With a large family, trips to the cinema are not cheap. The clamour to see Dunkirk, however, proved irresistible. It was led by my eldest daughter, Edith, whose attachment to World War II movies can be traced back to an old VHS copy of The Battle of Britain. She still quotes verbatim passages of dialogue from the film and, by way of homage, a huge Spitfire print occupies the prime wall space above her bed. Sadly, Dunkirk’s screening coincided with Edith’s trip to Lourdes with the Order of Malta, so her brother and sisters enjoyed the treat she had lobbied for in her absence.
The critics are split on Christopher Nolan’s depiction of Churchill’s miracle of deliverance. Perhaps it was the lachrymose after-effects of a boozy lunch, but I found the film hugely moving and saw its laconic script as a mark of genius, not folly. More than anything else, the movie reminded me of a book that precisely captures the precariousness of those few days in May 1940 when Britain fought – and failed – to maintain a military toehold on the continent.
Fighter Pilot, by Paul Richey, is an extraordinary account of the Battle of France. Serving with the RAF’s Number One Squadron, Flying Officer Richey was shot down three times. He was 23. The book is characterised by its honesty and vivid imagery. Richey describes the “savage thrill” and “primitive exultation” of shooting down enemy aircraft. But, as a devout Catholic, he lamented the taking of life. His son later wrote that “Whenever he shot down a pilot he would try to find a church and say a prayer for him and his family. He described one time where he looked for a church but it was locked up. He knelt on the steps and said a prayer.”
Fighter Pilot has no time for vicarious grief or public emoting. Richey, for better or worse, belonged to a generation who did much and said little. The description of how he takes his leave from his father before heading off to fight might confound some modern readers. As a father to a son myself, I remember finding it deeply affecting.
There are parallels between Fighter Pilot and Dunkirk. It sounds oxymoronic to talk about powerful understatement, but that is what both book and film give us. Cinemagoers who find Dunkirk hollow and meaningless misinterpret Nolan’s desire to reveal something about the British character of the day.
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Richey’s book is a diary of events as they happened. I marvel at the ability of people who can keep cogent records of their behaviour at times of high stress and danger. That said, war often involves protracted periods of boredom, apt for diary-keeping, punctuated by bursts of action.
My diary discipline has never been stronger than it was in the Iraqi desert before and during the invasion of Iraq in 2003. The entries are long, sometimes rambling, but always evocative. Looking back at them, I am reminded that the act of chronicling our activities and examining our decisions is an underrated life skill.
Thus I was relieved, on a recent visit to my seven-year-old son’s classroom on open day, to see that diaries are encouraged. Without a flicker of guilt he showed me the entry for January 10 this year. It read: “Dad got grumpy becawse [sic] he thought the traffic was bad. Dad thought his jokes where [sic] funny but nobody else did. Dad is mean because he shouts at everybody.” Underneath the teacher had added: “Fantastic sentences, John.”
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My Iraq diary ended with my US Army embed, long before the country descended into anarchy and bloodletting. It helps to have happier memories of that time, and many of mine I owe to the cameraman I worked with.
Let’s call him Big Kevin, an Irishman of legendary appetites and good humour. The two of us spent two months in Kuwait prior to our posting with America’s 3rd Infantry Division. We had a weekend of r&r before being sent up the line to the unit we would cross into Iraq with. I went home to my pregnant wife in Brussels; Big Kevin headed to see the woman who would subsequently become his wife, in Romania, where her mother sat as a judge.
Inevitably, after so long in “dry” Kuwait, Big Kevin disappeared on an almighty bender. This was not the time to miss a flight back to the Gulf. Anyone who was not at the mustering point on time would not make the embed. A waste of two months, in other words.
Unfortunately Big Kevin could not quite sober up in time. His connecting flight from Timisoara to Bucharest left without him. There was only one thing for it. Big Kevin headed to a nearby football stadium, where an air ambulance tipped out its (lightly injured) passenger at the behest of the all-powerful future mother-in-law. Big Kevin jumped into the chopper and made his flight from Bucharest with minutes to spare.
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