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.