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©
Bill
Perring, 1999,
website:
http://members.aol.com/blyndbat/salute.htm.
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| They had first met in the church and, from a few shy words exchanged in the shelter of the lych-gate as they paused before scurrying home under a snow-laden January sky, their friendship had grown. |
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An exchange of gifts at Easter, long walks
across the fields on still, summer days and then, at the end of the Harvest
Supper, a kiss. For either of them to leave the village was unthinkable then.
Family roots, centuries old, bound them to that corner of Sussex, but it hadn't
been so long ago that similar roots had been wrenched up and sacrificed to a
World War - and before many more harvests were to pass it would happen again.
1939 and a world turned upside down. False hopes and false dawns. The blackout.
Rationing. Talk of enlisting - fatherly advice, motherly concern and, later, as
he boarded the train bound for town and the recruiting station, a lover's tears.
But he returned that evening and for a few weeks there was little change. Then,
one early Autumn morning, there arrived a brown manilla envelope.
Flying school and, with youth on his side, selection to fighter training.
Letters home, photographs exchanged. A spot of leave, but seldom long enough for
the trip back. Days in the sky, nights in the mess. Beer on the floor and
footprints on the ceiling. Passing out parade and a posting to the Operational
Training Unit then, some weeks later, to a Squadron. Tangmere!
Walking back into the village on that August afternoon he'd felt different.
Proud? certainly, but then she'd stepped from a shop and run toward him and
suddenly he knew. A phrase from the first film they'd ever watched together came
to him........"Top of the world, Ma!"
Weddings had, of necessity, become quickly arranged affairs and just a few weeks
later they were standing side by side beneath the same vaulted roof under which
they'd first met, to be declared 'Man and Wife'. To the rest of the village it
was the culmination of a romance that had been long in fermentation and they
drank deeply of the event, welcoming the momentary release from the tensions
that two years of war had brought to their small community. In the
not-too-distant future the names of many of those present would adorn the simple
memorial at the cross-roads, joining those who had fallen a generation earlier,
but for one day at least such worries could be set aside and delight taken in a
true ‘village’ wedding. Unlike our happy couple, Bob Beardsley received only
two days and one night's leave when he married during the Battle of Britain, but
by the time he was flying Mk. V Spitfire EB-B in 1941 things had eased up a little
and three days was the norm.
Bob joined the Volunteer Reserve in 1938 as a Sgt Pilot. Narrowly missing
selection for conversion to Bombers, he served with 610 Sq. flying Spitfires
throughout that momentous summer of 1940. Chasing a pack of Me109's back across
the channel he suddenly found himself alone in the pursuit and, discretion being
the better part of valour, decided it was wiser to give up the chase.
Unfortunately the disappearance of the rest of the flight hadn't gone unnoticed
by the Germans who quickly turned after him and managed to put a cannon shell
into the fuselage which shot through the cockpit, taking the throttle control
from his hand before smashing into the engine. With flames engulfing the front
end of the plane he managed to crash land onto the runway at Hawkinge, jumping
onto the grass from the still moving aircraft. Barely a month later he was back
at Hawkinge again having brought in another disabled aircraft. As he stood,
checking himself over and looking at the crashed plane he was approached by the
Group Captain in charge of the station who offered him a mug of tea and said in
a matter-of-fact voice, "I do hope you aren't going to make a habit of
this, old chap!"
Posted to 41 Sq. in September 1940, Bob flew EB-B until leaving the squadron in
October 1941.