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Published by: FONTHILL MEDIA

31st December 2015

First book in a series of three about RAF 100 Group, starting on 3rd September 1939 as families gathered around their wireless sets to listen to the horrifying news that Britain was at war.

Air battles over Germany were becoming intense and complex by the Autumn/Winter of 1942. There was deep concern about the escalating losses of RAF night bombers and the ever increasing effectiveness of the German air defence system. Something drastic was called for, and this came in the concept of establishing a specialist RAF unit to become responsible for the operational development, application and co-ordination of all RCM (Radar Countermeasure) programmes, from the air and from the ground. Bomber Command suggested the role for what became No.100 Group in June 1943, to include specialist RCM aircraft from the 8th USAAF. The Group was officially inaugurated on 8 November 1943. Its first operation was in December 1943. 

   Wartime operations under RAF No.100 (Bomber Support) Group were highly secret. Not even the RAF or main bomber forces which they protected knew of their existence. The principal tasks for No.100 Group were: to provide direct support to the RAF bomber offensive by using RCM, Window and night intruder operations with Mosquitoes; to exploit enemy air and ground RCM; to investigate the development of enemy radar and radio equipment by airborne signals intercept, done by lead Squadron No. 192; to build a body of knowledge as a basis for planning future operations; and to make use of immediate information about enemy fighter movements. Also vital were RAF Y-Service - the progressive analysis and interpretation of German Air Force radio traffic and Bletchley Park Air Section - the Intelligence output from the Air Section at Bletchley Park supplying Bomber Command with knowledge of enemy night fighter intentions and their execution. 

   At the end of the war, Bomber Command held the view that No.100 Group's operations had saved at least 1,000 bomber aircraft and their aircrews had brought the war to an early conclusion. However, those who served under RAF 100 Group received no medal, and even to the present day, is not recognised for the work they achieved.

As Secretary of RAF 100 Group Association today, this book is written as the first in a series to honour these brave young men, too many of whom gave their lives for their country in the name of freedom. I remain passionate about preserving both the history of this Group and the wartime experiences of those who served under it on secret airfields in Norfolk.

We WILL remember them!

 *   *   *   *

RAF 100 GROUP - KINDRED SPIRITS

Voices of RAF & USAAF on secret Norfolk airfields during World War Two  

With author Stephen Hutton’s chapter on The Mighty 8^th’s Squadron of Deception

Foreword by Wing Commander Dix-Weeks OBE, AFC, QCVSA

I have also just signed a contract with Austin Macauley publishers who will be bringing out a unique and very special book long awaited by veterans and their families around the world which shares, in their own words, personal stories of what it was like serving under this very secret RAF 100 (Bomber Support) Group during World War Two. It is the first time ever, for many veterans, to have shared their experiences. The Group was so secret that, once having signed the Official Secrets Act, they didn't even tell their wives/girlfriends or families what they were really doing and involved in. Too many have already taken their secrets to the grave. This book therefore represents a valued collection of poems and stories, giving veterans a voice.

This book is complete, and I remain hopeful of it coming out this year.

Watch this space for further details.

ASHLEY MADISON

Hello World,

I'm beginning to believe that with all the new revelations coming through I should be starting a new blog-site. Maybe I will. I stopped writing just about new books of mine being published because Life got in the way. It's a common hazard for a writer, especially challenging when it offers new opportunities, or rather alternative plot lines for books already in the making. Suddenly characters change their psyche, seek a different vocation, take an alternate path, become someone they weren't supposed to be ... or at least someone the reader didn't believe possible. But that's okay. It keeps the reader guessing. And that's good, especially if the author writes thrillers, and it means a new and very different kind of unexpected twist at the end.

Those who have kept up with the plot of my Life so far will be aware that five weeks ago today ... FIVE WEEKS!!!! It still seems such an incredibly short time! ... my husband sent me an email saying he wasn't coming home from London. I hadn't seen him since my birthday on 4 July. Then the email was closely followed by a text saying he wanted an 'amicable divorce' ... which doesn't in truth, exist. Why? Because he'd 'found' an Italian Lady, and for the future, speaks of making Italy his home.

