What is going on? I woke up with a sense of deep trepidation. A feeling that everything is about to go terribly wrong and that there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop any of it. I was in a state of total panic. There was no rational reason, but I am a deeply superstitious person and I believe that we do get inclings of bad things in the pipeline.
I got to thinking about my Dad. In our last proper conversation he told me about the night his bomber was shot down. In the morning, his reaar gunner and best mate Spud Murphy told him he'd had a terrible nightmare that they'd been shot down bombing the oilfields in Ploesti, Romania. He told Dad that he was in the turrets dying in flames with machine gun bullets in his chest. The crew were on their last mission and Dad wanted to get home. Spud begged Dad to skip the op if Ploesti was announced as the target. Dad told him that he couldn't, just because someone had a nightmare. When the target was announced, Spud turned white and was terrified. Dad told him that it would be fine and they'd all be going home tomorrow.
As they approached the target, a bizarre thing happened. In the co-pilot, another pilot from his squadron, Jack Scheider, who had been shot down the previous week appeared. He said to Dad "Laurie, it's a killer the way these Wimpeys go down". Before he could react or process the information, a German night fighter attacked, shooting out an engine and the rear turret. Dad did the standard evasion manouvre, but the fighter attacked again. The crew bailed out. apart from Spud. Dad just got out in time. He told me that as he was bailing out, he said a prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking to be spared and to be given his three score and ten. When Dad was recounting this, he said he was now worried. He was 69, in his three score and tenth year. The deal was about to expire. Rather like Dad told Spud, I told him not to be silly.
I then said to Dad "That must've been the worst day of your life". He looked at me and welled up slightly. He said "Oh no, when your Mum was diagnosed with cancer and the Doctor told me she would be dead within three years and we had to make arrangements, that was worse". I was surprised. Dad explained "When you are a bomber pilot in a war, you are prepared and trained for such things. You become hardened as you see mates in other crews die, when you are shot down, you are too busy trying to survive to worry too much. When Mum was ill, I was totally unprepared and had no control. There was nothing I could do". I was shocked to silence. Dad then said "I was lucky though, I spoke to Fr Traynor (and elderly catholic priest and Dad's best friend). He told me that when there is no hope, you always have prayer. Pray for Gods mercy and the strength to do the right thing whatever".
Dad then said "Never forget that, when all seems lost. Prayer will always get you through". At the time I was an atheist. I didn't want to insult Dad and tell him it was all mumbo jumbo. What struck me and made me re-examine my views on such things, was the extraordinary resilience and strength my Dad had. He never really seemed to be phased by anything. I always had the feeling that whatever happened, he'd find us a way through. Whatever I may think of his faith and sometimes strange religious ways, it worked for him in a way that was undeniable. What was odd was that he combined aspects of Roman Catholicism with superstitions of the local aboriginal population where he was born in the outback of Australia. He believed he could make weather. He would turn off the radio if "The Sun aint gonna shine anymore" came on. He believed that you could kill people just by wishing them dead, but if you did, your soul would be bound to them and you'd likely end up in hell. He believed that any deal made with God was unbreakable, but you had to be careful, as he found out with his 'three score and ten' deal. He didn't return to Australia after the war until 1976, as a gypsy had read his fortune before he left and told him that if he left, he'd never returned. My mother told me that on the flight to Australia in 1976, he told her that the plane would crash and it was her fault for not trusting the Gypsy curse. Mum dismissed it.
Which brings me back to this morning. I was lying there in an abject sense of panic. I thought of Dad and that conversation and took his advice. I said a prayer. The panic eased and I felt more able to face the day. Bad things may happen. Bad things always happen. We face them and we do what we can to get through them. One of the things my Dad cautioned me with was "Whatever happens, stay calm and composed and make rational decisions. You can't stop bad times, but you can get through them and good times will come again".
I feel a lot better now. Have a wonderful Sunday. I hope nothing bad happens to you, me or anyone we love today. Here is a little piece of punk rock, written in my bedroom, with my then bandmate Pete Conway, as we drove my poor old Dad mad learning guitar. This was pretty much a diatribe against his views on everything, as I was a disaffected teenager. I have come to the conclusion that it was me who was probably WRONG!
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