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MidReal Story
The Young Wings
Scenario:Boys: Dalton, Mastik, Lee, Hanham, Mauhay, Janisch Pavlovich, Garz, Belandres, Turner, Wilson, Greig, Slagter, Hammer, Corporal Tucker, Leading Air Cadets Mcleary, Mckenzie.
Girls: Buxton, Macready, Lloyd, Patterson, Field, Macmillian, Ritchie, Smith, Noel, Leading Air Cadets Elliot, Amosa, Sergeant Stobie.
They are now 20 Squadron RAF in 1940, in the thick of the Battle of Britain, flying Spitfires.
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Lee
He is a young pilot training in Canada before joining the Royal Air Force (RAF) during World War II. He is determined, anxious, and brave. Lee trains with other cadets like Mauhay and Janisch Pavlovich. He navigates the challenges of flight school and forms lasting friendships. During the Battle of Britain, he volunteers for combat duty, experiencing the intense pressures of war while striving to protect his country.
Garz
He is an American cadet training in Canada. He is friendly, ambitious, and lively. Garz shares a close friendship with Lee and Macmillan, enjoying informal gatherings like potluck dinners. His presence brings a touch of home to the group, offering comfort during their time apart from family. Garz's easygoing nature helps maintain morale within the cadet group.
Janisch Pavlovich
He is a fellow cadet from Czechoslovakia training with Lee. He is optimistic, brave, and spirited. Pavlovich shares a close bond with Lee and Macmillan, facing the difficulties of exile and war. His bravery in flight school showcases his determination to contribute to the Allied effort. Pavlovich’s story represents the resilience and courage of those displaced by conflict.
I was only a boy when I first heard of the Spitfire.
It was 1938, and I was on summer holiday with my parents in Czechoslovakia visiting my grandparents.
My cousin, also named Lee, was showing me his model airplanes, and among them was one that looked different from the others.
"What is that?"
I asked him.
"That is a Spitfire," he answered.
"A new fighter plane from England."
I didn’t know much about fighter planes then, but I knew enough to know that this one was special.
It had a certain look to it, sleek and deadly like a sword, and I could tell that it was meant to be a serious fighter plane.
From that day on, I knew that I wanted to fly a Spitfire when I grew up.
But that was easy to say, and it seemed like a distant dream at the time.
Little did I know that my chance would come sooner rather than later, and that I would be flying a Spitfire in only two short years.
I was sixteen when I first started flight training in Canada.
It was 1940, and the war in Europe was raging on.
Germany had invaded Czechoslovakia more than a year ago, and England was fighting for its life against the German air force, the Luftwaffe.
Walking back from the mess hall, I pause near the barracks when I hear Wilson’s voice coming from an open window.
He’s talking to Hammer, and they’re both animated.
I lean against the wall and listen.
Wilson is explaining something about the new combat formations our instructors received from England.
Apparently, the Spitfire pilots are now flying looser, more flexible formations than before.
They’re not staying in tight groups like they used to, but instead are spreading out and giving each other more room to maneuver.
This is because the Luftwaffe has been using a new tactic called "crossing over," where they fly in a wide arc and then cross over each other’s path, creating a wall of fire that’s hard to get through.
The Spitfire pilots have found that by flying looser formations, they can avoid getting caught in this trap and have a better chance of taking down the enemy planes. I listen intently as Wilson explains all of this to Hammer.
It sounds like a good strategy, and I can see how it would be effective against the Luftwaffe’s tactics.
But then Wilson says something that makes my heart skip a beat.
"These aren’t just training exercises anymore," he says.
"These are real combat lessons, learned in blood over Britain."
I inch closer to the window, not wanting to miss a word.
Hammer's voice cuts through the air, tense and urgent.
"Does that mean we're shipping out soon, Wilson?"
Wilson hesitates, then replies, "Yeah, orders came in this morning—we're heading to England next week."
Back in the barracks, I pull my footlocker out from under the bed and start sorting through my belongings.
My hands are shaking as I fold my spare uniforms and stack them inside.
