Helena Schrader's Historical Fiction: "Lack of Moral Fibre"

"Lack of Moral Fibre" is the third novella of the "Grounded Eagles" Trilogy. It examines the case of a flight engineer posted away from his squadron for alleged "Lack of Moral Fibre" (LMF). The term was introduced into RAF vocabulary in 1940 to characterize aircrew who refused to fly and/or had "lost the confidence of the commanding officer." Men designated "LMF" faced swift disciplinary action.

Excerpt I:

“Pilot Officer Christopher Moran?”

The orderly clerk still addressed him with his rank, Kit noted, wondering for how long. “Yes,” he answered.

“You’re in room 24.” The clerk turned to remove a key from the wooden pigeonholes behind him. He handed it to Moran across the reception desk without looking him in the eye.

People had been avoiding eye-contact ever since he’d been posted away from the squadron. The station commander told him to depart as rapidly and discreetly as possible, while his squadron leader reinforced that message with instructions not to say good-bye to any of his former comrades. His orders were to report “immediately” to this mysteriously designated NYDN centre.

It was, however, disorienting to be in what had evidently been a hotel. Although now outfitted with RAF standard-issue furnishings, remnants of its former grandeur lingered in the ceiling mouldings and gracious, bay windows. If it hadn’t been sleeting, there might even have been a view down to Torbay. Instead, visibility was so bad that everything beyond the windows was just a blurry white and grey. That backdrop highlighted the gloomy interior. The lobby furnishings were run-down, and four years of war marked the inhabitants, too. Unremittingly dressed in Air Force blue, their averted faces were strained and prematurely lined.

Kit took the key, shouldered his kitbag, and found his way up two flights of stairs to room 24. While the lobby had been overheated, the hall was bitterly cold. He unlocked the door and found himself in a modest room with two twin beds. He was taken aback to find one of the beds already occupied by a man wrapped in blankets.

“Sorry! I must have the wrong room!” Kit started to back out.

“No,” a voice rose from the bed. “They double us up like this.”

“Oh, of course,” Kit nodded to himself. Why hadn’t he expected that? He’d expected far worse. He entered and closed the door behind him before introducing himself. “I’m Christopher Moran, but I go by Kit.”

“Oliver Huckle, and if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk.” His roommate rolled over, offering his back.

“Fine by me,” Kit muttered. He didn’t particularly want to talk himself. He tossed his kitbag on the vacant bed and started unpacking his things. He’d done this countless times on countless RAF Stations for almost four years now. This was just one more move, one more posting. Except it wasn’t.

Kit went to the window. Sleet pelted the glass, making a high ticking sound before melting and slithering down the slick surface. His breath rapidly steamed up the inside. Kit raised an index finger to write in the condensation: LMF — for Lack of Moral Fibre.

Everyone knew what happened to aircrew who “earned” that label. They were publicly stripped of their flying badges, their rank insignia, and any ribbons they may have been awarded. Officers were officially court-martialled and lost their commissions. They were shipped off to do menial work, transferred to the infantry, or discharged to work in the coal mines. Their records were stamped in large letters: “LMF” or “W” for “Waverer.” Their discharge papers stated the same thing, ensuring problems with civilian employment for the rest of their lives.

Everyone knew of someone who had disappeared down this road to infamy, and no one ever saw them again. What Kit hadn’t known about were the NYDN centres, the gateway to LMF hell.

Although every work of fiction I write has been inspired in one way or another, few of my books or stories were quite as dramatically inspired as this novella and the full-length novel that followed it. I can literally remember the exact moment when, feeling quite smug about the two-novella anthology I was intending to release later in the year, I suddenly realized that a story was lacking. Abruptly, without warning of any kind, I knew I had to write a third story about a young man posted for "LMF."

At the time, I knew almost nothing about the term LMF or the procedures surrounding it. All I knew was that someone was insisting that I tell his story and to do that I needed to do some research. I put all my other projects on hold and started to investigate not just LMF but the entire RAF strategic bombing campaign, the recruitment, training, operations, and the aircrew of Bomber Command. I had to learn about Lancasters, their seven-man crew, the tactics employed by the RAF etc. I bought and read a score of first-hand accounts and more general histories until I gradually developed some expertise on the topic -- and the RAF's handling of aircrew that refused to fly without a medical reason. Most informative were post-war analyses published by journals of medical history which provided hard data including statistics.

