by James Young
“You’re avoiding answering the larger question, Dad.”
Samuel took off his glasses and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe them down.
Uh oh, Eric thought. I may not have a poker face, but Dad has a couple of hellacious tells.
“There is no question that you love Joyce with the fury of a thousand suns,” Samuel said slowly. “I do believe that she thinks she loves you that same way, but I’m not sure she does.”
Eric felt as if he had just been punched in his chest.
“Well Dad, don’t hold back,” he said quietly.
“Believe me, son, that is holding back,” Samuel replied. “You pushed, son. I raised you kids well enough o know you shouldn’t push unless you’re prepared to face the truth.”
“She asked me to take Secretary Knox up on his offer,” Eric replied hotly. “I think that says something, doesn’t it?”
Samuel turned and regarded his son with a pained look.
“That she truly doesn’t know you at all,” Samuel replied. “That she’s certainly fond of you, more fond of you than a brother, but not that she loves you.”
“How could you say that?” Eric snapped.
“Experience, son, experience,” Samuel replied.
The front door to the house slammed open.
“Eric Thaddeus Cobb, is there a reason you left your fiancée looking at her lunch while you sit here gabbing with your father?” Alma Cobb shouted from the front porch, a jar of olives in her hands. Standing on the front porch in a blue gingham dress with matching flats, the Cobb family matriarch had her brunette hair up in a bun behind her head. Tall, with an aristocratic face and piercing blue eyes, Alma still looked almost exactly the same as she had on her wedding day.
“I guess that I must have misunderstood what she sent me over here for,” Eric called to his mother.
“Oh no, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all son,” Samuel muttered.
“How hard is it to understand olives?” Alma asked sardonically.
“You know, Alma, you could act like you’re still overjoyed to see your son,” Samuel observed. “I mean, it’s not like he’s just had a near death experience or anything.”
Alma turned to look at her husband, and Eric suddenly found himself glad that he was not in direct line of sight.
“Gee, maybe someone should not have talked him into being an aviator rather than a normal sailor or a marine?”
“What, so he could be sitting on some godforsaken island waiting for the Japs to show up or going swimming in the Atlantic?”
“Funny, I thought he ended up in the Atlantic anyway?” Alma observed archly. “Then he was so busy hobnobbing with royalty he couldn’t be bothered to send a telegram.”
“More like they wouldn’t let me,” Eric breathed.
“You know, I can see you sassing me, young man, even if I can’t necessarily hear it.” Alma continued. “Now are you going to get these olives or do I have to take them to the Cotner’s to have lunch with Joyce myself?”
Eric shook his head as he fought not to smile. Walking up to the porch, he took the jar from his mother, sweeping her into a hug.
“Love you, Mom,” he said in her ear.
“Love you too, son,” Alma replied tenderly. “You guys should come here for dinner, but only after you wash up. You smell like a bordello.”
Rose of Amsterdam
Tjilatjap, Dutch East Indies (DEI)
1100 Local (2300 Eastern)
4 November (3 November)
“Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for a Mr. Adam Haynes. Do you know where I might find him?” a man asked in heavily accented English.
That accent sounds suspiciously German, Alex thought without turning around. Guess I should have stayed up in Surabaya with Petr and the boys. Much to his surprise, five of his Poles had decided to accompany him to China from South Africa. Adam was fairly certain that the American Volunteer Group wouldn’t mind some additional veterans even if their English wasn’t the greatest.
“Do I need to be worried?” Adam asked lowly of the black-haired woman sharing the table with him. A short, slightly overweight woman whose caramel skin and blue eyes bespoke of mixed heritage, Marta and he had met the day before in the local market. Now she looked at him with a raised eyebrow, watching the bartender and the stranger interact behind him.
“How should I know?” she responded in her lilting voice. “Are you a wanted man?”
“Let’s just say that depends on whom you ask,” Adam replied.
“Well if memory serves, that man works at the local constabulary office,” Marta replied. “But I don’t get down here all that often, and I certainly don’t tend to get involved with the politie.”
