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It was the first day of the War.

We were living in Wantage, Berkshire. The birthplace of King Alfred the Great was surrounded by a large number of airfields which catered for both bomber and fighter aircraft.

Planes were passing over our house at all times of day and night. They included Wellington and Whitley bombers, Beauforts, Blenheims, Fairey Battles, Hurricanes, Spitfires and training aircraft including the noisy yellow Harvards.

My brother David and I attended the King Alfred Grammar School, which was about ten minutes walk from where we lived. Like most lads at the time we were very interested in aircraft.

We got to know about a so-called 'secret' aircraft which was in production. There was a Royal Ordnance Factory not far away. We thought it was exciting to hear about this aircraft, especially as it was 'secret'.

David and I walked home as usual in the warmth of a summer afternoon and sat down to enjoy our tea. After a few minutes, there was a knock at the front door. Mother went to answer it.

After a few moments she returned.
"There's a policeman at the door, asking for the two of you."
She looked worried. Our stomachs were churning.
What did the policeman want to see us for? We hadn't been climbing trees or larking about near the canal.

The policeman — who lived opposite us — looked serious.
"Tell me about this secret aircraft. Where did you get the information?"

Our hearts sank. We thought someone at school might get into trouble so we hesitated to say anything at all. When we did speak our answers were vague to begin with, but then Mother said that SHE had wondered if we should be talking about a new aircraft so openly.

The cat was out of the bag!

After the policeman had gone, Mother said it was not as serious as he had thought it was. All we knew was that the plane was a Boulton Paul Defiant — a night fighter — and that it was fitted with a swivelling rear turret. We knew nothing of the plane's performance: speed, range or manoeuvrability.

We asked Mum why the policeman had picked on us — of all people.
"You won't believe this," she began, "but when you came past the convent on the way home two nuns overheard your conversation, followed you home and reported you to the police."

"Two nuns?" We couldn't believe it. What would two nuns understand about night fighters with swivelling turrets at the rear? It was very strange.

"And there was something else I had to tell you."
"What was that?" we asked.
"The policeman said I was to remind you: Careless talk costs lives."

Of course. 'CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES'

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