A Future King Makes the Grade

An unassuming man makes the grade

The first time I met him was at an aerodrome in England during the last months of the First World War. He was a slender young man with a nice smile and pleasant grace; he had infinite courtesy and a diffident manner.

He had been in the British Navy and had seen plenty of action. After spells on the sick list, he had been transferred to ground duty in the Royal Flying Corps, with the rank of captain.

He didn’t seem pleased with his lot, for prestige was based on ability in the air, and that ability was hard to come by. Crashes were frequent, and we used to bury mistaken ability on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the bodies being held for collective funerals on those days. Ahead of us lay France, and the privilege of gambling our lives across the sights of a Vickers machine-gun synchronised with the propeller.

There was a rumour that the young captain was begging for permission to learn to fly, and that his politically powerful father was refusing firmly because another of his sons, an Army officer, was already risking his hide in France. But the diffident captain must have been persistent, for one morning he reported with orders to take instruction in flying.

The captain increased his popularity when, a month later, someone asked him how he liked flying. He answered, “Not too much,” showing that he was more honest than the rest of us.

Then his brother, returning from almost four years in France, came for a visit. The brother asked if he knew anything about the De Havilland plane, and the captain said, “Practically nothing.” That pleased us greatly, for neither did we, although that was the plane we were flying. But what established him as a regular guy was an incident that happened one night in the senior officers’ mess, to which I had been invited.

Another guest was a famous air fighter who wore the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order, the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Force Cross and a few assorted French numbers. He had imbibed freely, and his good taste had become dulled.

After staring for a long moment at the then-wingless ribbons on the diffident captain’s left breast he said, “Captain, what are all those ribbons?”

For an equally long moment the captain looked curiously down at his ribbons as if he had never seen them before. Then he looked up and smiled and said, “I’m not quite sure. The tailor puts them there whenever I have a uniform made.”

No one present failed to feel the quiet lash of the remark.

I’d like to be able to record that our young captain became a great air fighter, but he didn’t. He did get his wings, however.

Then his brother, after years of prominence, stepped out of the picture and the diffident young captain was promoted.

The last any of us heard, he was King of England.

George VI was King of the United Kingdom from 1936 to 1952.