob graciously gave his consent. I set the camera on the table and used some of the books that were there to prop up the lens so that I could get Bob in the frame. It wasn’t the visual record I was after as much as it was the verbal account of his life. As I was messing around with the camera Bob showed me a copy of his book entitled appropriately enough, Bob Doe-Fighter Pilot. He apologized that he couldn’t give me a copy but he only had two left and it was out of print.

When I had my initial letters forwarded to the pilots, I knew next to nothing about the men that I was writing. "Spitfire Ace" dealt more with their collective remembrances of the plane itself and the training they received (or it some cases, barely received) before taking off against the battle hardened pilots of the Luftwaffe. By the time the Battle of Britain was underway new pilots assigned to Fighter Command were lucky to get nine hours of flight training in a Spitfire before being thrown into the fray.

In the series, the chyrons (titles) introduced each pilot with their name and unit. The first flicker I saw of the man I’m now sitting across from simply said, Bob Doe: Pilot Officer 234 Squadron. He was sitting comfortably in a high backed leather chair, in what I now knew was the family room, recounting his rationale for war.

“As far as I was concerned, I was just a young boy, I’d every intention of stopping those bastards from coming into my mum’s backyard. That literally was what I was fighting for.”

After exchanging letters with him, and going on-line to dig a bit deeper, a more complete picture began to emerge.

Bob Doe was the third highest scoring English Ace during the Battle of Britain with 14 1/2 planes shot down. He received the Distinguished Flying Cross. In January of 1941 he was flying a night sortie when the oil in his engine froze and he crash-landed. His harness broke and his face smashed into the reflector sight, requiring plastic surgery and over 21 operations. He also suffered a broken his arm. After recuperating he was reassigned as a Flight Commander and went on to form the Indian Air Force during the Burma campaigns. For this he received the Indian DSO; one of only two men to be so honored. After the war he stayed on with the RAF and retired as a Wing Commander in 1966.

“Everybody knew Bob Doe was good, even Bob Doe knew he was good. He was always in the thick of it, somehow.” – Joe Roddis, ground crew.

For the next two hours I fell under his spell. I sat riveted to my seat as he enthralled me with accounts of his life. I tried not to steer the conversation; instead, allowing it to soar to whatever heights it wandered. I would occasionally ask a question or interrupt for clarification on a term he used. Betty had a wonderful sense awareness and familiarity with these stories and she would interject on my behalf when Bob made on off-handed statement or used a colloquialism that she felt I might not know.

“…. Eventually I finished up with a very elderly bloke who had a hat lying on the desk that had scrambled egg all around it….” He imparted as the discussion built around his first meeting with someone in the Air Ministry office. I must have raised an eyebrow or given and otherwise queer look because Betty jumped in.

“Do you know…you don’t know what scrambled egg means?” She interjected.

I laughed, somewhat embarrassingly, “I don’t know that.”

She turned to Bob. “You have to tell him.”

“…. Gold braid. We called it scrambled egg.”

“Oh. Of course.” I conceded. That makes perfect sense. Senior officers would have gold braid on their hats, ergo, scrambled egg.

That was just the beginning of a magical evening. I had sat down at the table with an 86-year old man and before I knew it, I was listening the words of a 19-year pilot who was about to save the world.

17. Rural Britannia

With Gatwick airport receding in my rear view mirror….Wait a minute! Where is the rearview mirror? Oh, for Pete’s sake, I keep looking up and to my right. This is going to take some getting used to. So is shifting left-handed. So is just using a manual transmission regardless of where it’s located in the bloody car. I remind myself that the driver side stays closest to the centerline and I repeat my new mantra, “Keep on the left. Keep on the left.”

I no longer feel as though the car will careen violently out of control. Of course I’m still on the service road that leaves the rent-a-car place. I also haven’t had to deal with a car coming at me from the opposite direction yet. I should have asked my Catholic friends who the patron saint of driving on the left is. I’m guessing that St. Christopher handles those duties but it would be nice to know if there is someone else that more specifically looks after drivers in England. Now that I think about it; probably not. Maybe in Ireland….

Okay, let’s have a quick glance at these directions –

1. Slightly left onto Ring Road North. Check.
2. Enter roundabout - Take 1st exit onto M23. (Oh God. A roundabout to the left…) Got it.
3. Straight on the M23 for 1.3 miles.

