Cold War

“You’ve come for the reunion?” he asked cheerfully.

“Well, yes and no. I wanted to speak to you before it starts. I wasn’t actually invited, you see. I found out about the reunion from Gordon MacDonald—”

“Oh, I’ve heard about him. He was two classes behind me, I believe. I heard he’d been badly injured. Broken back, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, exactly—”

Thinking he understood what Kit wanted, Flynn jumped in, “But you’re a flight engineer, I assume? You look familiar somehow…” He frowned as he tried to place Kit’s face in his memories.

“Yes, I flew a full tour as a flight engineer before —”

“What did you say your name was? Not that it matters. We’re happy to have you join us. How about going down to the bar and chatting over a drink? The others will be trickling in over the next couple of hours.”

“Yes, good idea,” Kit agreed. Together they went down to the hotel lounge bar just off the lobby. They ordered and settled at a small table for two. Once they were comfortable, Kit introduced himself. “The name’s Moran, Christopher Moran, but people call me Kit.”

“Funny! The name rings a bell. We must have met during the war. What squadron did you fly on?”

“I completed a tour with 626 and then went to Witchford as an instructor, before joining 103—.”

Flynn’s jaw dropped, and Kit braced himself. Flynn burst out, “You’re the flight engineer who refused to fly an op to Berlin! You stood up in the briefing, told the Station and Base Commanders to do something very rude and walked out. Crikey!” The man was staring at him with wide, shocked and confused eyes.

“Before you give me a lecture about being a lily-livered coward and not having the right to mingle with aircrew who didn’t lack moral courage,” Kit kept his voice low and steady, yet forceful just the same, “I was not discharged, I was not court-martialled, I was not sent to clean latrines or work in the mortuary. On the contrary, I was sent for flight training, qualified on Lancasters, and flew with 617 Squadron. And I have my logbook with me to prove it, if you don’t believe me.”

Flynn’s eyes had grown larger by the second, and as Kit finished he opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say, “I’m sorry that you expected an insulting tirade from me, Moran. That is not — none of it — what I intended to say. Frankly, I was awed by your courage. I was very new to the squadron. I think I’d flown just three ops and one had been to Berlin and I was scared stiff of going back. I remember wishing I’d had the courage to do what you’d done. All we sprogs looked up to Selkirk’s crew, and when you failed to return it made us all the more apprehensive. We didn’t know you’d survived until you walked into the briefing, and there wasn’t one of us who didn’t sympathise with you. I thought they were bloody bastards to order you to fly with a new crew less than 24 hours after your skipper got the chop.”

Kit felt the tension ease away. “Thank you. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“No, you must have faced a lot of, well, unpleasantness. I just don’t understand how you could avoid all the punishments, the court martial and all that.”

“It’s quite simple. Although, after what I’d done and said, the CO wanted me off his squadron at once, I could not be officially designated ‘lacking moral fibre’ until an RAF psychiatrist made a diagnosis to that effect. I was sent to a diagnostic centre where the attending psychiatrist concluded I was not suffering from mental illness and should return to active duty. I was given the option of returning to operations or ground duties. I chose operations, and the senior RAF medical officer made the recommendation for flight training.”

“That’s astonishing,” Flynn still seemed quite perplexed. “I’ve never heard of anyone who was posted for LMF being given a chance to learn to fly.”

Kit smiled faintly, “No, because we never heard what happened to those who were thrown off the squadron — just like you never knew what happened to me. We simply speculated and spread rumours.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Flynn conceded.