The Man Who Wore Mismatched Socks takes place from 1939 to 1962. Each chapter is a year, or each year is a chapter, depending on how one wants to look at it. They are all of unequal lengths.
Let's let the story introduce itself. I am posting Chapter One, 1939, in its entirety here:
1939
Prelude to War
The Brewery
Flight Lieutenant Aloysius St. James Spottisworth-Gack flipped his Spitfire Mark I on its back at Angels Five. Pulling back on the stick, he drew the nose down past the horizon. A snap roll brought his kite upright again, headed downhill at a 30 degree angle. Picking up speed, he aimed the nose with its roaring 1,030 hp Rolls-Royce Merlin Mk II engine right at the brewery, lining up an east-west approach that would allow him to rake the entire complex with his fire. Steady, steady... minor corrections to his flight path... Easy now, calming himself in the face of an autonomic rush of adrenaline, he waited until just the right moment to jam his thumb on the firing button and…
Snapped the very first aerial photos of his family's ancient business, Gack&Bacon Ltd., with his parents, brother and sister proudly waving from the front lawn to their newly-minted RAF flyboy.
Ailerons and Socks at Cranwell
He was tallish for a fighter pilot at six foot one. The taller one was, the more difficult it could be to deal with the issue of G-forces, which were worse the farther the head was from the heart. There was also the challenge of wrapping a Hawker Hurricane or Supermarine Spitfire fighter aircraft around one’s frame to consider. And yet those magnificent kites managed to fit him, somehow. Aloysius had a ready smile and anything more than a casual glance at him would show good humour and an essential kindness in his expression, yet there was also a hint of melancholy behind those eyes, as if he’d seen clearly and faced without hesitation those universal things that make men sad, the things that so many try assiduously to ignore. Craggy but handsome in an offhand way with sandy blond hair that boasted a rather insouciant wave in the front. Athletic but wiry- a runner not a boxer. Intense, observant hazel eyes.
And very good teeth.
Aloysius was just completing his studies as a fighter pilot at Cranwell. After The Great War, the Royal Air Force needed a cadet college of its own. Cranwell, in Lincolnshire, was chosen for this purpose. Money was very tight in those postwar years and not until 1929 was work started on the main college building. This edifice was specially designed to look old and respectable, even though it was actually brand new. The RAF already had many traditions in its culture even though it was founded very recently, in 1918. Many military traditions end up going beyond what the word “tradition” means, crossing into the territory of the hidebound. The RAF was not like this. Perhaps, like the British submarine service, the newness of the machines and the technological competence involved in using them forced selection more for intelligence than for class or wealthy connections. Perhaps Chief of the Air Staff Hugh Trenchard had something in common with that extraordinary Victorian Admiral Jackie Fisher, who also prized results far more than social position. Cranwell was always open to all young men of talent who might wish to apply, at least in theory. Formality was not so strictly enforced as it was in the Army or Navy.
The RAF informality, however, apparently did not apply to one’s socks.
Flight Lieutenant Aloysius St. James Spottisworth-Gack stood at attention on the parade ground with his fellow cadets. A visit by Air Commodore Keith Park was always an event. A very hands-on commander, the keen New Zealander liked to get to know his pilots from the earliest stages of their education.
As the College Commandant of Cranwell, Air Vice Marshal J E A Baldwin, and Park inspected the cadets, they chatted personably about ailerons and g forces and the admirable qualities of Rolls Royce Merlin engines. And then suddenly, when they got to Gack, Baldwin stopped short. He had noticed Gack’s socks- they did not match. One was the requisite khaki that went with the uniform, but his left sock… his left sock was as black as coal tar. Totally non-regulation.
Baldwin’s emotions rose to the surface in two waves, one of fury at his cadet and one of embarassment in front of Park, that roiled in conflict all the way up. He was just forming a plan in his head, that of entirely ignoring the situation while Park was present and fiercely dealing with Gack later, privately, when the inevitable happened- Park saw the black sock too. So, then, it had to be confrontation, and confrontation now. After all, Baldwin couldn’t very well have behaviour that bordered on the insubordinate in the ranks of his cadets, now could he?