And so it went for the rest of the first seven key instructions. Unfortunately there were twenty-four such steps on my map and by the time I got to….

Slightly left onto Old Hollow – 1.1 miles

….I was wonderfully, hopelessly lost. The wheels had come off: figuratively speaking.

Now don’t get me wrong. England is a beautiful, warm and welcoming country. It has a rich and glorious history full of tradition and pageantry, myth and majesty. What it does not have is one discernable street sign. I suppose that if you live on an island – albeit a really big island – you probably assume that everyone knows where they’re going. But seriously; it’s been 66 years since the last threat of invasion. Don’t you think you could put back all the street signs that the Home Guard took down when the Nazis were knocking at your door? Just a thought.

I’ve been driving up and down this one particular road for some time now without a literal sign of where to go next. Up ahead a see a parking lot for something called the World of Water. It’s the third time that I’ve passed it so that’s the charm. I pull in and park. I thought that maybe this was a local tourist destination, like Rock City or Chico’s Monkey Farm. There were more than several cars in the parking lot. More, I thought, than would be here on a Sunday afternoon.

As it turns out, is a garden centre for all things aquatic. Fountains, Koi ponds, aquariums, the works. If it’s wet, you’ll find it here. What would possess anyone to venture out in 3º C weather to their local World of Water is beyond me , but thankfully enough people do that the store felt compelled to be open for business.

Like that enduring Southern icon, Blanche DuBois, I have come to depend on the kindness of strangers. During my first foray upon European soil, two years ago, I often found myself (after getting lost) having to approach the locals by saying in their respective language, “I’m sorry I don’t speak (German, French, Czech…”). Obviously I couldn’t sail that tack here. Instead I approach one of the blue-aproned employees.

“Excuse me. I have a stupid American tourist question.”

“Yes sir?”

“Where am I?”
I explained my dilemma and showed him my handwritten directions. “I think I’m here…” I said, pointing to #8 on the page “…But how I got here is completely accidental.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got there.” Said the clerk confidently as he took the paper from my hand and pressed it flat on the counter.

“I’m coming from Gatwick if that’s of any help.”

He ran his fingers down the first seven steps of my map.

“Well, you’re here on Turners Hill Road….Hey Charlie! Do you know where Church Street is?”

Another employee walked behind the counter to see what was going on. “Where are you looking for?”

“Church Street.”

“Not sure. Let’s check the map.”

Before long, five employees were huddled behind the counter, each with his own map, as if it were a contest to see who could help me first. One of the problems I was having with Turners Hill Road was that I assumed that it ran basically east/west. Or north/south. Either way would have been helpful. Instead, it snaked through the whole of the area. It was finally decided, though by no means definitive, that if I went right, out of the parking lot I would come to Church Street. I had just come from that direction but now that I knew (or hoped) that Church Street was back that way I would be even more diligent in my search. I thanked the helpful staff and retraced my steps. Sure enough, a mile and a half up the road, there was a church on the corner and a small sign indicating Church Street. I veered onto it and continued through the little town of Turners Hill. I was now fixated on locating Selsfield Road; or B2025 as it is also designated.

I drove for miles before I realized that I shouldn’t have gone this far. I turn around - which is no small accomplishment on the narrow roads with blind curves. Trying to quickly regain my awareness of which direction other cars might be coming at me, I shoot back into the road and into the left lane. Sure enough, approaching from this angle of attack I now saw a small sign that read, Selsfield Road, painted on a brick wall, partially hidden by a bush.

What a surprise. Why didn’t I think to look behind shrubbery? Oh well, I’m on my way now. Back on track. Somehow I’ve jumped from #7, and passed through, over or around such landmarks as

Next roundabout – 1st exit – Copthone
Next roundabout – 4th exit – Copthone Road

There was also this great one…

Slightly left onto Old Hollow

It’s almost impossible to comprehend that less than 24 hours ago I was still in the Canary Islands and now I was sailing serenely down this lonely country lane. It hit me at that moment just how at peace I was. No angst. No fear. No sorrow. Sure, I had spent an hour trying to get back on course but there are worse things in life than being lost in the beautiful, wintry landscape of rural Britannia. I had been so pre-occupied and anxious about losing my way that I hadn’t given a recent thought to the fact that I was actually driving on the left side of the road. I still misplaced the rear view mirror occasionally but it didn’t surprise me anymore. There was the odd missed shift; throwing the car into second when I really wanted fourth, but aside from that I was rather having fun. I fly around the corner, sending dead leaves spinning in my wake. I hug a tight corner, shift into overdrive and before I realize it I’m humming the James Bond theme. Loudly. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a passenger-side ejector seat or at the very least a button in the gear knob that sprayed oil out the back of the car.

