JET LAG!

by Ryan Clifford

  ‘This is war, Mr Hutch, and you must do the best you can,’ was all they could say.

  So now, he had asked to speak to Sir Peter. It was his last hope.

  Sir Peter’s butler appeared.

  ‘Come through, Mr Hutch.’

  Willie followed the butler through to Sir Peter’s study, where he sat behind an enormous desk. It was piled high with files, documents and letters. Sir Peter was clearly busy and Hutch could see that he had better be brief and to the point.

  As the butler pulled the door to, Sir Peter barked at Willie,

  ‘Well, Hutch, what is it - you can see that I am snowed under?’

  Willie’s mind went blank. The room closed in on him and his mouth dried up. He stuttered into his prepared speech,

  ‘Well, Sir Peter, thank you very much for seeing me, it’s …..’

  ‘Get on with it man, I haven’t got all night,’ barked Andrews raising his voice.

  Well, Sir Peter, you see, it’s my sheep. They’re dying!’

  ‘So!’ growled Sir Peter again

  ‘Well, sir, it’s been going on now for nearly three weeks and I just can’t afford to go on. My family, they’re frightened and so am I - it just ain’t right sir.’

  ‘What’s been going on for weeks - speak up man!’ – his patience was clearly running out.

  ‘The noises, sir and the lights in the sky. About three or four times a week. Right above my farm - two bright lights in the sky - bluish white and yellow they are - trailing like a firework rocket. And the noise Sir Peter, it’s terrible - like thunder. It only lasts for a few seconds, but the whole house shakes and the children wake up and the wife cries and the sheep die, Sir Peter sir.’

  Willie was in full flow now and even Andrews looked up from his papers.

  ‘Where is your farm, Hutch?’

  ‘At last’, thought Willie, ‘some bloody interest.’

  ‘About twenty miles from here sir, near Fleckney.’

  Sir Peter put down his pen. Fleckney - again.

  ‘I thought that area was War Ministry land, Hutch,’ now adopting a less belligerent tone.

  ‘Yes, Sir Peter, it is, but my family has been farming there for over two hundred years, and we got permission to carry on when war broke out. We’re the only farm for miles around - which makes it even more frightening.’

  Hutch now had Sir Peter’s full attention.

  ‘Sit down, Hutch and tell me everything, - from the beginning.’

  ***

  Hutch left about an hour later, fully convinced that Sir Peter Andrews would solve his problem. Sir Peter had promised to take the matter up in London on his very next visit, and that Hutch would be fully compensated for his losses. Hutch was a much happier man.

  Sir Peter made a quick phone call as Hutch cycled away from the house.

  It seemed that all of his worries would soon be over.

  ***

  Hutch arrived home about three hours later. It was a long bicycle ride and he had stopped off for a couple of pints at the Red Cow, which lay conveniently on his route. He was looking forward to telling his wife Mavis about the good news. By God, she needed some after the past months. She had worked hard to help build up the farm after they had married. She deserved something better.

  There were no lights on as he approached the farm.

  Odd; perhaps she’s gone to bed, thought Willie. No matter, She’ll soon wake up when I tell her the good news.

  He parked the bike in the shed, locked it and walked round to the back door. It was wide open.

  ‘Mavis,’ he called, the first flicker of worry beginning to appear.

  ‘MAVIS!’

  Nothing.

  He thought about turning around and fetching Constable Merryweather, but that would have taken too long - Mavis might need him now.

  ‘MAVIS, where are you, what’s going on?’

  He walked through the back door and stopped dead in his tracks.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  By a single ray of moonlight shining sadly through the kitchen window, he could see the outline of his blood-stained family laying in front of the cooking range - piled up like some refuse - clearly all dead. They were dressed in their night clothes.

  He took two faltering, unbelieving steps towards the remains of his wife and children and knelt down - tears welling up in his eyes.

  ‘Who in God’s name could have done this?’ he muttered.

  A muffled voice from behind him replied softly, almost sympathetically,

  ‘You’ll never know, Willie.’

  Willie Hutch turned his head and just caught a glimpse of a man in military style clothing wearing a black balaclava. The last thing he saw was the flash from the barrel, and the last thing he heard was the shot from the gun that the man was gently cradling in his arms.

  Willie’s problems were indeed over.

  ***

  Sir Peter Andrews sat in his drawing room, sipping a brandy. His wife Rose sat with him.

  ‘It had to be done, Rose.’

  ‘I know Peter, it’s not your fault, there was nothing else you could do, you’ve got your own interests to protect, let alone the rest of the country.’

  ‘And Constance.’ Sir Peter reminded her after a few moments.

  ‘I know, but we can only hope that she recovers completely when this is all over. Couldn’t you spend more time with her?’

  ‘I can’t, Rose, you know that. Churchill has come to rely on me to deal with this whole damned business. How could we know it would all turn out like this?

  He’d gone over it time and time again but couldn’t really see what other road they could have taken.