"It reminds me that I matter"
“Flight Lieutenant Gack!” he boomed.
“Sir?” Perfectly polite, militarily correct. The way Gack stood, his posture, the way he snapped out the word with crisp precision- you’d have thought he’d just won the V.C. Park showed more than mild interest at the developing situation- and at this spirited young cadet. Plus, wasn’t there something familiar about the name? A brand of sweetbreads, wasn’t it?
“Flight Lieutenant, (the words were always used together for this rank, never abbreviated), you are out of uniform! I certainly hope you have a decent excuse for that black sock of yours!”
“I do, sir.”
“Well! Out with it, then! And if it’s not good enough for your superior officers, I’ll take you off flying Spitfires- and I’ll have you scrubbing their carburetors with a jeweler’s brush- and that shall be on a good day!”
Gack risked a quick glance at Park. The slightest hint of a wink flickered across the Air Commodore’s right eye, just for an instant. Then it was gone. Had he really seen it?
“Well, sir, you see, it’s… well, sir, it’s for luck. My entire life, I’ve never worn matching socks. I must have the longest streak of mismatching socks in British history. After all, who would do such a thing?”
“Hrrrmph. Who indeed. And exactly how, Flight Lieutenant, does this issue of mismatching socks bring you your luck, then?”
“Well, sir, it’s quite likely that, very soon, we’ll all be going up against the Jerries. And though I’m sure we’ll give ‘em a rum show, we won’t all get off scot free. And I believe, sir, that one of our best defences against an impersonal enemy like the Luftwaffe is to be personal. Individual. Keen, you might say. And this little bit of flash, well sir, it just reminds me, in a rather silly way I admit, but it reminds me that I… that I matter.”
Baldwin had never expected an answer anything like that. He looked at Gack, then at Park, who was positively smirking now, and then back at Gack. He simply, for the first time as College Commandant at Cranwell, he simply couldn’t decide what to do. He looked over at Park again, questioningly.
“Well, if you’re asking me, Commandant, let him have his bloody mismatched socks. Er, so sorry, Flight Lieutenant, didn’t mean to imply that your socks would ever actually, you know, get…”
“I quite understand, sir.”
And with that slip of the tongue on the part of the man who would later become Air Chief Marshal Sir Keith Rodney Park, Gack was allowed, from then on, to wear his mismatched socks, on duty and off, and to assert his individuality in a most quirky- and most British- manner.
Wainscoting?
Graduation from Cranwell for this current crop of Fighter Boys, as Air Chief Marshal Dowding was already calling them, was looming. Aloysius was admiring the wainscoting in one of the common rooms when his childhood friend, best friend actually, Charles Lazarus, along with Roger Finlayson, sauntered up to him. Fighter Boys sauntered a great deal. Central to their code, entirely unwritten as it was, was to never be seen as taking things too seriously. They were engaging in a frightfully serious business, and making light of it was one of the keys to preventing fear from leading to mistakes. Mistakes in their line of work often meant a sudden and violent death, so there was a logic behind their code. Casual Insouciance, capital “C” and capital “I”, was thus the order of the day.
It was not unusual for friends who had grown up in the same town to join the service together. This practice dated back to The Great War, when entire towns had formed regiments. Back then, the cost of such a seemingly noble policy was made apparent at battles like The Somme, when the youth of entire towns were annihilated in minutes before the modern terror of the machine gun and massed artillery…
Neither Gack nor Lazarus had any such gloomy thoughts now though. They were delighted to be serving together, and they were in love with their Spitfires and thousand-horsepower Rolls Royce Merlin aircraft engines and with flying, and with that wonderful machine smell that derives from mixing oils and metals and ethylene glycol and heat...
Charles knew of Aloysius’ somewhat arcane interests in life, but to Roger Finlayson it appeared that his classmate was simply gazing at a blank wall.
“I say, Gack, haven’t you got anything better to do than stare at the walls of this place?” chided Finlayson.