Another nice feature about England are all the wonderful names of the small towns and villages that I’ve skirted past. Pease Pottage, Duddlesgate, East Grinstead, Bells Yew Green, Tunbridge Wells (not to be confused with Tonbridge) and the ever popular Horney Common. It’s like being lost in a Dr. Seuss book. Speaking of literature, A.A. Milne had a vacation home in nearby Hartsfield. The area that I’m driving through was the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin played. Poohsticks bridge still exists. I had hoped to arrive early enough to visit but at the rate I’m going that doesn’t seem likely. It’s still very peaceful and soothing.

But as you know; in general, and in my case, specifically, all good things must come to an end. Reality once again reared its ugly head, as Reality is prone to do. I start to second guess myself. I’ve been on Seldfield Road for quite sometime now, waiting for…. Let’s see, uh, here it is…

14. Selsfield Road becomes Chapel Road

Only it didn’t. Or hasn’t. It’s pretty obvious to me that I’m heading in the opposite direction. Another challenging U-turn and it’s back from whence I came. Up ahead I see a roadside sign pointing to something called Sulley Farm. As I get closer it appears to be a combination farmer’s market, restaurant, working museum and petting zoo. The parking lot here is even fuller than the one at World of Water. I went into the restaurant but they were so busy, there was no one I could pin down. I wandered over to the market, housed inside a barn. It was freezing outside and little better inside. I waited my turn in the check out line behind dowdy women with baskets full of produce. When it was my turn I asked the cashier if she knew where Crowborough was. She had no idea. Even the potentially helpful folks eavesdropping on my conversation shook their heads.

As I walked back to my car I stopped a woman that was saying goodbye to a friend of hers. She looked at my directions and was equally ignorant of the specific roads that I was searching for – Chapel, The Hollow, Top Road and my personal favorite, Plaw Hatch. She did, however, know where Crowborough was.

“This is confusing.” She confirmed, handing the notes back to me.

“”That’s what I’m discovering.”

“Why didn’t you just take the A22 from the airport?”

“I didn’t know I had that option.”

She was very helpful in getting me sorted out, and although she didn’t know the specifics of the town she told me how to get to the Crowborough vicinity. I thanked her profusely for her trouble and hopped in my car with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. It was now 3:15 so I called the Doe’s to inform them of my progress; or lack thereof. Mrs. Doe said not to worry about running late as they were in for the night and for me to call again when I made it to Crowborough and they would talk me in the rest of the way. I said that I felt sure that I was close and that I’d see them in about 10 minutes.

Some how I found the A22 without the slightest incident. I never saw a hint of the Hollow or Plaw Hatch but miraculously, up ahead, like a vision of the Virgin Mary that suddenly appears on a freeway underpass in Tijuana, I see a small sign informing me that Crowborough is somewhere five miles down the road to the left. Hallelujah! I ring up Mrs. Doe with the good news. Surely I’ll be there within minutes.

Oh if life was only that simple.

About three miles down the road I come to a T-stop. There is no indication which way to go. I crane my neck to see where the sun is. I realize what a stupid gesture that was. My instincts say that I should go right, and since my instincts haven’t done a thing for me lately, I head to the left. Drive. Drive. Drive. I see people that have pulled off the road and are walking in the fields. Some are flying kites. If I didn’t have somewhere to be I would probably have joined them. It looked very refreshing to be all bundled up and frolicking in the fields and the nearby woods.

Another U-turn, another call to Mrs. Doe, who by this time has insisted that I call her Betty.

“I have no idea where I am…”

“Are you driving through the forest?” She asked. I could imagine her trying to get a mental picture of where I was.

“Well, there are a lot of trees….”

“Oh dear. This has been quite an adventure for you I’m afraid.”

I’ll say.

“Hold on… there’s a sign for Crowborough ahead.” (Obviously one that the Home Guard had missed during the war) “It says, Crowborough – 3 miles.”

