The Few

Last night I was fortunate enough to attend the Battle of Britain ceremony at RAF Odiham.  The ceremony, of course, remembers the RAF pilots who defended this country during the Battle of Britain seventy years ago.

There was a flyby by a Spitfire.  Sadly my eyes are not as young as they were but I thought it looked like a late model Spitfire and every eye followed it as it danced in the  sky.

There were also two flybys by Chinooks, which are awesome up close.  RAF Odiham is the home of the Chinook squadrons in the UK and these Chinooks are closely involved in the war in Afghanistan.  At any one time, a third of the Chinooks are in Afghanistan and about a tenth of the service men and women are there too.  They transport thousands of tons of supplies: they move troops; they rescue them, in many cases seriously wounded from the middle of firefights.

One example of the danger they face is the case of Flight Lieutenant Fortune, who flew into the middle of a firefight to evacuate wounded soldiers.  Taking off he flew directly over a hidden Taliban machine gun nest, was shot and yet continued to fly the Chinook and its wounded passengers to safety and land it.  On a number of occasions Chinooks have been hit.  The design of this amazing aircraft and the skills of the pilots and aircrew keep them flying in extraordinarily challenging conditions.

So last night while we remembered the Few of 1940, I was very conscious of the Few of 2010 who maintain the best traditions of Royal Air Force.

Regarding Henry

Henry Allingham's funeral yesterday reminded me the time I briefly met him in April last year.

It was the 90th anniversary of the founding of the Royal Air Force and, together with some other local councillors, I was kindly invited to a ceremony at RAF Odiham. Nine trees, one for each decade, were planted at the base.

"Officially" planting a tree is a bit of a laugh. Someone else has done the hard work and, with the usual RAF meticulous organisation the soil was neatly piled beside the hole and the sapling placed inside, exactly vertical. So all I had to do was take the gleaming shovel (one per hole, handed over by perfectly presented personnel) and formally shovel in two or three spadefuls. I felt honoured and it was a bit of fun.

The real VIP was, of course, none of the councillors but Henry Allingham. He was 111 years old at the time, and wheelchair bound. It was a chilly spring day and he was wrapped up warmly. He was also a fund of cheerfulness and my abiding memory is what happened as he started shovelling soil onto the tree. We were all watching this World War I veteran with awe when he burst into tuneful song "I talk to the trees, but they don't listen to me."

If this was a cameo of his life, then what a remarkable life.

Dear Henry, you'll be missed.