“Oh, I assure you, that’s not just any old wall to him, mate,” Lazarus said.
“Why on earth not? It’s just a bloody board.”
Gack turned to face his companions with an expression perhaps more of sadness than of anger on his rugged face. “I assure you, Finlayson, this is more than just an ordinary board. As you know, they built this place less than ten years ago, and yet they chose the finest English wainscoting, in order to make our Cranwell look older than it actually is. Gives a bit of dignity to the place, what?”
“I suppose so. I do like the look of this school of ours. But you’re all focused on this boring issue of the wood on the walls, when there’s ever so much more to look at in the larger architecture of the place…”
“Not to mention the birds down at the Houblon and the Scarf and Goggles”, chirped Buxomley, who had overheard them.
“Girls are all you think about”, Lazarus chided, “Well, them and Spitfires, which look almost as curvy.”
“What I’m trying to say”, Gack interrupted, “Is that wainscoting is a noble device, as it serves to counteract cold and dampness in our dwellings. It is made of wood, that warmest and most alive of all construction materials. So many varieties of wood, with endless and fascinating combinations available to the Visceral craftsman…” Here Gack was pacing back and forth excitedly, not unlike Captain Blinkhorn, their professor in Aileron Studies, in particular the Upside of Ailerons class that Gack was having such trouble with.
Finlayson gave this some apparently serious consideration, which rather surprised Gack. He continued in a much softer voice, “You know what, Gack? You’re right, in your rather silly way, you with your mismatched socks and your odd love of something so commonplace as wainscoting. Perhaps we should take more notice of what seems to be the mundane, because we never know when it may come in useful to us.”
“We also may appreciate it just for its own intrinsic beauty, whatever it is,” added Lazarus.
“Just like the birds I was speaking of what’s down at the Scarf and Goggles- now let’s go!” chimed Buxomley. And so they went, and they were all quite pleased to see Gack&Bacon Ltd. brews represented there, and they drank warm-hearted toasts to Gack and his family of brewers for being a part of the manufacture of such interesting oil.
As to the girls, there was interest in both directions, but on that day no one was able to break down the unwritten barriers that existed between them sufficiently to get beyond the normal civilities.
The Upside of the Aileron
Gack had an incredible intuitive grasp of flying. He learned quickly and never forgot anything once he mastered it, even if he didn’t use a particular bit of knowledge for a time. He did have trouble understanding certain things about ailerons though. "I say, Finlayson, it's only the upside of the aileron that I find rather inscrutable..." he had been heard saying in the mess just the other day. He simply couldn’t grasp the underlying reason why one wing would stall before the other if one was zooming vertically, running out of flying speed, and then tried to flick into a roll. It just didn’t make sense. He also had difficulty with his marksmanship compared to his peers, particularly when it came to lead angles when the towed targets were off-angle from the nose of his Spitfire. The problem was that they all got very little time to practice live fire exercises, so he was left wondering how he’d perform in actual combat.
It was interesting how they all learned differently. Charles, for instance, seemed to take longer to learn the various elements initially, but once he mastered them, his proficiency was the highest of any of his class. Finlayson had an odd way of learning simply because he didn’t seem to have any fear, though he professed to be quite scared at times. It was the opposite of what one expected- people in dangerous occupations often maintained that they were not afraid when in truth they were. Finlayson admitted that he was scared, and yet never looked it. Aloysius and Charles tried very hard to figure out their new friend, but found that Finlayson and his motivations remained completely opaque to them.
And, of course, Casual Insouciance stipulated that they not ask him directly.
Gack&Bacon, Ltd
Gack’s family owned an ancient brewery located to the west of London in Parsons Green, right along the river Thames in a very picturesque spot. Gack&Bacon Ltd. was the company name. The brewery had a unique design feature- it possessed its own in-house pub. Endowed with the astonishing name of “The Pig & Trebuchet”, their pub held just upwards of 150 patrons, had a fine stage for the purpose of hosting musical or theatrical entertainment, and was adorned with gorgeous wainscoting in mahogany from across the Empire and solid English oak from the forests of home. The P & T even had a mascot- an adorable little pig (who had never so much as been near the trebuchet, asserted the family patriarch, Archibald St. James Spottisworth-Gack), named, of course, Sir Francis Bacon.
