Improbable Dream , livre ebook

Improbable Dream
Andy Gaunt
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-09-30
Improbable Dream About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter 1 Norwich England 1953, August 14: Old Buckenham Airfield England 1943, August 9 Chapter 2 Norwich England, August 16, 1953, 2 days later: Buckenham Base 1943, August 10, 05:00 hrs: The morning of August 10, 1930, 13 years earlier: Buckenham Base 1943, Hanger 5, August 10, 06:00 hrs: The afternoon of August 10, 1930: Chapter 3 Norwich England 1953, August 14: 10 years, 4 days earlier, August 10, 06:49, 1943: Banham England, August 1936: 4 years later, Banham England May 1940: Barham August 10, 1943, 14:34 hrs: Old Morley Hall 1953, August 14: Chapter 4 Barham August 10, 1943, 15:33 hrs: Norwich England, August 16, 1953, 10:03: 12 day of August, in the year of our lord, 1943 Old Buckenham August 10, 1943, 23: 49 hrs: Old Buckenham August 11, 1943, 20 hours before operation “Night Owl”: Chapter 5 August 11, 1943 Operation Night Owl briefing 14:00 hrs: August 12, 1943 Operation Night Owl, flight preparation 00:30 hrs: English Channel, Isle of Wight, August 12, 1943 03:56 hrs: August 12, 1943 Operation Night Owl, 04:00 hrs: Chapter 6 Norwich England, August 16, 1953, that afternoon: August 12, 1943 – 1 day after Operation Night owl: August 12, 1943-21:00 hrs: Chapter 7 Old Morley Hall – “The Coffin Room”: Chapter 8 Coffin Room – unknown year: Old Buckenham Airfield England, 1943, that day: August 11, 1943, Operation Night Owl, post briefing 14:40 hrs: August 12, 1943, Operation Night Owl, flight preparation 00:39 hrs: Operation Night Owl, 04:40 hrs: Operation Night Owl – Somewhere over the English Channel: Chapter 9 The Conclusion… The Arrival Sacrificial Ritual Banham England May 1940: Old Morley Hall-August 1953:
About the Author
Having left school at 15, education was not a priority until it was a requirement for Andy’s role as an apprentice carpenter. He went on to complete his trade and subsequent post-trade qualifications.
Being pronounced a failure at school, his new love for post education earned him a pilot’s license at 27, eventually building his own 2-seater aircraft. Construction in his blood, he travelled Asia and refined his experience and eventually a career change to property management, at 42.
With computers skills in both 2 and 3D building software, he needed to attest one last thing to those that said he couldn’t, and wrote a book, completing it before turning 57.
Dedication
As hard as it is to truly dedicate everyone and everything that has allowed me to place words on a piece of paper, ultimately, I must dedicate this book to my parents, Valerie and Reginald James [Jim]. Hope I have made them both proud.
Mum, especially to you, this book is for the one that you never were able to finish and trust you are able to read it, be it in this life or the next.
Copyright Information ©
Andy Gaunt (2020)
The right of Andy Gaunt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Austin Macauley is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In this spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528918077 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528918084 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528962179 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
I would like to acknowledge those who have helped me in my life up to now, albeit possibly long overdue for some, and regrettable to others that have since passed on.
Thank you, Jan, for a munificent appraisal and honest sentiment for this book. You listened, remained impartial and most importantly true to who you are.
I want to take the time in acknowledging Austin Macauley Publishers, for believing in me enough to publish this book. I had a lull in my life and a half-completed manuscript and could not find the words to fill the pages, so Jitka to you who provided me a little zest when I needed it most. Thank you, it is much appreciated.
‘Don’t be guided in life from any of the misfortunes of complacency, awaken from that anxiety and don’t let it be your destiny, turn your dream into an actuality.’
