Folks,

Witnessing the obvious and understandable pride that our British friends take in their nation, I was reminded of the following story first typed years ago. Those who are British and those who have come to be aware that they may not be British can both take great pride in their likely decision not to read further. ;\)

The Lottery of Life
By JRT
HWH Continued
Page not known
8.2.02

Our Spitfires float easily over a flat expanse of Channel. Behind us Dover’s chalk white cliffs hug tight to the green coast of England. Ahead lie France and the Luftwaffe. Somewhere in between the two landmasses, enemy fighters are believed to be searching for us as we also diligently scan the sky ahead in a desperate search for them.

It is true that RADAR is an advantage for the RAF flyers, but every pilot knows it is sometimes just blind luck when the two sides actually meet. It is not enough just to find your enemy across a vast expanse of empty sky. The real trick, the art, the ass saving genius of it all, is in contriving so that many elements including chance favor your side. You must maneuver in such a way that your side meets the enemy when you have the advantage of surprise, height, sun and speed. In order for all this to conveniently come together for your personal wartime enjoyment and pleasure requires great cunning and skill on someone’s part as well.

Today we are vectored toward France in hopes of surprising the liquid fertilizer out of the unfriendly chaps riding in a large mixed bag of He111s, JU87s and Me110s. They are thought to be eagerly assembling over the Frog coast. This morning we are on our merry way to angels 20 where our flight should be well positioned to give the Hun a very nasty surprise. Our blood is up as there are several newly dug graves attesting to the brazen success of a similar bombing raid yesterday. This was a raid that happened to fall upon our own unsuspecting airfield. One of the dear departed chaps now only recently re-assembled in his various chewed up pieces ranging from the very small to the rather largish and certainly more grizzly chunks was once our very popular skipper. Revenge is now on everyone’s mind.

The skipper had always been considered the most fortunate of men. He had been born to a family of great wealth and influence. His first breath was of rarified ozone inhaled whilst perched upon one of the loftiest peaks of the British Empire’s social ladder. Although he grew up smothered in the lap of luxury where no whim went unanswered and no thirst went unquenched he luckily managed, against the considerable odds, to grow into a generous, level headed, unpretentious, even self-effacing young man. He attended the finest schools and upon his reaching maturity one would have unhesitatingly bet the farmstead that this young gentleman’s future success was reasonably assured.

Then war filled the 120 point boldface headlines for just about everyone. War has a nasty habit of rearranging ones stars to better fit the galaxy of the greater good. In doing so war sometimes leaves all previous hopes for a happy future lying about in miserable shreds and shambles. Somehow our skipper left the promise of greatness behind, joined the RAF, rose above it all and showed a huge talent as a leader of men.

With 8 personal kills to his credit he was perhaps no threat to the high scoring giants like Johnson or Stanford-Tuck yet he was by virtue of his own personal example an inspiration to all who knew him. He was British through and through and so very proud of it. We are a mixed bag of Brits, Canadians and Americans. Woe betide the unfortunate individual who made even the most trivial of unpatriotic remark within his hearing. We all suspected that there are bloody hides still hanging in mute but softly dripping testament to his patriotic zeal in secret places all over England. He was a force to be reckoned with and he was our skipper. He fought with us and he fought for us. We loved him for it. And now as we glide upward toward our first battle without him we must accept that his hotly beating heart is stilled forever.

The skipper always considered himself so very fortunate to be born British. I wonder had he been born an American or of any nationality other than British might he not be alive? Ah, would simply being alive born under any other flag than England’s ever have been compensation enough for our skipper? Like Cecil Rhodes he believed he was fortunate among all men to be born British and for this no price, even that of his life, was too great to pay.

“Remember that you are an Englishman, and have consequently won first prize in the lottery of life.” - Cecil Rhodes


Originally Registered January,2001 Member Number 3044

"Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed" - Edmond Gwenn, "The Trouble With Harry"

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