Mauhay comes in a moment later, his face reflecting the same mix of anticipation and nerves that I feel.
He sits down on his bunk and watches me pack.
"Did you hear about England?"
I nod, carefully wrapping my model Spitfire in an old shirt.
It's the same one from that summer in Czechoslovakia, a reminder of where this journey began.
The barracks fill with other cadets, all packing with a sense of urgent purpose.
I carefully arrange everything in my locker, making sure it's all secure for the journey ahead.
The model Spitfire sits wrapped between my spare uniform and a stack of letters from home.
Mauhay starts whistling a Czech folk tune, his hands shaking slightly as he folds his shirts.
Garz calls out from across the room, ticking off a checklist of items we need to pack: "Uniforms, extra socks, toiletries..."
We all double-check our gear, making sure we have everything we need.
Through the window, I see Sergeant Stobie walking between buildings with a clipboard in hand.
He's probably finalizing the transport details for our trip to England.
With each item I place in the locker, the weight of what lies ahead feels more real.
Through the window, I watch as Sergeant Stobie frowns at his clipboard and waves in my direction.
My stomach tightens as I close my footlocker and walk across the barracks, the sound of my boots echoing on the wooden floor.
The other cadets pause their packing to watch as I head outside.
The autumn wind whips through my uniform as I approach Stobie, who's standing near the flagpole.
He holds up his clipboard, pointing to a line on the transport roster.
"Your paperwork says you were born in England," he says, frowning.
I nod, explaining that it's a mistake - I was born in Czechoslovakia, but my family moved to England when I was young.
Stobie looks at me, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, that changes things," he says slowly.
"You'll be our guide once we land; the brass wants someone familiar with the terrain."
Through the barracks window, I notice Abigail Macready, a fellow cadet, walking purposefully across the parade ground.
Her WAAF uniform is crisp in the autumn breeze, her hair tied back in a neat bun.
She carries a stack of papers, likely deployment orders for the cadets.
My hands pause on my half-packed footlocker as I watch her stride toward the administration building.
The sight of her makes my stomach tighten - we haven't spoken since that awkward dance two weeks ago when I stepped on her feet three times.
She glances toward our barracks, and I quickly duck away from the window, knocking my model Spitfire off the bed.
I catch it just in time, my heart pounding as I realize how much is at stake.
I grip the railing of the ship, the morning fog slowly lifting to reveal the coastline of England.
The past two weeks at sea have been grueling - we dodged U-boats in the North Sea and survived a storm off the coast of Scotland.
But as Dover's white cliffs emerge through the fog, my throat tightens with emotion.
Mauhay stands beside me, unusually quiet.
Below deck, our footlockers wait, packed with all our belongings - uniforms, spare socks, and toiletries.
My model Spitfire sits wrapped between my spare uniform and a stack of letters from home.
The ship's horn blasts as we enter the harbor, several RAF trucks idling on the dock.
Sergeant Stobie appears on deck, clipboard in hand, directing us to gather our gear.
I shoulder my pack, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves as I step off the ship onto English soil.
I weave through the crowd of disembarking cadets and ground crew, my footlocker heavy in my arms.
The dockyard is chaotic - shouting voices, rumbling engines, and the clang of metal as crates are unloaded from the ship.
But then I see her - Abigail Macready stands near the RAF trucks, clipboard in hand, checking off names as cadets report in.
She's wearing her crisp WAAF uniform, her hair pulled back in a neat bun.
My hands grow sweaty on the footlocker handles as I make my way toward her.
She looks up, and our eyes meet for the first time since that dance two weeks ago.
For a moment, there's an awkward silence between us - the memory of my clumsy steps still fresh.
But then she offers me a small, hesitant smile.
"Hey, I heard you're going to be our guide," she says, her voice steady despite the chaos around us.
"Yeah, apparently my birthplace makes me an expert," I reply with a chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
"Well, I'm glad it's you," she admits softly, glancing down at her clipboard before meeting my eyes again.