Adam gave her a slight smile.
“Well I generally don’t either, but thanks for making me a little more comfortable,” he said, standing up. The stranger saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned towards Adam, raising his hand in greeting. The balding man’s tan jacket, black shirt, and slacks plus his demeanor reminded Alex more of a pastor than a police officer.
“I assume you are Mr. Haynes, yes?” the man asked in barely understandable English. “Mr. Worcasaw told Wing Commander Collins we could probably find you somewhere down here.”
“Okay, you found me,” Adam replied. “Mind telling me who you are?”
“Oh, sorry…I am, how you English say…um…oh yes, Officer Stille with the Tjilatjap Constabulary. Mr. Worcasaw told me to tell you, first of all, that the ‘sun always shines in Krakow’.”
Adam had to fight not to laugh at Stille’s pronunciation and diction.
“Okay, I’m somewhat mystified as to what could be so important that a policeman would come and find me, but I’m sure it must be critical given Worcasaw gave you a code. What is the message?”
“That you need to return to Surabaya as soon as possible,” Stille said. “I do not know why, I just know that my chief normally does not usually use me as an errand boy.”
Shit, Adam thought.
“Okay, when is the next train to Batavia?”
“In twenty minutes,” Stille said.
Adam sighed.
“Could you give me a couple of minutes to meet you outside?”
“Certainly,” Stille replied.
Adam went back to his table, giving Marta an apologetic smile.
“I’m not sure if I am a wanted man, but I must be a stupid one to leave a beautiful woman for parts unknown,” Adam said sorrowfully. “I’ve had a good three days.”
“So have I, Adam,” Marta replied. She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and quickly scribbled down some information.
“If you are ever in Surabaya, please look me up. I work at the governor’s office in the mailroom if you’re unable to ring me here.”
Adam nodded, placing the paper in his pocket. Marta stood up and wrapped him in an embrace. After a moment’s surprise, Adam embraced her back.
Okay, apparently I was much more charming than I thought over the last couple of days, he thought to himself as he inhaled her perfume.
“Now off with you,” she said with a smile, kissing him on the cheek. With a last wave, Adam turned to join Stille outside.
Perhaps I should have stayed in Tjilatjap, Adam thought to himself four hours later. He and the five Poles were sitting on thatch chairs along a grass runway, cold drinks in hand as they watched ground crews swarming over a group of Spitfire fighters. The elliptical-winged, elegant aircraft were painted in the dark green tropical colors of the Dutch East Indies Air Force.
“Did I just hear you right, Wing Leader Collins? You’re wanting us to fly Spitfires and commit an act of war against Imperial Japan?” Adam asked slowly.
If Adam had been standing, the wing commander would have been a couple of inches shorter than he was, with a runner’s build. The Australian ran a hand nervously through his parted blonde hair.
“I’m not sure I would have put it quite like that, Mr. Haynes,” Collins
replied.
“No, because then we’d all justifiably look at you and wonder why the Australian government is asking a bunch of Poles and one American to do this when, correct me if I’m wrong, your pilots flew those planes in.”
Collins pressed his lips together.
“Due to the Ottawa Compact, all Commonwealth forces are restricted from…”
“Wait, the Ottawa what?” Adam asked. His question got him a bewildered look from Collins before there was a flash of cognition.
“Of course you wouldn’t know. Apparently your Secretary of State and Prime Minister King forced Her Majesty to agree not to engage in any offensive operations against the Axis powers,” Collins explained, obviously agitated. “Therefore, none of my men can fly north of Java.”
“That doesn’t explain why the Dutch can’t fly them, given that they’re all nice and painted now.”
“He was not here,” Petr Worcasaw reminded the Australian officer. Tall, with a shock of dark hair and brown, almost black eyes, Petr looked positively emaciated. Thankfully, the look was just his normal one as opposed to a sign he had caught some tropical disease.
“Well, let me catch you up to speed, Mr. Haynes,” Collins said after a moment. “The reason why ‘the Dutch can’t fly them’ is that they’re not qualified. Oh, and that slight matter of having several of their best pilots killed yesterday.”
