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copy of Picture Post . Dad handed me a scrap of paper torn from a newspaper. It showed a picture of a woman holding saucepans next to a picture of some Spitfires in flight. It was addressed to “The Women of Britain”. It said:
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    GIVE US YOUR ALUMINIUM
    We want it and we want it now. New and old, of every type and description, and all of it. We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons. I ask therefore, that everyone who has pots and pans, kettles, vacuum cleaners, hat pegs, coat hangers, shoe trees, bathroom fittings and household ornaments, cigarette boxes, or any other articles made wholly or in part of aluminium, should hand them over to the local headquarters of the Women’s Voluntary Services. The need is instant. The call is urgent. Our expectations are high.
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    The Daily Sketch had a headline saying, “ From the frying pan into the Spitfire! ”
    â€œClever that, don’t you think?” said Dad, “From the frying pan into the Spitfire. Like out of the frying pan and into the fire. . .”
    â€œYes, I get it, Dad,” I said, smiling. “They do know that this is all baloney, don’t they?” I said. “None of those pans will ever be used in a Spit,” I said. “They’re precision machines, you know. They’re not going to make them out of old saucepans. It’s all propaganda.”
    â€œKeep that thought to yourself will you, son,” said Dad. “Your mother is very keen on all this. She’s head of the local Women’s Voluntary Service you know.”
    â€œReally? Good for Mum. But it’s true though,” I said.
    â€œMaybe so, maybe not. I don’t know. What I do know is that it does your mother good to feel like she’s doing her bit, so let her be. As far as she’s concerned, she’s building you a Spitfire. What harm can it do? Every little helps.”
    â€œPoint taken.”
    â€œGood lad.”
    â€œWere those your fishing rods I saw being hauled off for scrap?” I said, picking up a copy of the Radio Times .
    â€œFishing rods?” said my father with a rather shell-shocked expression on his face. “My . . . my fly-fishing rods?”
    â€œEvery little helps,” I said smiling behind my magazine.
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    Over lunch I entertained the family with tales of life in the RAF – heavily censored tales, of course. I couldn’t really talk very much about the fighting, because I knew Mum just didn’t want to hear about it. She had seen something in the paper showing our aircraft.
    Mum asked me to describe the base, because she said I was always talking about it in my letters, but she had no idea what it was like.
    â€œWell,” I said, “there’s a runway, of course – a grass one – and around that there are crew rooms and dispersal huts. That’s where we sleep and sit around when we’re at ‘readiness’.”
    â€œReadiness?” said Edith.
    â€œStand-by. It means we’re ready to scramble.” I smiled. “Take off at the double.”
    â€œI know what scramble means,” she said, slapping me round the shoulder.
    â€œThen there’s the anti-aircraft guns – ack-ack we call them – to protect the base. There’s a parade ground, naturally, and a church. A mess for officers like myself and one for NCOs. Let me see . . . barracks, armoury, parachute store. Most important, actually, is the Ops Room.”
    â€œOps?” said Edith.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Operations Room. It’s where all the info comes in about enemy positions and so forth. They get all the up-to-the-minute info, and telephone through to dispersal and send us on our way.” I did an impression of someone talking into the telephone. “50 bandits, angels 20.” I said. Everyone looked blank. Then Edith laughed.
    â€œWhat on earth are you talking