The O'Briens (32 page)

Mike said, “Jesus Christ.”

Their father swung again, a two-handed backhand, but this time Mike stepped back, and the swing just missed him.

Mike said, “What the hell.” Dropping his hat, he seized their father's wrists. Mike was six inches taller than the old man, but their father had the power of whatever it was — craziness, love — behind him, as always. He broke free and took another swing that caught Mike on his side.

Mike yelped in pain and struck their father in the face, knocking off his spectacles and causing him to drop the racquet. Again Mike grabbed him by the wrists, but he jerked free once more, turned away, and quickly walked back into his office. Frankie ran out as he went in and slammed the door shut behind him.

~

Margo married Johnny Taschereau in October
1939
. Mike was best man and Lulu Taschereau was maid of honour. Her father gave Margo away, and she and Johnny walked out of the church under a canopy of swords. Mike announced that he and Mary Cohen were engaged but were going to wait until the war was over, or until he returned from overseas, before getting married. One week later he left Montreal. Margo and Johnny, Frankie, her mother, and Mary Cohen were all at Bonaventure to see him off, but Frankie's father did not come to the station.

Hostage to Fortune

RAF Pembrey

1st August, 1940

Dear Mother,

If anything happens you must give Mary any help she needs and see to it she feels free and clear. I probably shouldn't have tied her up with an engagement, at the time we both felt it was what we wanted. I still intend to marry her after the war, nothing is going to change in that respect but I'm not the same character she agreed to marry. One look in the shaving mirror and I know I'm not.

If something happens nothing should get in the way of her enjoying life, no one has to live with my ghost.

2 sweeps today so far. At the billet we've use of a swimming pool of all things. Weather keeps hot and blue. All the chaps in ‘92' are good stuff and I'll never say another word against Englishmen. 2 other Canucks, both from Toronto, both in ‘A' flight. 1 So. African and 1 New Zealander.

There's no place I'd rather be than here. It all happens so fast and there's so much of it — can't think my way through it all right now, but with any luck I'll have another 40 or 50 years to do that. I don't think Dad ought to close the shop. I wish he'd think it over.

Love,

Mike

~

15th Aug., 1940

RAF Pembrey

Dear Uncle Grattan,

The Spit is a wonder. View is bad on the ground — taxiing you have to swing from side to side to see what's ahead. Can't take too long or the Merlin tends to overheat. Acceleration is something I've never experienced before. In speed, climb, and turning circle she's got the edge over every German machine including the ME 109. Drop the nose a little and you're 400 mph before you notice.

Jerry's shot her up a little bit and she just keeps at it. People buy houses, worry about what they're going to wear, what's in the bank . . . do they really? Can't imagine. I always feel the little Spit will bring me home.

When it's all over we'll have a talk won't we.

best regards, & love to Aunt Elise,

Mike

~

16th August, 1940

RAF Pembrey

Dear Mother,

No I don't mind killing none of us does we've seen our friends get it and no one's asked the bloody Germans to come over to England and smash and bomb the country.

I don't feel anything, it's him or me.

Your son,

Mike

~

RAF Biggin Hill

10th September, 1940

Dear Uncle Grattan,

We moved from Wales a few days ago. It was busy enough over Bristol but we're in the thick of it here, Jerry's highway to London is straight upstairs. 3 hostile plots today, so far, they're running their power play. We're always a man short and today they pulled their goalie, too.

Got an ME on my tail this morning. Never seen an ME thrown about like that but I had the throttle open and rolled over. The controls got very heavy, airspeed needle moved far right at 410 mph, then I was on his back. He rolled and I gave him a squirt, continued firing as he started his dive. I could see bullets entering the side of his fuselage while I followed him down. We were at 5000 and the dive became quite shallow, I could see the French coast a few miles ahead. I let him have another good squirt -- white smoke started pouring from his port radiator, a glycol coolant leak. When I broke off he was spinning violently. Billy Cruikshank, behind me, saw him dive into the sea and break up. Makes three certain MEs. Three probables and pieces of half a dozen HEs and JUs. The dawn plot is usually forgotten by afternoon, no matter what happened, there's always new business. Heinkels are fat and slow, easy pickings unless they've got enough MEs for cover. If we can break their formation we knock them down. Junkers are tougher and everyone getting through carries enough TNT to hurt London badly. Like HEs they depend on fighter screen but they're harder to knock down, better armour and a lot more gunpower.