Now the Gacks well understood that although there was a great deal of intellectual and artistic satisfaction in the crafting of unique and delightful brews, and that beer was in all likelihood, taken in moderation, healthier than many things in life, including this odd Yank beverage “soda pop” with all its sugar and vile chemicals (and ice!), that in spite of these characteristics to recommend it, any alcoholic beverage did indeed carry certain costs to the individual and the society. Alcoholism; the possibility of worsening of domestic abuse; and especially the spectre of drunk driving fatalities when automobiles and great quantities of beer were mixed together… The Gacks sought to be responsible in their business and to deal forthrightly with, rather than to ignore, the Externalities created by their business activities. They understood that these Externalities were hidden costs associated with their beer and passed on to others without their consent. Archibald had realized that businesses formed a dichotomy when it came to Externalities: some dealt with them responsibly and forthrightly, and yet many more tried their best to ignore that they ever even existed at all. He and his father and grandfather before him chose rather to confront the Externalities that they caused head-on. Thus, the Pig & Trebuchet was known for initiating and maintaining a number of traditions, which were in many cases spread to the various pubs in England and Germany who purchased Gack&Bacon products. These traditions were often rather fun as well as being useful to society, and at times they had been outright hilarious…
CKUMDBC
One of the most successful “Gackestrian Exegeses”, as one of the dons at Oxford had named them, being quite a fan of their beer called “Bibo, Ergo Sum”, was “The Noble Order of CKUMDBC”: “Come, Kiss Us, Missus, Don’t Be Cross”. This was a program that dated right back to the dawn of the motor car, some years before The Great War. It had its own logo, a nice coat of arms with a stern English matron staring at the viewer with much the same expression as Kitchener had drawn up for those Great War recruiting posters. Except that she was arms akimbo and even more stern-looking than he had been… The CKUMDBC motto was a wonderful quote from A.E. Houseman’s “Terence, This is Stupid Stuff”:
“And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again.”
To avoid vehicular accidents that were fueled by alcohol from pubs, Gack&Bacon Ltd. had made arrangements with three or four responsible drivers from the neighbourhoods of each of the pubs that they sold to. And, of course, from the Pig & Trebuchet. Prepaid a modest sum for their troubles, these cheery volunteers were on call and would motor on down to their local pub if any patron with an automobile in his posession was no longer in a state fit to drive the bloody thing. Actually, before it became a bloody thing… They would drive the unfortunate patron home and make arrangements to pick up his car in the sober (if painful) light of the next day. In the event of one of these fine chaps being inebriated himself, there were always two or three others who could take up the slack.
This program, however, in order to be successful, needed to enlist the support of the wives- or, in some cases, the husbands- who remained at home. (In the relatively rare instances where both halves of a couple had had a bit too much, there was absolutely no reason for controversy.) So, Gack&Bacon Ltd. distributed gift certificates to the spouses of the program’s intoxicated beneficiaries, made out to various London and suburban shoppes. These were mostly for clothing stores and hard goods that were to useful to families, that sort of thing. They were given in exchange for an unwritten promise to be merciful on the poor inebriated chap (or lassie) in the morning.
Here was the rub- the gift certificates were of random value. In other words, most of them were for varying small amounts of trade. After all, Gack&Bacon Ltd. had to remain profitable! This programme could not be excessively costly. Yet one in every several hundred certificates was for a princely sum, at least so it seemed in the economically battered late 1930’s. This generated great interest in the program. When someone won fifty pounds from a brewery because their spouse had imbibed a bit too much beer down at the pub, dozens and dozens of neighbours heard about it and talked about it. So, all in all, CKUMDBC was a very successful programme - probably because it was rather fun- and it was known to have definitively saved at least a dozen lives. And a number of marriages that was much more difficult to calculate... It seemed that the act of the husband accompanying his wife to market the next day in the face of a hangover was rather a strong and visible penance and led to a great deal of fence-mending across the marriage yard.