“What?” Adam asked.
“It was an ambush,” Petr said. “The Japanese come over every morning at 0800, then every afternoon at 1400. Yesterday the Dutch tried to catch the morning flight with their Hurricanes. It ended poorly.”
“I thought the Japanese flew pieces of crap?!” Adam observed. “That was the rumor.”
Petr shrugged.
“Apparently the Japanese ‘crap’ should scare plumbers everywhere,” Petr observed grimly. “The Dutch took off with twelve fighters, came back with four. Another three crash landed elsewhere.”
Adam whistled.
“Given that disaster we did not think it was a good idea to send pilots up again in aircraft they had just received,” Wing Commander Collins observed drily.
“Instead you’re going to have six men who haven’t touched a Spitfire in literally months do so?” Adam snapped.
“Mr. Haynes, you are a double ace who, if rumors are to be believed, was currently heading to China to seek further employment flying P-40s against warlords,” Collins responded. “Perhaps I missed something, but when have you ever flown the Tomahawk? Because I know none of your companions have.”
“Funny, I missed the part where His Majesty was still paying me,” Adam observed drily.
“Her Majesty,” Collins corrected, his voice stiff.
“Either way, I believe last time I flew Spitfires was for a certain government that proved willing to turn me over to its former enemies,” Adam observed.
“No Americans were turned over to the Nazis…” Collins started to say.
“No, just some more of those stupid Poles,” Petr interrupted darkly. “But I guess we should be used to Englishmen abandoning us by now.”
Collins pursed his lips again, giving Petr a disapproving glare.
You know, I think Petr just might hurt you, Adam thought with a slight grin that broadened as the Australian looked away.
“Your hosts may not look kindly on your refusal to help,” Collins said with an edge to his voice.
“If our ‘hosts’ want our help, they can pay for it. Otherwise I’ll be happy to inform the U.S. consulate that we’re being detained for refusal to partake in a military act. I’m sure that will go over swimmingly.”
Collins looked positively apoplectic.
“Are you that much of a mercenary, Mr. Haynes?” he asked.
Adam laughed outright at him.
“How many Fascists have you killed, Wing Commander?” he asked pointedly, noting the lack of decorations on Collins’ uniform.
“Excuse me?” Collins asked.
“I’m just thinking that for someone who is questioning my ethics, you seem to be rather bereft of combat experience yourself,” Adam observed conversationally.
“You bastard!” Collins shouted, taking a step towards him. The man didn’t get to complete the maneuver before Petr was already out of his chair and stepping between the Australian and Adam, the Pole’s face split by an ear-to-ear grin. Adam didn’t even move, instead noting that a couple of the ground crew had stopped working on the Spitfires and were watching the festivities.
“Now Wing Commander, there’s no need to get yourself grievously injured,” Adam continued, his tone condescending. “It’d be a shame to sit out an entire war only to have some crazy Polack break your jaw in five places.”
Collins went pale with anger but wisely didn’t take another step towards Adam.
“Her Majesty’s government is willing to offer you one hundred pounds…”
Adam guffawed.
“…apiece. The Dutch government will offer you three hundred gulden as well.”
Well now that’s more like it, Adam thought.
“How much per kill?” Petr asked speculatively.
Collins looked at him, then back at Adam.
“I am sure we can come to some arrangement,” the Australian gritted through clenched teeth.
“Those Spitfires don’t look like the Mark Vs we flew,” Adam replied. “We’ll take them for a test flight, then come back and see what you come up with as far as payment goes.”
A little over sixteen hours later, Adam was glad that he had insisted on the test flight. Even after a taking a second hop to familiarize themselves and a good night’s sleep, he still felt only slightly better about his ability to fight in the new Spitfire.
The kite may look similar but it sure as hell doesn’t handle like a Mark V, Adam thought as he led the Poles north from Sumatra. Thirty thousand feet below him, the blue-green waters of the Strait of Malacca glistened from the early morning sun. He took a deep breath and looked at his watch.