In coming to collect his personal belongings, it was surreal ... like having one foot in the nightmare, the other in the dream. He acted just as if nothing had happened, treating me the same, taking me out shopping (earlier this year he wrote off my car) and then to lunch just as we might do on a Saturday, the only day he wasn't working in London (allegedly). His email had come completely out of the blue, no warning. It's only in looking back, that it's possible to pick up clues, like footprints leading to this act of betrayal and pain and a breakdown, a total collapse of the world I once knew.

This past week I feel this huge weight of emptiness and pain. Like grief, I am consumed, overwhelmed with emotion. Even the smallest thing becomes a big deal and takes up so much energy. But then, through the ether, came another text. I ignore them now. Keep my mobile off most of the time. It hurts too much, teetering on the edge. But I was waiting for a text to come from my daughter, and at first sight this one from him looked gobaldygook. Complete gibberish!! I thought on his words and half-decided he was drunk on a good bottle of red wine. But then slowly, the words unravelled. Doth he protest too much? And what exactly was he protesting about anyway? More research was required. As a writer of books steeped in history, it's something I'm particularly good at, and it didn't take long ... helped, I might add, by a quick dose of late TV News which clarified the situation. His original text read:

'Hope you are recovering from your breakdown xxx oh, and you won't find me in Ashleigh Madison hacked data I wasn't on it or any other site xxx'

The late night News Channel was agog, relating what was happening via the Ashley Madison website which had been hacked, details of married male clients seeking affairs (which is what the website offers) being released by those taking the morale high ground. Good for them! In truth, I now suspect I am one of many many victims. He would have found his Italian female liaison online through this website. Maybe others also. For a man wanting out of a relationship or marriage it seems the ideal opening, without a thought for the consequences of their actions. It could have been happening right under my nose, and for a long long while, stretching back to before Christmas. All those days and nights he could spare the time to be with me, his wife, waiting at home while he worked in London; were spent diving for his mobile in and out of his pocket every three seconds (I timed it!!) to check for incoming ... while late at night he remained on his computer as the dedicated wife waited for him to come to bed.

More fool me!

But then again, how is a wife supposed to know her husband is cheating on her, playing her for a fool?

How is a wife these days supposed to trust when the internet too easily offers open doors to hidden worlds, secret worlds, bringing affairs directly into our homes?

All pertinent questions. Each one relevant. I understand from latest news bulletins that divorce suits have risen from cheated wives as a direct result of this website. It's too easy for a husband to shift the blame, thinking up untold excuses, making the wife feel guilty. He grew bored with his marriage ... 'I arrive home to the same old ...' Over sixty years old, it's too easy for a husband to start roaming, seeking his lost youth, chasing after younger ladies, long legs, heels, slim-waisted, long thick hair with the ability to make him feel young again, energised, filled with renewed vigour, and a thirst for all those things he hasn't yet done with his life. And of course, the enticement for the lady of the story has to be the racing green sports car, the new slim-line male, the new bachelor pad ... and money!!

What might you do in the same situation?

As a wife who has given everything to this man she met over five years ago, almost six, who she married a mere two years ago next month ... it's all the more difficult when she can't find the on/off button to Love! But then again, slowly, as time passes moment by moment, and through the ether more shocks and surprises are uncloaked, it is possible for that Love to be nibbled slowly, painfully away, until only the crumbs of what was once solid and dependable and true are left.

What was meant to last forever becomes a forgotten dream.

THE ITALIAN JOB!

Hello World,

Again I come to talk, to share, because it's always been my way. Writing was my first language. It will probably be my last! Writing about personal experiences was how I was originally published in 1984 when I became the first woman in the UK to write about living as a battered wife on a day-to-day basis (writing under Janine Turner). Now writing comes as a natural release, words spilling onto a virgin page waiting to stem the tide of emotion that otherwise threatens to engulf me, carrying me on to the very edge of despair.