  He went through the whole thing once again with Rose. They talked about everything that had happened over the past weeks. He’d have to be clear in his mind when he spoke to the Prime Minister tomorrow.

  They both eventually fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  And then, unknown to either of them, young nine-year old Constance Andrews crept back up the stairs to bed.

  1

  RAF Marham, Norfolk

  619 Squadron HQ

  5 February 1992

  ‘Briefing in forty minutes, Todd - don’t be late.’

  ‘OK, boss, I’ll tell everyone in the crewroom.’

  Squadron Leader Todd Morrissey put the phone down and turned to see who was still in the crewroom. It was lunchtime, and most of the aircrew had assembled to gulp down a quickly prepared snack before the afternoon flying wave. Who was here? He looked around quickly with the experienced eye for finding a ‘volunteer’ for a job. He spotted both Klaus and Frank.

  ‘Klaus, Frank, are you ready? The briefing is on in Operations Wing at 1300. I’ll give you a lift if you like. The car park is bound to be packed.’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Klaus, and returned to his bacon sandwich. Frank nodded his agreement.

  Great, thought Todd, that gives me just enough time.

  ‘I’ll be in my office if anyone wants me.’

  Todd sprang up and strode quickly to his office in the next corridor. En- route he called into the Squadron Admin section and asked the Adjutant to bring a file to his office for his consideration.

  Todd unlocked the door to the room he shared with the Weapons Leader, drew the blinds to keep the low winter sun out of his eyes and sat down behind the desk. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes. He looked up suddenly at the tap on the door. It was the Adjutant - or ‘ the Adj’ as everyone knew her.

  ‘Sorry I took so long, sir, a call of nature.’

  ‘That’s quite all right Patsy, shut the door behind you.’

  Flying Officer Patsy Jackson had been the 619 Squadron Adjutant for about nine months. It was her first real job in the Royal Air Force. She didn’t count the three long years at RAF Fylingdales in Yorkshire, looking after the trivia as OC General Duties Flight. Number 619 Squadron was the real Air Force and she was loving every minute of it. Unmarried and singularly attractive with l
ong blond hair and stunning blue eyes, she had a distinct look of Bardot about her. It was like ‘bees round a honey pot’ in the Officers Mess at Friday evening Happy Hours, as all of the bachelors swarmed around her craving the merest glimmer of attention.

  Morrissey stood up and walked around the desk to meet her. She turned to face him with her long legs touching the edge of the desk. She put the file down. Todd was staring into those piercing blue eyes, but said nothing. He reached down and with both hands gently eased up her standard issue, officer’s pattern skirt until it revealed that her visit to the bathroom had not been in vain. She wore a red suspender belt which held a pair of grey-blue stockings - as prescribed in Orders by OC WRAF - and she glistened in anticipation. Todd smoothly unzipped his flying suit and moved closer.

  There was no kissing, no passionate embrace.

  There could be no tell-tale evidence. No ruffled hair, no lipstick on the cheek, no perfume traces. They both understood that and accepted it - or rather Todd did. Patsy had other ideas - but was prepared to bide her time. It was risky, very risky, carrying on like this. If they were caught Patsy would be posted away and Todd’s meteoric career would come to a grinding halt.

  But the whiff of danger made it all the more exciting.

  That was the thrill for Todd. The danger, the risk, the impetuosity, the ridiculous stupidity of these ‘assignations’ which made them incredibly worthwhile. Life was too short to say no when it was offered on a plate like this.

  Anyway, he couldn’t lose. Even if people suspected the affair - and they did - it was like an inverse Catch 22 in his favour. If he denied the liaisons, the boys in the bar would all wink knowingly, and his kudos rating would soar. If he admitted it, he would get disbelieving hoots of derision, which suited him fine. As long as his wife didn’t suspect.

  She’d cut his balls off if she found out.

  However, none of this was going through his mind at this particular moment. Patsy’s gorgeous blond thighs were locked round his and this episode was about to come to its inevitable climax - when the bloody phone rang.

  ‘Shit!’ Patsy giggled.

  Todd leaned over, precariously balanced on the edge of the desk, and without stopping what they were doing he picked up the phone and answered in his best Flight Commanders voice.

  It was the Boss. He was ringing from Operations Wing and wanted Todd to bring the ‘Flying Displays’ file with him when he came over at 1300 hours. Todd looked down. It lay on the desk. OC 619 carried on chatting but Todd wasn’t listening. At that point he lost it and for a few seconds was unable to comprehend what the Boss was saying.

  ‘Did you hear me, Todd?’

  ‘Er, er - yes, yes sir, I'm just coming,’ and Todd was suddenly back in the real world once again. He hung up the phone and he moved away from Patsy, who was as cool as a cucumber as usual. Not a bead of sweat or a hair out of place. It was a trait that worried Todd slightly. A streak of ruthlessness perhaps.

