The Survivor: Scruffy's War by Heathcote Blake

Author:Heathcote, Blake [Heathcote, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Testaments of Honour
Published: 2013-09-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

On November 8th, 1941, Hughie, now in “B” Flight, returned from an exhausting dogfight over the Thames Estuary. Discouraged and weary, he turned in his kit and reported to the IO, who informed him that Scruffy had gone missing. Hughie was devastated. Many years later, thinking back on those days, he said, “I never worried about John. He was always there, always had been there since school. He had spent a good part of his life trying to keep me out of trouble. I thought of how we used to meet at 5:30 every Saturday morning at the streetcar stop with our hockey sticks and skates over our shoulder on our way to play hockey. Half the time, he would forget his shin pads, but would play anyway. Tough as nails and a perpetual clown. I can see him catching that pass I was supposed to throw to somebody else in a football game against St. Andrew’s, and how he ran zigzag all around the field with half the St. Andrew’s football team after him while he avoided their tackles with little bursts of speed. It seemed impossible. He was too fast; they couldn’t have got him.”

Now he could picture John’s mother Freda, and Fran, now John’s fiancée, re-reading the telegram they would be getting in a day or so: “We regret to inform you that Flying Officer John Weir was reported missing in action over enemy territory.” Hughie wrote the Weirs a letter, even though he couldn’t think of anything useful to say. He kept hearing Colonel Weir’s voice in his head: “Okay, Hughie, just give us the facts and forget the trimming.” He went through the next few days in a fog. Air Commodore Chamier contacted him after about a week and invited Hughie to dinner in London and to spend the night. Hughie went through the dreadful task of pulling John’s things together to send home. He knew that some of the more personal correspondence might make it past the censors if it was sent with Uncle Adrian’s assistance.

Adrian met Hughie at Victoria Station, and they rode in a cab back to the Chamier flat in silence. Once inside, with a large whisky in hand, Hughie blurted out what little he knew about what had happened. Adrian listened in silence. Spotting the bag with “Flying Officer John. G. Weir” printed on the side, Adrian asked, “Do you want me to take that?” Hughie gratefully passed it to him, glad that he wouldn’t have the painful task of sending it home to Toronto.

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