Political column – May 4

Some time in the not-too-distant future there will be just one left, the Harry Patch or Harriet Patch of the Second World War, the lone living survivor to have seen action in the conflict – women were not in combat roles in those days but did see action in anti-aircraft batteries.

To the modern generation that individual will be the embodiment of the courage and sacrifice of the Britain's Finest Hour generation, and will be feted and honoured.

The person on whom this will all fall is out there, but whoever it turns out to be will be will be a matter of chance and fate.

A few weeks ago I went to the funeral of the last of my late father's wartime friends. We had grown up through childhood with stories about him, mostly amusing, the stuff of friendly joshing.

The eulogies at the funeral were about his love of painting, his involvement in the church, his family, and that kind of thing. So far as I can recall there was literally nothing about his wartime service.

Having had the privilege during my journalistic career of interviewing many Second World War veterans, and also some from the First World War – I do go back a bit you know – a characteristic feature was modesty about what they had done.

What we knew from my father about Chris Cartledge's wartime exploits was that he had "bombed the Tirpitz." To be strictly accurate, what he did was drop a bomb in the general direction of the German battleship.

For this he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, although he never understood why he had been singled out.

On his death, aged 100, he merited an obituary in both the Times and the Telegraph.

These obituaries naturally highlighted his Tirpitz role, but there were other tales about Chris which didn't make the cut.

He had met my father during their training and one of my father's tales was that Chris had a picture of Stalin on his cabin wall at RNAS Yeovilton.

During their flying training in Canada they bought an ancient Durant and drove around and, attracted by the girl members in their red robes and mortar boards, joined a church choir in Kingston.

My father gave the impression that when it came to flying, Chris was always getting into scrapes. On his first attempt at a deck landing on HMS Argus his Hurricane went over the side and he was fished out of the Clyde.

On another occasion he decided to borrow a Blackburn Skua to go on a date and unfortunately ran it into the back of a Seafire, an incident for which he was court martialled.

Then there was the time when he, as a naval pilot, went to Errol, an RAF airfield in Scotland, and was allowed to fly their treasured Hurricane, the only one they had. He promptly bent it on landing.

In operations over Japan came an incident which seems to have shaped his life. His Corsair aircraft was hit and, with the controls so badly damaged that a deck landing would be very dangerous, he needed to bail out – only to find that his cockpit hood was firmly wedged shut. He couldn't get out. As he struggled with it, his plane hit the sea. The impact threw him out, more or less unscathed.

It was, he said, miraculous. Every day after that was a bonus day.

During the war, in which he lost many comrades, he was an atheist, but later he became very religious.

There are not many like him left now and we shall be the poorer for their passing.

.................

Humza Yousaf said he was "not willing to trade my values and principles" with whomever simply to retain power.

But isn't that the gig? Politics is all about reaching compromises, even with those in your own political party. Like, you know, Sir Keir Starmer serving under Jeremy Corbyn.

Those fuddy-duddies who insist on sticking to principles are labelled mavericks and rebels.

Maybe Humza just wasn't cut out to be a politician.

He also upset the Greens, which while it turned out to be political suicide, is hardly a crime.