  She used a tissue from her bag and eased down her skirt.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ she murmured, and left Todd to zip up his flying suit.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he sighed, ‘Never again.’

  But he knew he couldn’t prevent it happening time and time again, even if he really wanted to.

  2

  Operations Wing, RAF Marham

  Morrissey met Klaus and Frank in the crewroom and they set off for Operations Wing in his car. Todd was still thinking about Patsy. It couldn’t go on. Even if he wanted it to and he got a divorce, it would put the brakes on his career, and that was his number one priority. When you had an Air Vice Marshal for a father, there were distinct pressures to get on in life.

  Not that Todd had needed any encouragement. From that first visit with his mate Warbie to London Airport aged eleven, he had fallen in love with the smell of aviation fumes and the idea of flying for a living. He joined the Air Training Corps and took full advantage of his father’s influence. He flew at every opportunity. Gliding at fourteen, RAF Flying Scholarship at sixteen - he could fly an aeroplane before he could drive a car. He made Cadet Warrant Officer in record time - the highest he could go - and at seventeen was awarded a RAF University Cadetship. He sailed through his A-Levels getting top grades without breaking sweat. He even managed a reasonable social life and girlfriends were never a problem. He went to Cambridge and came away with a First Class Honours Degree in Aeronautical Engineering.

  There was only one minor hiccough - he was selected as a Navigator - not a pilot. Nothing his father could do could change that. Apparently, the scores he achieved in his Navigation aptitude tests were the highest ever, and the RAF insisted he became a ‘back-seater.’

  ‘It would be a pity to waste such a talent, Todd,’ smirked the pilot President of the aircrew selection board at RAF Biggin Hill.

  Never mind thought Todd, there will be less competition as a navigator. So, off he went to Henlow as a Student Officer, won the Sword of Honour and bedded the WRAF Flight Commander on Graduation night.

  Next would be RAF Finningley and Navigator training. This presented no problems for young Morrissey and he graduated top of the course by a mile, and was designated Best Navigation Student for 1980.

  He had the pick of the postings.

  He chose Reconnaissance Canberras based at Marham. His father had advised against it, suggesting that Buccaneers were the way ahead for a thrusting young blade. But Todd had held his ground and gone to Marham. He gleaned a lot from the hairy old Navigators who had been in Reconnaissance all of their lives. The average age of that squadron was double his twenty-four years but he stuck it out, enduring the dreary social life. Instead, he travelled around the world on flying duties and learned his trade.

  He knew the Recce Tornado was on the horizon and the competition for places would be strictly limited. He was now ideally placed.

  After Marham he qualified as a Staff Navigation Instructor - the youngest ever to do so, and was posted as an Aide-de-Camp to Air Officer Commanding 1 Group. He spent two excellent years crawling right up his arse, screwing his daughter and fixing his slot on one of the first Tornado courses at the RAF Cottesmore TTTE in 1984.

  He was in on the ground floor.

  A tour in Germany on a nuclear bomber squadron followed by promotion to Squadron Leader - and he was only twenty nine years old. A fast mover if there ever was one - especially for a navigator – and the Gulf War didn’t hurt his prospects either. He was a Flight Commander on No II(AC) Squadron during their exploits in early 1990, earning a DFC. He was now back at RAF Marham on his second tour as a Flight Commander – and also as a deputy Squadron Commander.

  His father was always there to help - a guiding hand in the background - and Todd had the distinct feeling that he had a strong influence in the path his career was following. They got on reasonably well - after all, there was no point in biting the hand that was feeding you.

  He had married in Germany to Fay - a WRAF officer in Air Traffic Control. She had been a first tourist and Todd had grabbed her before the rest of the sniffers in the Mess got their sticky little fingers on her. Father had approved, and things had gone well - up to a point. They had a beautiful daughter, Debbie, who was the light of Todd’s life. They had moved to Norfolk for another tour on the sister Recce Squadron when it was formed.

  Todd made a name for himself and got the Air Force Cross for his efforts in setting up the first Tornado Reconnaissance Training Unit. Staff College in Canada was waiting, and then hopefully back to Marham and promotion to Wing Commander which was coming in the New Year. The sky was the limit.

  Not a bad record - especially for a Navigator. And now this job with the Royal flying display could do him no harm at all.

  3

  The three aircrew officers pulled into the car park at Station Operations Wing and tried unsuccessfully for a few minutes to find a space. Eventually they parked illegally on the grass - clearly it was going to be a well-attended briefing.

  They c
limbed out of the car and hurried to the briefing room. They had five minutes to spare but Todd wanted to give the Display file to his boss, Wing Commander Andy Millar.

  Millar was supposed to be leading the coming display, but had been posted and promoted at short notice, and was going to take over a station in Germany in late March. Clearly, that would not allow him to take part. However, that would not stop him supervising the whole shooting match. He would marshal Todd every inch of the way.

  Todd found Millar sitting in the front row of the briefing room. He was chatting quietly to OC Operations Wing.