There's a saying: 'I stare into the abyss, and the abyss stares back at me'. I know that place well, filled with such darkness and pain. It's an awful hell to be and exactly where I am right now, existing on a moment-by-moment basis. Not knowing what even tomorrow might bring.

Disability. Abuse. Love. Betrayal. Secrets. Lies. Words which speak of a good thriller. Always one the hunter, the other a victim. And the prize? In this case, it turns out to be an 'Italian Job'. No, not the film ... but a lady! If you're keeping up with the plot so far, I was left by my husband and in the cruelest way ... finding out through an email he sent me four weeks ago today, Sunday. It was all my fault, of course, I was to blame, turning the screws on an already intolerable situation. It's the oldest trick in the book - making the victim believe she/he is the one to blame. Guilt-ridden thoughts unbidden ride the tsunami of emotion, blocking the truth, filling her mind with questions about what she did that was so wrong.

Even this morning, four weeks to the day, my husband remains in denial. Another text: '... I am truly sorry about what happened, but every time I came home it was just more of the same old ... and I was getting depressed about it.'  What does he expect - an apology, or a medal! And the one day in the week we actually got to spend together because he was working in London, couldn't he at least have tried to make it special ... take me out for a meal, spend the day somewhere, go out on the town to the Theatre followed by a meal, flowers ... chocolates ... treats? Since being accepted for the contract in London in March, London became his home more and more, to the extent that he was there except for Saturdays which he spent with me, his wife, waiting at home in the north. I became his 'Lady in Waiting' ... waiting, waiting, always waiting until he had time for me, feeling more like something he picked up and put down at will, with seemingly no feelings of my own.

But now, finally I know the truth. It makes sense of everything that has gone before. He told me himself, so it has to be true. Early this year he met an Italian lady in London and is even considering going to Italy with her for the future, making it his home. Quite how or where he met her I have no idea ... on the internet? Always a possibility. But despite all his protestations ... there IS another woman involved in this affair! His growing unsettlement, depression and subsequent abandonment of the little village in the north where we lived together as husband and wife, had no value to him any more when London, the City, beckoned, together with a new woman to boost his aging self.

Does this sound bitter?

Do I have a right to be bitter ... resentful even ... especially as, because of London and this woman, he has relinquished all responsibility to me, his wife, who gave everything to support him, especially during our beginnings when he was out of work. He owes me BIG TIME!

All I want for myself right now in practical terms is the right to manage my home, my life, without the threat of losing it because he continues to be in control, holding the purse strings, as well as having directed all the bills of this house to remain in his name at his new abode.

Emotionally, I am broken.

There are days I don't want to live.

I've had enough.

This is the third time someone has walked away ... the first I was married to for eleven years and he totally disappeared off the face of the earth leaving me with a young child. He left for another woman and we lost everything, our home included. The second man I was with I never married, but years on, he went out and never returned ... leaving for a younger woman in London.

What is it about London?

Are its streets really paved with gold?

I even suggested to my present husband that if London was to be his place of work for the next few years, perhaps we should move down there, to be closer, to revive our ailing quality time together. It seems it was the suggestion that started this whole scenario. Or rather, was it his fear that I would 'jump on a train' and go to London to somehow find him with this new woman ... 'The Italian Job'?

Sounds plausible and more than likely, hence the hurried email, followed by a text three weeks on, saying he wants his freedom and a divorce. So much simpler to say 'I'm divorced', than owning to being separated and still married, don't you think?!?