(Image created by Joel D Canfield)
The Bad Table
Another quite popular feature of the Pig&Trebuchet was The Bad Table. This was a table for four that was situated very near to the kitchen, very far from the stage, and very near to the loo. Most, if not all, restaurants had such a table. The one that had built-in annoyances. The one that was sure to be noisy with interruptions. The one at which noboby wanted to sit.
The thing was, you really couldn’t have a bad table.
In 1835, at the height of the reign of William IV (that delightful old bounder and man of the people), Hunstan Gack of Gack&Bacon Breweries gave a talk to the Gloucester Poultry, Cattle and Hound Society in which he said:
“In any business, a bad table, a lesser product or experience, something presented that you know in your heart is inferior to what someone else can get- this has always been commonplace, but that doesn’t mean that it is right.”
The response of his audience was one of such astonishing appreciation and Visceral discussion that Hunstan promptly went back to his brewery and stood in the Pig & Trebuchet staring at the worst table in the house. He stared at it for a full fifteen minutes and then he called his entire staff together. He spoke to them in a low but intense voice for another considerable time, and then asked for their input. Lively discussion followed. After a time they had all come up with a plan that they were not only happy with, but so thrilled over that they couldn’t wait to try it out on the very first customers who sat down at their worst table.
What they did was to ensure that there was always something special and fun at their Bad Table. This tradition became the longest running Pig & Trebuchet institution and in fact carries on continuously to the present day.
Very many delightful experiences were arranged for The Bad Table over the years. Commonplace were simple conversations with the Head Chef and Master Brewer, with samples (at no charge) of avante-garde appetizers and even more outre brews. Individualized tours of the brewery works were offered frequently. Musicians, including famous ones who were themselves patrons from time to time, would show up and play or sing for the customers at The Bad Table. Authors would drop by for a pint and deliver a signed copy of their latest book to the diners seated there. (There is a family in Billingshurst who has in their posession a signed copy of original sonnets by William Wordsworth; he had dropped by the P & T and joined their ancestors for dinner at The Bad Table one night back in 1841. This one-off book was now worth a quarter of a million pounds.)
Shortly after The Great War, Admiral John Jellicoe dropped in on a few meals at The Bad Table. The draw for him was Dread Nought Draught, which of course was brewed in his honour. On one of these occasions the diners were a couple, the husband of which had served under Jellicoe as a gunner’s mate on Iron Duke. The great C-in-C of the Grand Fleet was practically worshipped by his sailors, and his former crewman, a stolid John Bull type not given to displays of strong emotion, especially in public, was reduced to freely flowing tears by the joyful experience of dining with his Admiral.
What was the overall effect of The Bad Table down through the many years? People talked about it. They sought it out, asking “May I sit at your worst table this afternoon, please?” They told stories about the splendid things that always happened there, and placed Gack&Bacon Ltd. into the awareness of countless folk who had never heard of it before.
“I’ve been Bad Tabled” was even local slang for being surprised by something excellent and unexpected.
All in all, The Bad Table at The Pig & Trebuchet was actually one of the biggest and most consistent drivers of business for Gack&Bacon Ltd. And yet it didn’t cost a king’s ransom, it didn’t need to be plastered on billboards and into the papers every week, and it was even right next to the loo…
Threatened
Such quaint little local traditions abounded across the length and breadth of the entire British Isles, and yet once again the richness and vitality of all these myriad Niches was about to be threatened with total annihilation. On September 1, 1939, the German Blitzkrieg came to Poland, and war descended on Europe once again. The Polish cavalry was probably the best in the world, but cavalry were no match for Panzers. Britain and France were sworn to defend Poland and sent their ultimatums to Hitler. He refused to respond. Two days later, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain went on the radio and, along with France, declared war on Germany.
