Lewis

It is the 100th anniversary of the creation of the Royal Air Force this year, and it makes me think so much about my Dad, Lewis, who flew Lancaster bombers during the war. 
There wasn't very much about my childhood that I care to remember, but he was one of the very precious and good memories.
I often wonder if my life would have been different, and a bit safer had he lived. He died when I was twelve. 
He was a wonderfully kind and gentle man, had joined the RAF early on, had been mentioned in dispatches,  and flew until he was invalided out after a serious plane crash. He missed the RAF  for the rest of his life, he never quite settled into civilian mode.
I remember as a young child being taken to some of the air shows in Lincolnshire where we lived, and he headed straight to the Lancaster, and as we climbed down the steps he patted the side of "her" I swear there were tears in his eyes. 
He must have been remembering all the people he flew with, all those they lost, all the missions they flew.
But like many who came through the war, he rarely talked about it.Which made that gentle "pat" seem even more poignant.
I wear my RAF pin with pride.