I can't switch off Love. But slowly, he's nibbling it away, bit by painful bit, by his actions .. the things he says and does, the secrets, the lies, the deliberate confusing trail he lays to hide the truth, and continuous denial, playing the 'blame game'. I gave myself to this man completely in trust, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part ... I meant every word, every emotion. Now he is a stranger to me. Gretna Green where we married almost two years ago; a far distant memory. Our only holiday in over five years at La Rochelle where we spent our honeymoon; the kind of picture painting I've had to bury along with the rest of our happy memories shared, each too painful to remember.

I am left with the phrase: 'Second second second-hand Rose' and the feeling I'm not worth anything at all. I don't know who I am, never mind how to be, what to say, what to do with the agony of betrayal. I just want to do the right thing ... FOR ME! I can't be a victim any more!! But what does that mean for the future?

This is me being honest and open with the world. It isn't by any means a case of the 'poor me's', but rather a reality check. I forget the last time I found laughter and love, wide open arms embracing me, a face to trust, an evening dressed for a special occasion. Some people find it easy to simply walk away and build a new life without looking back, no thought for what they're leaving behind. It doesn't matter to them who they crucify in the process.

Next time, to prove this isn't simply the ramblings of a hurt and betrayed woman, I will share the blessings which have come because of it ... sparkling stars, treasures spilling into an otherwise ocean of darkness.

Dear world, keep smiling back at me offering Hope. Never forget to tell those who wait for you at home that you love them. Never take them for granted. One day, you may find the words coming out of your mouth are your last ... so make them special ... always.

THE PRECIOUS GIFT

Hello World,

Time again is paused as I sit in the stillness of the morning trying desperately to unravel the tsunami of emotion that swells up within me, threatening to drown everything I once knew, once loved. He comes today for the final time to collect his personal belongings ... this man who is my husband, or at least the stranger he has become. I know he will look the same as he steps through the door of our once-home, he will maybe even reach out to hug, lurching me from one reality to another and for a moment making everything seem normal again. Yet at the same time, his eyes will roam the hallway, the rooms into which he leads while I follow, seeking things he needs for his new nest in London, things essential to him, items he does not want to leave behind. In the end, it all comes down, for him, to possessions rather than those things that money cannot buy ... the sweet caress of a kiss, the touching, holding, folding of arms, nestling close to someone you know you love and trust as a comfort, a strength, those unexpected moments, the friendship, the support, the soulmate-ship, a partnership that once fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle joined as One.

To be told all this had ended in an email that swam in on the tide of ether one Sunday morning in July, churning up my emotions as I read it with such dread, was to bring about a breakdown. I collapsed. Somehow, since then, I have existed literally moment by moment, unable to think beyond. One part of me remains shocked that something like this could ever happen. Another part of me an ocean of tears. While the greater part feels betrayed, grieving for everything I believed in and the one who is leaving me behind, like a piece of discarded rubbish no longer worthy.

What did I do wrong?

Why would he abandon me in this way?

When a contract took him to London, I remained in our home in the North, asking why I couldn't travel with him as I'd done before. Writing is something you can do anywhere, with a laptop. We'd done it in Warwickshire. Why not London? But then, the expense, yes, I could see that. City prices for two rather than one. It made logical sense. But a three day contract went into five days, leaving me stranded with things I couldn't do in the house as I'm disabled. He'd come late Friday evening ... no more in the mood to celebrate his homecoming with a meal out. Tired, exhausted from driving. Saturday was spent in a fury of activity catching up on shopping, mowing the grass and jobs, before he was back in the car Sunday morning, driving in the fast lane back to London. It was as if he couldn't wait to get away ... and yet I'd waited all week for this, to simply be with the one I loved. One weekend he told me the contract would be 2-3 years. They'd offered him a flat to save costs. Okay, maybe I could be in the flat and we could re-establish quality time ... but then no, that wasn't in his equation! Suddenly, alarm bells were sounding, and swiftly there followed the email, cutting me off, drawing a line.

End of.

