The World This Hour - The World This Hour for 2025/12/24 at 19:00 EST

Episode Date: December 25, 2025

The World This Hour for 2025/12/24 at 19:00 EST

This ascent isn't for everyone. You need grit to climb this high this often. You've got to be an underdog that always overdelivers. You've got to be 6,500 hospital staff, 1,000 doctors, all doing so much with so little. You've got to be Scarborough. Defined by our uphill battle and always striving towards new heights. And you can help us keep climbing.

Donate at lovescarbro.cairbo. There was no mistaking the lean, sleek silhouette of the mosquito fighter bomber. I was about to say something to Joe when I felt the gust of cold air in my back. One of the windows had blown open. It took me two strides to cross to where the window swung on its steel frame. To get a better hold, I stepped inside the curtain and stared out. Somewhere, far away in the fog, I thought I heard the snarl of engines. But it was probably just a motorcycle of some farm boy.

I closed the window, made sure it was secure, and turned back into the room. Who's the pilot, Joe? I nodded toward the lonely photograph on the mantle. That's a photo of Mr. John Kavanaugh, sir. He was here during the war, sir. An Irish gentleman, very fine man, if I may say so. As a matter of fact, sir, this was his room.

What squadron was that, Joe? I was still peering at the aircraft in the background. Pathfinders, sir. Mosquitoes they flew. Very fine pilots, all of them, sir. But I believe Mr. Johnny was the best of them all. But they now am biased, sir. I was his batman, you see. There was no doubting it. The faint letters on the nose of the mosquito behind the figure in the photo read J.K. Not J. King, but Johnny Kavanaugh. The whole thing was clear as day. Kavanaugh had been a fine pilot flying with one of the crack squadrons during the war after the war he'd made a pile of money bought an old mosquito in one of the periodic auctions of obsolescent aircraft

refitted it and flew it privately whenever he wished not a bad way to spend your spare time if you had the money so he'd been flying back from some trip to Europe and spotted me turning in triangles above the cloud bank realized I was stuck and taken me in tow pinpointing his position precisely by crossed radio beacons knowing this stretch of the coast by heart,

he'd taken a chance on finding his old airfield at Minton, even in the thick fog. It was a hell of a risk. But then, I had no fuel left, so it was that or bust. I had no doubt I could trace the man, probably through the Royal Arrow Club. He was certainly a good pilot, I said reflectively,

thinking of this evening's performance. Oh, the best, sir, said old Joe. They reckon he had eyes like a cat did, Mr. Drummond. I recall many's a time the squad and return He'd have his mosquito refueling, take off again alone Going back over the channel of the North Sea To see if he could find some crippled bomber making for the ghost And guided home

I've seen pictures of them, I said And he used to guide them back I could imagine them in my mind's eye Gaping holes in the body, the wings in the tail creaking and swaying as the pilot sought to hold them steady for home, a wounded or dying crew on the radio shot to bits. I turned from the photograph and stubbed my cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bed. Quite a man, I said, and I meant it.

Even today, middle-aged, he was a superb fire. Oh, yes, sir. Quite a man, Mr. Johnny. I nodded gravely, the old man so. obviously worshipped his wartime officer. Well, I said, by the look of it, he's still doing it. Now Joe smiled. Oh, I hardly think so, sir. My Johnny went out on his last patrol Christmas Eve, 1993,

just at my over 14 years ago tonight. He never come back, sir. Went down with his plane somewhere in the North Sea he did. Good night, sir. Happy Christmas. I don't know.