The last two weeks feels like enough lifetime for anyone. They're throwing everything they have at us and we are clawing them down. 2 fellows lost this morning. Someone will go into their rooms, pack up, that's always tough.

Best regards, & love to Aunt Elise,

Mike

~

RAF Biggin Hill

15th Sept. 1940

Dear Dad,

The intensity in the southeast is something. Wales was different -- here we're catching 2 sometimes 3 hostile plots per day. They say you'll know your way around if you can survive the first three weeks. Not quite prepared for this intensity. Rough going.

The day starts at half past four, someone pushing at your shoulder -- your batman, Airman Gillis, waking you. You get up and think Oh God another dawn and wander over to the mess. War everywhere. Hangars flat, broken aeroplanes. You think god it‘s going to be a lovely day, no breeze to ruffle the hair, or anything like that. Go into the mess. Empty tankards, ashtrays full left over from the night before, magazines all over the place because it's early in the morning, the steward hasn't cleared it. Go into the dining room and cup of tea and toast and you're munching toast and looking around at everybody being quiet.

Screech of brakes outside, it's the van to take you to the Dispersal hut.

Occasionally you fall asleep. Saw a chap reading a book and it was upside down. If you've had a heavy night -- it isn't allowed but you take straight oxygen. And the doc has little pills, and if he doesn't like the look of you he gives you some.

The telephone rings. Scramble base. Sling parachute over your shoulder and off you go across the grass to where your Spitfire's parked. Sort of resignation really. You notice little things. Everything quiet and still. No birds. Dew on your feet. Light like ocean light. Silence broken by the odd clank of the spanner. Your rigger helps you into the 'plane, straps you in and fusses over you and you feel better. -- All right mate, all clear, contact -- Next thing you know twelve Merlins singing. Once airborne, you feel part and parcel of the aeroplane. You don't fly it you wear it. You see there are other aeroplanes with you so you aren't completely on your own. It gets bloody cold up there. You do things with the aeroplane never in any book. An ME gets on your tail & you are straight down to the deck, 50 feet, going up over hills and round forests down valleys and up the other side because you're a difficult target then. That's the sort of thing to learn if you plan to survive three weeks. Think in those terms and think quickly. Never question your instincts, but react. If in any doubt about anything at all -- never question, react. Never fly straight and level longer than ten seconds. Ten or twenty seconds. Never fly straight and level. And if you see anything in the sun, they come out of the sun. If you have a couple of seconds to look at the sun and something feels not quite right, just don't stay there, a lot of people get the chop like this. If there's nothing there, so what, you're alive to fight another day. Always break into the attack, never away from it. If someone's coming in here and you turn away, what's going to happen? He's on your tail just like that. So you turn and go under him. Or if not, go for him. Try and ram him. You get out of the way. Straight underneath. You go underneath. Spit can do anything. When you get home you thank the aeroplane.

We'll see we'll see

Stay clear of me

Stay clear of me

I'm heading out

over the sea

And where I'll be

I'll be

No matter you no matter me

All my love to you and Mother,

Your son

Mike

~

25th Sept. 1940

RAF Biggin Hill

Dear One,

I don't think about it. Totally resigned. Totally resigned. Accept it. You mustn't think about it either. Do not let yourself think about it.

Your knees,

Mike

~

7th October, 1940

RAF Biggin Hill

Daddy, life is a pure strain of time and all the important numbers have been written down already. Nothing we can say or do alters the terms. So I believe. You do as well? I think so.
Don't worry too much about me
there is no point.