210 Squadron, Gack’s outfit, at this time based in Manston as part of 11 Group, had gathered in the mess to listen to the broadcast. A rousing cheer went up as the Fighter Boys showed how keen they were to defend their country. There was an undercurrent, though, of fear and anger that was but thinly masked by their bravado.
When they had all settled down, Whittaker, their Squadron Leader, noticed that Buxomley looked glum amidst the revelry, as he so often did.
“What’s the matter, old boy? You look like you lost a week’s pay at Whist!”
“I know I should be keen, Whittaker. And I am. No one is going to bang his guns at the Jerries with so much ferocity as I shall. But- I’m in love. I’ve got a sports car that I drive fast. I’ve got a shot at Cambridge. And now this idiot Hitler comes along and puts the lid on everything.”
“Yes, Buxomley, but our duty requires us to set aside such personal concerns.”
“I shall, I shall, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it, you know. As I said, I’ll be keen enough when the time comes. When do you suspect we’ll go into action, anyway?”
“When the brass tells us so, is when”, chimed in Timmy O’Brien. One of the youngest pilots, at 19, O’Brien had a spirit of unbridled optimism. Supremely confident around a Spitfire, he tended to lose his nerve altogether whenever there was a woman around. Quite unlike Buxomley, who was rather confident in that area.
Patrols
The thing was, there was little to do that fall and winter except patrol and rest, patrol and rest, in an endless cycle of tension mixed with boredom that could drive any pilot mad if he let it get to him. There were false alarms by the dozen, always involving British aircraft like Ansons and Blenheims. The reality was that 210 squadron, being shielded from Luftwaffe bases by the entire nation that was called France, mainly cycled through endless patrols over the Royal Navy and merchant shipping in the Channel.
Protecting ships was a vital mission. It was very hard, though, that weaving over ships that were excruciatingly slower than their Spitfires and Hurricanes, looking and looking but never sighting the enemy. Everyone was getting very jumpy. Standing patrols were necessary, although other, more efficient options were being developed. The British had developed radar faster than anyone else. Their island nation was protected by two chains of radar transmitters- twenty in all- along the eastern and southern coastlines. Spindly, mysterious looking, and 350 feet tall, the “Chain Home” system gave tremendous advantages to the defenders in the event of an aerial attack. Defending fighters could be “scrambled” as early as possible and directed towards the bomber threat. The technology was still in its infancy, however, and was at its best with detecting large formations of aircraft. Small groups or even lone raiders were much more difficult to spot.
In October the Luftwaffe made its first attack in earnest against Great Britain, choosing a rather logical target- the British Home Fleet. Ju88 bombers attacked the cruisers Southampton and Edinburgh in the Firth of Forth, in Scotland. The bombers got to the ships before they could be intercepted, but they didn’t do much damage; there were no fatalities. Spitfires from 602 and 603 squadron shot down two of the bombers as they raced back across the North Sea. This was far to the north though, and the boys of 210 Squadron continued to feel their frustration and boredom.
The difficulty with such a prolonged quiet period was that they all knew what was coming. Oh, not in a specific way; all the Great War vets they knew (including in most cases their fathers) had taught them that there was no way to understand the reality of combat until you’d experienced it for yourself. So Whittaker led them in song in the mess, and minded his pups when they made their forays into the local pubs, few as there were. He found it interesting that Gack didn’t take much minding, as he’d grown up surrounded by beer (lucky chap!) his whole life, and understood moderation. Most of the time…
Gack would stroll down to the end of the runways late at night to play his Rackett. This was a renaissance instrument, small, yet with nine connected bores that made it sound like a bassoon in spite of its much lesser size. It’s lonesome wail provided a haunting backdrop to the isolated place that was Cranwell in winter. At times on these sojourns he would encounter Buxomley with his telescope. Usually in a high state of nervous energy, almost looking fearful at times, out here gazing at the stars Buxomley was quite serene and composed. Gack supposed that Buxomley was generally thinking too much about what was to come. Better to live for the day, especially as nerves could get one killed, through the lack of focus. But out beyond the runway’s edge his squadron mate seemed at ease and content with life, showing Gack nebulae and double stars and star clusters which Gack had never heard of. The “37 Cluster”, in which the brighter stars formed the number 37 quite clearly, was a favourite of both young men.