Just then I lost my signal. No matter. This feels right. A little further along and there up ahead a village comes into view. If it isn’t a mirage, it must be Crowborough. It is. I did it! There’s a sign proclaiming that this is the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Who knew? It doesn’t matter now as of course I’m still essentially lost as I have long since thrown my notes in the back seat; like I was punishing them or something. As I entered the township my cell signal crept back. I called Betty; afraid that by this point the Doe’s were having second thoughts about inviting such an obviously mentally deficient person to their home.

“Hello John. How are you getting on?”

“I’m in Crowborough.”

“Good for you.” She sounded genuinely happy for me. “Where are you exactly?”

I described the buildings and landmarks around me.

“That doesn’t sound familiar… Bob dear…where is the White Elk’s Pub?”

“Well, actually, I’ve past that now. I’m coming up on the Police station.”

“Oh dear. I’m afraid I don’t know where that is either. Hold on: Bob is taking out a map.”

BEEP BEEP.

I look at my phone to see that the battery indicator is in the red and blinking. Oh Lord, not now. I’ve come too far to fail now.

“Betty,” I interrupted, “I hate to cut you off but my phone battery is dying. Could you give me a landmark to shoot for?”

BEEP BEEP. Please blurt out something big and obvious, I silently implored. She thought for a moment and then offered up a couple of pubs with colorful names and another civic landmark that would be impossible to miss. If I pass the old orphanage then I had gone too far.

“Thank you. I promise I’m almost there.”

I drive through what appears to be the center of town. I head down a hill a make my way around a long, gentle curve. Before I know it I’m back out in the countryside. There’s nowhere to turn around so I keep going. Up ahead I approach another township. How in the world do these people conduct commerce with all these convoluted towns and streets. I manage to get headed back toward Crowborough. I turn left at the town centre and see a pub that has cars parked at it.

I run inside and crash headlong into an undulating wall of blue/white cigarette smoke. Hacking my way asthmatically and physically to the bar I ask the barmaid if she can help me. She knocks a heavy ash off the end of her fag and exhales a column of smoke so rich and white that you could signal the election of a pope by it. She comes out from behind the bar and takes a few steps toward the door. Pointing to the street that runs in front of the pub she indicates that the equestrian centre is at the top of the hill. Just a short distance. Can’t miss it.

“Let me get this straight.” I hoped to clarify. “That’s my car in the parking lot there. I want to drive out of that and take this road to the top of the hill and the equestrian centre will be on my right?”

“Straight up the road.” She said with a confidence that only someone that doesn’t care can possess.

“This road right here?” I pointed to the street in front of the pub and made a back and forth motion with my arm as if I was physically marking it with my pointed finger.

“You can’t miss it.” She replied as she pulled a long drag on her cigarette.

Wanna bet? I thought.

Out the door and into the parking lot where I execute perhaps the worse three-point turn of my life. The misplaced rear view mirror doesn’t help. I finally get headed straight and peel out of the parking lot, spraying a cloud of crushed rocks behind me. Up the street. On my left I see the pub that Betty mentioned. So far, so good. Let’s not get cocky. Ah ha! There’s the equestrian centre. Right turn. I catch a glimpse of a street name and it matches #23 on my list. My heart is beating out of my chest. Their street should be here somewhere. I pass what appear to be narrow alleys or private drives. Up a little further and I come to the old orphanage. Too far. One last U-turn for good measure. I creep back down the street. It… should… be… right… about…THERE IT IS! I’m finally on the last street of my map.

Betty had mentioned which driveway was theirs as (and you’ll be shocked at this revelation) there are no street numbers. The houses were nestled behind ancient hedgerows and trees. Even with the lack of foliage it was nearly impossible to see them as they were tucked back at the end of long curving, gravel driveways. I pull up in front of the house. It’s very serene. Exactly what I’d expect from a small country estate. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I look around. I ring the bell again. Still no answer. I turn toward the car and notice the top of a flag pole sticking up above the wall of hedges in the property next door. I’m at the wrong house. Only on RAF pilot that flew in the Battle of Britain would have a regulation flag pole.

I back down the drive of the wrong house and into the drive of the Doe’s. I parked beside another car and get out. I had hoped to arrive at 3:00. It was now 5:30 and getting toward twilight.

Betty walks out to greet me. She gives me a hug and leads me toward the kitchen door at the side of the house.

“Oh you poor dear. Let’s get you inside and get a nice double brandy in you.”

God Bless the British.