Love,

Mike

~

January 3rd 1941

RAF Manston

Dear One,

Your letter came in, I read it in the pub. Went outside & walked up the English road in the English valley very green here in December -- no it‘s Jan. -- there were sheep. Walking up the English road an officer crying tears streaming oh the poor officer. Getting nervy.

I tell you though I was crying for me not for you. Last week a radio program on budgerigars going wild in London set me off. If the NAAFI's shut, running out of cigs will start me wailing. I hope your American navy is made of better stuff.

We knew each other you and me. You're a knot in the wood I won't forget you. The way you smell, your legs, everything. Think of me what you think of me, but remember this: when the fire is burning down low I'll think of you, I'll listen to you.

Godspeed,

Michael

~

January 10th, 1941

RAF Manston

Dear Margo,

Six months old and I don't know what Madeleine looks like. Send me a photo of my niece please. It's too bad Johnny missed her. That's the army (air force too) -- months without orders then everything in a rush all of a sudden . . . I wonder if the Cdns go to Middle East.

The fellows you asked about are gone. Those of us left are a bit tired. I am Senior Flight

Commander now. The general mood is -- we've done our war, let someone else have a turn. You reach a certain point where you are as effective as you'll ever be, that phase lasts perhaps a month maybe two then you start making mistakes, it's being tired mostly. A chap was killed the other day flying into a Chance light. Good pilot too. If it were a hockey game we'd be calling for a line change! It's possible we will be shifted to the E. coast (Lincolnshire) a bit of a stand-down. Also Middle East is possible. There is a chance I will be posted as a test pilot which would be a dream but not bloody likely.

I can't see the end of the war.

Got the shake-off the other day from MC. Nice letter. Doesn't mean much of anything to me now.

Give your little girl a kiss from her uncle.

ton frère

Mike

~

11 NOVEMBER 1942

TO: MR. JOSEPH MICHAEL O'BRIEN

10 SKYE AVE WESTMOUNT PQ

7534 MINISTER OF NATIONAL DEFENCE REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT R94274 FLYING OFFICER MICHAEL F O'BRIEN HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN REPORTED WOUNDED IN ACTION THIRD NOVEMBER 1942 STOP WHEN FURTHER INFORMATION BECOMES AVAILABLE IT WILL BE FORWARDED AS SOON AS RECEIVED

DIRECTOR OF RECORDS

~

No 1 NZ General Hospital

Helwan Egypt

December 4th, 1942

Dear Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien,

I am a nursing sister at the New Zealand Army hospital at Helwan, Egypt and have been asked by your son Michael to write and tell you that he is recovering very well from his slight wounds. He asks me to tell you that he has been ‘enjoying his holiday' for the past month and that he expects to be boarded very soon and returned to active duty with his unit.

Yours truly,

L. McEntee

Louise McEntee,

N.Z.A.N.S.

~

No 1 NZ General Hospital

Helwan Egypt

December 4th, 1942

Dear Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien,

I feel I must write as truthfully as possible the facts of your son's condition as the letter I wrote at his request does not give, I feel, an entirely accurate picture of his condition and I think it best that you know the facts.

He was admitted to No 1 NZ Gen Hosp in the middle of November from an Advanced Dressing Station in the desert. His wounds in neck and torso are due to shrapnel and glass after his aeroplane was struck by AA fire. He has so far had 3 surgeries to remove same. He is making a good recovery but it is possible small fragments of shrapnel remain in the chest cavity. He is of course confined to bed until his wounds fully heal and his strength has only just started coming back, but he is quite exhausted and it is only natural that after two years flying Spitfires in England and the Western Desert he is mentally a bit ‘worn out' and his spirits are ‘medium to low'. Cannot for example write his own letters, is unwilling to speak more than a few sentences at a time, easily becomes annoyed. I am not one to say but I think it most unlikely F/O O'Brien will return to active service with the Desert A.F. anytime soon, if ever.

After the battles of the last few weeks our NZ army hospital is quite crowded but be assured F/O O'Brien is receiving the best of care and his full recovery is expected.

Yours truly,

Louise McEntee

Louise McEntee, N.Z.A.N.S.