I really hope the Aussies weren’t wrong about the general vector and timing the last flight took, Adam thought. I’d hate to be short fuel because some newbie radar boffin messed up his intercept data. It had been somewhat of a surprise to find out that the Australians had placed three of the radar sets along Sumatra’s north coast in the past two weeks.
It’s almost like they really do plan on helping the Dutch hold this place if the Japanese come south, Adam thought. Folks in their government must be sweating buckets.
The glint of sunlight off glass below and to his port side stopped his thoughts. A moment later, the reflection became a single aircraft heading south on an opposite heading just at the edge of his vision.
Well at least these guys are as punctual as the Germans, Adam thought. He gave the Spitfire left rudder to swing wide of the reconnaissance aircraft, pulling back on the stick to give himself more height.
Now let’s just hope the Japanese are much, much less observant…and don’t have radar, he thought. Of course, if all you’re expecting is Hurricanes, you’re probably not looking up at this point.
Continuing north, Adam continued to search the sky ahead. Five minutes after the reconnaissance aircraft had passed, a swarm of dots followed along the same general path appeared to his port side below him.
Well, well, well, sometimes it’s nice when your opponent is predictable, Adam thought. Looks like the guests of honor are falling into the trap, but let’s just keep flying to make sure there are not any party crashers coming up from behind.
Five minutes later, Adam was sufficiently satisfied there were no additional Japanese fighters behind the eighteen or so they’d sighted. Waggling his wings, he brought the Sptifire around in a gentle turn so as not to cause any vapor trails from his wing, then advanced his throttle. With a gentle shudder and black smoke from its nose, the Spitfire leapt ahead.
Even though the Dutch do only have Hurricanes, if I’m that Japanese commander then I’d still expect them at altitude.
Easy does it, Adam thought, looking at his altimeter.
A few minutes later, Adam was glad to see that the new Spitfire appeared to have a significant speed advantage over the Japanese fighters. As he closed, the American could see the single-engined craft were painted dark olive green and arranged in groups of three flying in a V of Vs.
Odds could be better, but it looks like we’re calling the tune here, Adam thought, his pulse increasing. Hope everyone remembers the plan and doesn’t get buck fever, we cannot stay here. Making one last check of his guns, he pushed the spade control panel forward and shoved his throttle to war emergency power.
Choosing the rearmost V, he aimed for the leader as he came down from the sun. The aircraft swelled in his sight as he skidded to add slight deflection, watching as he could pick out more and more detail. Just as Adam was pressing his trigger, the Japanese pilot apparently saw Death plunging at him from above. Smoke was pouring from the fighter’s exhaust and its wings starting to come up in a snap roll when the twin cannons and machine guns in the Spitfire’s wings began shaking the gunsight. Before Adam had a chance to register any hits, the Japanese aircraft exploded, debris flying towards him and causing him to flinch upwards.
Dammit, he thought, then quickly reacted by bringing his nose around to line up an aircraft in the lead trio as he hurtled over the Japanese formation. Smoke poured from the enemy fighter’s radial engine as the pilot added throttle and started to reef his aircraft around. Unfortunately for the Japanese airman, his maneuver put the dark green fighter directly in front of Adam’s second quick burst, his cannon and heavy machine guns slicing the aircraft’s port wing from its fuselage. The shattered plane started to spin crazily as Adam hurtled past while bringing his nose up as he headed south. He glanced briefly to make sure Flight Officer Kantor, his wingman, was still with him then continued to haul ass away from the bedlam behind him.
Well that went better than expected, Adam thought, fighting the temptation to turn back around and have another go at the chaos he had left behind him. Then a thought occurred.
I wonder if that reconnaissance plane is still in front of us? he thought with a slight smile. He continued to scan the horizon as he ran like a thief from a bank robbery, adrenaline making his hand jittery on the stick. A couple of minutes later, his persistence was rewarded, as he sighted the reconnaissance aircraft for the second time that day, headed on a reciprocal course to his starboard front. Turning, he glanced back to see empty sky.