The flat was in truth a house. He was happy in London ... the buzz of the City, Tubes, travel, people. This was a whole new Empire inviting him to be a part. He thrived on the stress, the manic insane push and shove of it all, everyone focused on their own places to be, eyes locked on mobiles and i-phones. His email which tore my world apart had pushed out 'blame items' such as not being able to cope any more with my disability and past abuse issues, as if all this was somehow my fault. And yes, I took it to heart. Blamed myself. Must be something somehow I was doing wrong. Never mind I was dressed up ready for his homecoming, there must be something I was missing. But then, the first time I saw him since my birthday on 4 July, following the email on 19th, when I tried to talk, to draw out his feelings, to make some kind of sense of what was happening around me, feeling so helpless and out of control, there were other words overtaking the last, echoing in and through and around me ... he had been 'falling out of love with me'. 'Falling' implied a way back. It implied choice. A crossroads in his life. Wasn't our marriage worth saving? Didn't the time we had shared count for anything? And Love ... where did Love fit into all of this? That precious, most treasured gift of all, made up of so many qualities which couldn't simply be washed away on a tide of new proposals and energies and dreams of his own making. Surely couples who truly love one another talk and share, and keep on talking and sharing to work at resolving any problems, any issues that come between them? So why hadn't he done so the moment he realised he was 'falling out of love with me'? I'd sat faithfully waiting, waiting, always waiting, wondering when he would ever be able to spare quality time to bring back specialness and laughter into the love we once shared.

'Are you leaving me for another woman?'

The obvious question to ask.

But the answer was a firm negative. Could I believe him? 

Time moved on. Now I am having to accept more and more that, once he knew he was falling out of love with me, and London beckoned, he began putting out for a replacement. Man on the Town! Never mind he was married with a woman who loved him waiting blissfully ignorant for him at home. It was the call of the wild. The call of a hunter already in the excitement of the chase. He felt free to make new choices, new pathways for the future. What was there to hold him back? Who could possibly stop the adrenalin flowing through when there were new pastures to explore?

It's the saddest tale of lost love. Yes, there is a deep-rooted anger throbbing inside me. I could have gone the way of other women who have been traded in for a new model and shredded his shirts, tossed his clothing out into the driveway, slung his possessions in a heap as a statement of defiance, a visual display of the way he was rubbishing me and that precious gift of love I offered so freely.

But I love him.

I can't simply switch off that love in the same instant he switched off his for me.

Besides, I have always taken the alternative path. This journey I am presently on is fraught with mixed messages and danger. Often I slip and fall. My emotions keep boomeranging back to me. Often I feel I'm living 'Groundhog Day' and the pain is incredible and deep ... so deep I simply don't want to be here any more.

What keeps me going?

The veterans of RAF 100 Group is the straight answer to that!

Brave heroes one and all, they send me the most amazing messages of support and strength and love. They telephone me from New Zealand and the States and Australia. These people saw war at first hand, a very secret war, fighting the enemy by identifying and jamming their radar, Guardian Angels in the skies watching over the bombers, working one-to-one with the Resistance, and so much more. They have lived at the sharp end of life and their words inspire me to live another moment of another day.

To love and to be loved is the most precious gift of all.

To lose the one you love most in all the world, someone who is so much more than a husband, but a best friend, a partner, a soulmate, is to lose a part of oneself.

And it hurts like crazy! Nights are filled with dread, an aching awful weight sinking into my stomach, plunging me into waves of panic attacks which, on waking, remain with me through the day. I'm sick. I can't eat or sleep. The pain takes over. I am awash with tears. Yet somehow I am still here. My world is black and white, the colour washed out a while ago.

And today, he is coming for the last time to collect his personal belongings. The moment he walks back out that door to his car and vrooms away up the road, my world will tilt and turn and crash, pushing me off the edge into the abyss of despair.

Pray for me, World.

Every single one of you who has someone close, someone to turn to, someone who means something special, reach out right now and take their hand, or write them a love letter, share your feelings, let them know you love them, you care, you are there for them ... always ... even to the ends of Time.

xxx