As this fascinating memoir unfolds, moving backwards and forwards through time, two parallel stories emerge: one of a Second World War Spitfire ace whose flying career comes to a premature end when he’s shot down and loses an eye, the other of his progeny, a second generation fighter pilot who eventually reaches the rank of air marshal.

The narrative is unique in its use of two separate and distinct voices. The author’s own reminiscences are interwoven with those his father recorded more than thirty years ago, embellished by extracts from some 300 of his wartime letters. Intensely personal and revealing, controversial too at times, this account is above all about people, not least those with whom the author flew while serving with the USAF–a tour marked by tragedy; that said, they proved altogether more friendly than the P-38 pilots who twice attacked his father in North Africa! A daughter with dual citizenship subsequently helped him sustain his links with the US, both while serving and afterwards in business.

The irony is that the son spent a lifetime training for the ultimate examination–one that despite strictly limited preparation his father passed with flying colors. To ‘Black’ Robertson’s eternal regret he was never able to put his own training to the test. His father, ‘Robbie’, was awarded the DFC and retired as a flight lieutenant after five years or so. He himself served for nearly thirty-six years, earned a Queen’s Commendation, an OBE and CBE and served as an ADC to HM The Queen. But after reaching almost the top of the RAF tree, in one important sense he retired unfulfilled; his mettle was never tested under fire.

Anyone interested to know more about flying, about the RAF, about leadership, about character even, need look no further than this beautifully crafted, immensely enjoyable account.