Two Yanks
Two Yanks had joined the squadron as well- volunteers who either wanted to take a stand for the cause of freedom well before their countrymen had the chance thrust upon them, or, perhaps, near-insane adventurers who sought the ultimate thrill of aerial combat. Once again The Code discouraged direct questions about such things. One chap seemed tough as nails in his approach to military flying. Luke Weaver came from a family of cattle ranchers in Wyoming. Taller than Gack at six foot two, brutally handsome with a hint of cleft in his chin, and eyes that steadily regarded virtually everything with a look that said “I’m going to conquer this”, Weaver was a tremendous asset to the squadron. This in spite of the fact that he was a man of so few words that for a fortnight some of the chaps claimed to have never heard his voice. And yet… At those times when fear came piercing through all the steely ramparts that each and every one of the Fighter Boys of 210 Squadron had so carefully constructed within himself to contain their very private terrors, the simple sound of Weaver’s laconic commentary on the situation at hand was enough to settle them back down again, down to where those ramparts were holding fast against the fear that could so rapidly turn deadly. And Weaver was an even better shot than Lazarus, though not by much. It was very difficult indeed to be a better shot than Charles Lazarus.
The other Yank was so different, it was hard to imagine that the two of them could possibly hail from the same country, unless you recalled that the United States was so very very large. Richard Smith, the wavy-haired, cherubic-faced, endlessly affable Richard Smith was a young man who continually pushed aside British reserve in all forms wherever he encountered it. Many of the chaps in the squadron tried to put some distance between themselves and this almost insanely gregarious American, but they inevitably fell victim to his charms- and to the rounds he bought for them all in their vitally important pub outings. His relaxed and party-going stance was deceptive however- he loved flying and seemed to feel that he could single-handedly end this war with his pluck and his trusty Spitfire, which he promptly named “The Incisor”. Because, you see, Smith’s avowed aim in life after the war was to be a dentist. In Philadelphia, where he’d take the MP54 “red rattler” commuter cars from his Main Line home to his office every day.
Merciful heavens, the man was specific about his dreams. They all chided him on how much they’d all yet to get through before they could think of such future things, but Smith was insistent that it’d all turn out all right, and the more they harassed him about it, the more specific his plans became. Within a month of joining the squadron he had narrowed the location of his office to a particular house number on Aspen Street. Most of the chaps viewed this sort of planning as bad luck, especially Buxomley.
“I say, Smith, there’s probably a direct mathematical ratio- an inverse one, I might point out- between how specifically you plan your little Molar Machinations and how soon it is until you get the chop from the Jerries.”
“Oh, Bosh, John.” (Smith scandalized and baited everyone by using given names all the time; the annoying thing was, he had the panache and constant good spirits to get away with it.) “Pull in your horns. I’m in apple pie order and there’s no Hun in the sun that’s ever going to be good enough to dry gulch me. It’s looking out for all you shave horns that might get me into trouble.”
His squadron mates viewed boasting like this as as sure a way to get killed as diving a Spitfire into the Channel at 500 mph, but they let him rave on. What else could they do?
That was the other thing the chaps were unbearably confused about. Smith was from Philadelphia’s Main Line suburbs, and used Western slang with every utterance. Weaver was a Wyoming rancher, and he spoke, when he spoke at all, without any local colour to his language at all.
The End of Innocence
The pilots would head down to the local pubs when they had an evening off. They truly enjoyed Gack’s presence, as he knew so very much about beer and was a sort of pubbish celebrity, being from such an illustrious brewing family. On some deeper level, the boys felt that it was never just a crowd in the pub when Gack was there. Somehow, and it wasn’t just the uniform, he managed to bring all the disconnected strangers present into the action as the squadron mates laughed and caroused and played schoolboy pranks on each other.
It was a strange time, a confusing time, and in later years the survivors would recall it as a very bittersweet time indeed. The end of innocence, and the prelude- to total war.