Chapter 1

Norwich England 1953, August 14:
The young man just sat there seemingly not looking at anything in particular. His sombre gaze harmonised precisely with his statue-like exterior, with almost his entire body shape devoid of any movement. His only change from his deceptive sculptured form, was the tiny lowering of an eyelid perhaps hindering his ogle, yet his eyes where fixed on an object only known to him. You would be exonerated of any felony charge if in fact it were a crime and you had to explain in twenty words or less, his purpose. You would not be condemned if you had chosen the pigeon only metres in front of him, dipping and bobbing its head in search of food, like one of those silly plastic birds with the red or blue bowler hats that you have in a bar, relentlessly consuming coloured water from a cup.
A young boy, who was playing on a small section of grass close to the young man’s wooden bench seat, was now more interested in him, than his ball. The seat, in which the young man sat, was “cupped” inform, precisely contoured to his body shape, unerringly moulded to that of his profile. With legs crossed, he was nestled comfortably back into the seat, one hand on his waist, the other somewhat firmly placed over a russet coloured leather satchel bag at his side. He appeared oblivious to anything – his surroundings, the noise of passers-by, even the pigeon, yet his hand clutched the strap of the haversack as if it were his very last possession on this earth. Given the young man’s motionless existence if indeed he was a statue, he and the bench would have convincingly been carved from the one piece of oak tree.
The boy was playing ball with his mother and not paying any attention to his game, not that it needed much when it was just throwing back and forth without any formality. Sometimes hitting the ground or sometimes just bouncing two or three times as it fell precisely into her outstretched hands. His mother making sure her son’s aim was the sole reason she was just able to catch it, by giving one of those big ‘yeeeahs’ mothers always did. The boy’s impatience in not being able to quite understand the games reasoning, spent more time staring at his newly found statuette of the young man, and every now and then she reminded him not to gawk, it was impolite after all, but without understanding why, boys of his age simply did this without meaning.
The park where they were, adjoined “Old Morley Hall” , a 16 th century manor, built after the great plague of Tutor England, circa 1509. The mansion was constructed around an old Anglo-Saxon moat probably built around 700 years earlier and had most likely unchanged for decades. Even after successfully surviving the war, it would undoubtedly look as it did when first built. It was now a gathering place for families with children, a place of peace after the great conflict, where they would feed the waterfowl or walk about the manicured lawns. They would spend hours strolling the cobblestone paths, just to view the innumerable varieties of vegetation, and plant life. The cobbled walkways unpredictable in both shape and form provided the onlooker the disbelief they were in fact man made. You would clearly believe they must have formed this way by nature had it not been for neatly cut conifer hedges and pencil pines which mimicked the paths twisted and bent shapes.
The park or better “common” surrounded the village of Saint Peter and was made up of mostly small farms and pastoral grounds, almost certainly servicing the needs of the nobleman who once lived here decades ago. Families now days, generally the local farmers came here on a weekend; they would bring a picnic lunch with cut sandwiches and freshly made buttered scones with dates and homemade jam, and copious dollops of whipped cream followed by a traditional cup of tea. They had all worked in unison rebuilding the damaged farmlands that where handed back to them from the war office at the end of the battle. The rebuilding had taken many years and was nearing its end with the runway of “Old Buckenham Airfield” now barely visible apart from the purple flowers of the “spear thistle” making a home in the cracking tarmac, and outbuildings now milking stations and meeting points for farmers who once leased these lands.
It was not long before the boy was kicking his ball in the direction of the young man, perhaps to attract his attention and to see if he was real, only again being disciplined by his mother. The young man unexpectedly looked up from his seemingly devoid stare, briefly startling the boy. The boy now knew in an instant that he was not a sculpture or somehow not fixed to the park bench or in fact cut from the same tree. The young man stood then looked around as if he had suddenly woken from an unconscious nothingness. It was as if programmed to happen at that specific moment in time, and without delay acknowledged the boy and his mother with a resolute yet gentle wave.
The woman now able to guess his age at around twenty-two somewhat her junior of thirty and without thinking she spoke to him.
‘I am sorry that my son is pestering