Yet at the core of the novel was Kit Moran's story, the story he shared with me from beyond the grave. I found it fascinating and compelling, and ultimately irresistible.

Kit was born in South Africa, the son of a colonial official and a missionary's daughter by his African wife. His father served in Kenya and Nigeria, and Kit went to school in pre-apartheid South Africa where he faced no outright discrimination but subtle and constant alienation. He left school at 16 to take an apprenticeship with an engineering firm in the UK, and enlisted in the RAF at the outbreak of the war when just 19. He initially trained and mustered as ground crew and only later volunteered for aircrew, eventually flying and surviving a full tour of operations as a flight engineer.

The novella opens with the excerpt above and then scene by scene reveals Kit's character and the factors that led Kit to refuse to fly in late November 1943.

Excerpt 2:

His father stood and walked toward the darkness and then abruptly flung out his arms and made a loud hissing sound. Something large, silent, light footed and very fast sprang away in the darkness. His father returned to the fire with a smile. “Just a cheetah.”

Kit tried to relax. To his father he admitted, “I didn’t get much practice with my rifle while at school. I’m not a very good marksman.”

“A safari isn’t all about killing,” Kit’s father replied unperturbed.

“What is it about then?”

“For me, it is mostly about observing and enjoying the vast natural world around us.”

“The porters say you killed a charging lion,” Kit countered in awe.

His father laughed. “It was an old, sick lion — that was why he was preying on people. Humans don’t taste very nice and fit lions prefer other meals. This lion was blind in one eye, I think, and certainly limped from an old injury. I shot him because he threatened the villagers — a young boy had been dragged away while herding the goats.”

“Why didn’t you bring the skin home?”

“It was in terrible shape — matted and scarred. He was a very old lion, Kit, but he must have been fierce once.”

“The porters say you were very brave.”

“Not really. I had a powerful rifle. If I had faced him with a spear, that would have been brave.”

“But lions have been known to kill Europeans.”

“Usually when they were behaving foolishly. If you learn nothing else this trip, remember that doing something just to show you’re brave is usually foolish.”

“But courage is the essence of manhood,” Kit protested. “In every African tribe, youths have to pass a test of courage before they are recognized as men.”

“Yes,” his father agreed cautiously. “That’s because in those cultures an adult male is automatically a warrior and so physical courage is the essential prerequisite to fulfill his role in society. In our society, on the other hand, not all men are warriors, and there are many other kinds of courage than the raw physical kind needed to hunt big game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, standing up for someone who is being unfairly criticized or ridiculed can be just as courageous as shooting some wild animal that is only trying to survive.”

Kit caught his breath. “You mean standing up for Mum?”

“Yes, among other things.”

Kit looked down remembering all the times at school when he had just let the others insult the natives. Only the Zulus earned a modicum of respect because they were such fierce warriors. The others were dismissed as lazy and stupid. Kit had said nothing, despite knowing that his mother and grandmother were neither.

“It’s hard,” his father admitted. “It’s hard to fight injustice and prejudice and racism — much harder than shooting a wild animal.” After a long pause he admitted, “I ran away more often than I stood up to people. It was easier to come here to the bush, to live among people that did not look down on us. However, if you want to have the freedom to live wherever you want and follow whatever profession you choose, you are going to have to learn how to be braver than I was.”

Disfiguring injuries, class prejudice and PTSD are the focus of three tales set in WWII by award-winning novelist Helena P. Schrader. Find out more at: https://crossseaspress.com/grounded-eagles

Riding the icy, moonlit sky,

they took the war to Hitler.

Their chances of survival were less than fifty percent.

Their average age was 21.

This is the story of just one bomber pilot, his crew and the woman he loved.

It is intended as a tribute to them all.

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"This is the best book on the life of us fighter pilots in the Battle of Britain that I have ever seen.... I couldn't put it down."-- RAF Battle of Britain ace, Wing Commander Bob Doe.