Last Out From Roaring Water Bay by Joe Lane

must have felt like carpet handbags.”
    I touched a nerve with that one too.
    “They weren’t built for comfort, lad,” he scowled fiercely. “Fighting machines, that’s what they were. The finest in their time and as fast as they come; swift, so manoeuvrable it could turn on a sixpence.”
    “You obviously know a lot about them?”
    “Know lad! During the war I happened to be part of the ground crew that kept those beauties air worthy when they were needed. ‘Erks’, we were nicknamed but we were a skilled bunch with it. When those battle battered Spits returned we would work through the night to patch them back up again in readiness for the next flight.”
    “So you were actually stationed here during the war?”
    “Aye lad, I was.”
    “The war certainly kept you busy.”
    “Aye, it did that, lad, and more. In a short space of time, when the V12 Rolls Royce Merlin engines became the power of the Spitfire, we had to become experts. We didn’t have time to be taught the intricate workings of those engines. ‘Erks had to quickly require the skills to repair stressed skin, split flaps, hydraulics, pneumatics, and the electrics; some wage packet if you could do all that nowadays! Aye lad, needless to say those wonderful crafts didn’t require much love and care to fight. They were awesome fighters.”
    This chap was beginning to interest me. “What about the pilots based here during the war, did you get know any of them?”
    “Vaguely; they came and went for various reasons. The war took a lot of good young men. I didn’t exactly socialize with them personally; you didn’t have the time for niceties; too busy.”
    “Do you know if any of the pilots are still alive today?”
    “Hard to say, lad, but I wouldn’t count on any of them holding a pilots licence anymore.” His chuckle of laughter was drowned by the sound of an ancient plane rattling overhead.
    “I wasn’t looking for flying lessons.”
    “Aye, I know, lad, just having a bit of fun.”
    I pushed ahead. “Do you remember a pilot stationed here who went by the name of Wing Commander Ralph Craven?”
    His saggy eyes lit up. “Now that chap I’ll never forget. Such a considerate man too. He always had a kind word to say and he made sure we had piping hot mugs of tea and lashings of toast when we grafted during the cold nights. Sometimes he would stay with us in the hangars while we worked, reminiscing on the good days before the outbreak of war. Aye, he was a grand chap alright. Went out on a mission one day and never came back, missing in action. That was the problem with the damn war, a pilots life seemed more expendable than most.”
    “Yes, I’m already aware of Ralph Craven’s fate. I’m more interested in talking to any surviving war veterans who served with him here at Duxford. Someone he may have been chummy with.”
    “Are you related to Craven? If you don’t mind me asking?”
    “He was my Grandfather.”
    His jawbone drooped, as if he’d said something dreadfully wrong. “How tactless of me, I never stopped to think.”
    “There’s no problem; honestly! It was all a long time ago.” Frigging hell, I was beginning to sound so sincere I began to believe every bit of bullshit I spoke. I now knew how a thespian feels when he plays a character so believable he has problems distinguishing what was fictional and what was reality. It was a strange feeling to have. I prompted him to continue. “I was asking about any of his flying chums?”
    I waited impatiently for the rusty cogs of his brain to clanged into action, the skies exploding above our heads when two modern fighter planes zoomed across, the sound of the jet engines blasting my eardrums to the point of insanity that I wanted to scream. As for the old man remembering ex-patriots it was probably a long shot but then I was desperate for any scrap of information.
    I could have sworn I heard a metallic ping echo from between his ears just a second before he got all excited