by Lee Jackson
As Phillippe turned onto the sidewalk, he noticed a car far down on the opposite side of the street. It was parked over a rise and around a gentle curve so that only its windshield and roof showed. As he walked toward it, he heard the engine crank, and it pulled away from the curb. It was a large, low-slung, black Mercedes sedan, and moments later, it passed him. The driver and passenger made no pretense of not noticing him. On the contrary, they slid by slowly, staring.
14
Stony Stratford, England
“This is such a grand place,” Claire declared, taking off her gloves and coat as she looked around at tinsel, brightly colored lights, fir boughs, and stockings hanging from the mantel above the fireplace inside The Bull. “We’ve made such good memories here.”
“Yes, we have, milady,” Red Tobin said in his best Texas twang. “An’ I hope we make a lot more.” At six inches over six feet, he was easily the tallest man in the room. That all by itself would have garnered much attention as he led Claire to their regular table at the back of the tavern, but his red hair would have been enough to gather equal notice. Already seated at the table were Andrew Mamedoff and Vernon “Shorty” Keough, two close friends of Red’s and Jeremy’s that Claire had grown fond of.
“Where’s Jeremy,” Shorty asked.
“He’ll be along. I spoke to him a little while ago. He said he doesn’t have to get to the airfield again until late tomorrow.”
“Lucky him,” Red said, grinning. “We’re due at the dispersal hut at first light. How did your no-good brother get that kind of a pass?”
“He asked for it, I suppose?” Claire shrugged. “I know he tries to get time to be with Timmy whenever he can”—she rolled her eyes— “which is not very often these days. I imagine he’ll stay the night at my house and spend the morning playing with him.”
“What about Paul and Lance. Have you heard any news of them?”
Claire’s face darkened. “I hear Lance is safe. He’s in a POW camp called Colditz. That’s about it.” She pursed her mouth and sighed. “I don’t know where Paul’s assigned. We had lunch together right here just before he transferred. He came to tell me that he had to go away, perhaps for the rest of the war. He said not to worry, that he would be safer than all of us.”
Suddenly, Claire’s face brightened with excitement, and she burst into laughter.
The pilots stared at her.
She dropped her face into her hands. “I’m terrible at keeping surprises,” she said. She looked up, her eyes bright. “Paul is here, in London. He arrived this morning. But Jeremy doesn’t know. He’ll come into the pub after Jeremy arrives. And there’s more.”
“That’s great,” Red exclaimed, followed by similar expressions from Shorty and Andy. “How long can he stay?”
“Until just after New Year’s.” Claire’s face took on a conspiratorial expression, and she whispered, “He has a girlfriend. That’s so exciting. He’s never had one before; not a serious one. She’s a very nice WAAF officer. Ryan Northridge. Strange name for a girl, but she says her father wanted a son and stuck with the name when she came out. Very pretty. She’ll stay with us for a couple of days.”
She caught her breath and drank some water, then plopped her elbows on the table and smiled at each man in turn. “So, tell me, how are my three persona-non-grata American RAF fighter pilots doing. You look so handsome in those RAF uniforms. I haven’t seen you since September in the hospital at Andover when Jeremy was shot down.”
“The Duke of Kent stopped by the 609th for a visit back in August,” Shorty piped in, laughing. “I asked some of the Brit pilots if I should call him ‘dook,’ but they insisted that ‘sir’ would do. He shook everyone’s hand, but he had to bend down a ways to reach mine.”
“He looked tired,” Red said. “I’m not sure what ‘dooks’ do, but he must have been doin’ it pretty hard.”
Claire slapped his shoulder ruefully and then turned to Andy. “A little bird told me you’ve got a girlfriend too. What’s her name?”
Andy turned red and nodded. “Penny Craven. I like her. She’s pretty and very nice. Her laugh is infectious. We’re going to be married.”
“Penny Craven,” Claire repeated, astonished. “The Penny Craven?”
“Do you know her?”
Claire shook her head. “I know of her. She’s only one of the most eligible heiresses in England. Her family goes back generations, and for well over a century they’ve amassed a fortune from manufacturing and selling cigarettes that bear their name. Well done. I’m happy for you.”
Andy’s face turned expressionless, but before he could respond, Shorty interrupted. “You called us ‘your pilots.’”
“Excuse me?” Claire turned her attention to him.
“You said we were your pilots,” Shorty repeated, grinning. “And what do you mean we’re persona non grata?”
Claire’s face reddened slightly. “Of course you’re my pilots.” She chuckled. “You’re family. You trained and fought alongside my little brother and kept him safe. As for being non grata, I was poking fun at the US neutrality policy. I’m hearing that lots of American pilots are showing up now. You’re all rebels—” She looked around at the other patrons. “And much loved by my countrymen.”
“Those new guys are just drugstore cowboys aiming to get their pictures took,” Red drawled. “We got here when the gittin’ was tough.”
Andy shouldered Red good-naturedly. “The fight is plenty hot. We can use all the pilots we can get.” He turned to Claire. “You might have heard that the RAF activated 71 Squadron. It’s all-American and they call it the Eagle Squadron. Enough of us are over here now to have our own unit, like the Poles, Canadians, and Aussies do.”
“I saw the stories about it in the newspapers. That came about while Jeremy was convalescing—”
“You mean lollygaggin’,” Red chimed in.
“Oh, shut up,” Claire retorted. “He had hoped to join you—”
“On the basis of your stepfather being born American?” Red teased.
“Yeah, yeah,” Claire said. “He’d have used whatever influence he could to stay with the three of you. But by the time he got back to the 609th, Eagle Squadron had formed, and the three of you had transferred.”
“Well, we miss him,” Shorty said. “He could outfly any of us. He was the first among the four of us to make ace.”
“I heard that, Shorty,” a voice from behind them called, and Jeremy stepped into the light by the table. “Be careful. Red thinks he’s not only God’s gift to women, but also that he’s the best thing that ever flew in the skies over Britain. And we all know you can fly circles around any of us.”
“Why would I limit those braggin’ rights to Britain,” Red said, chuckling. “Anyway, Shorty’s pretty good, even if he has to sit on two pillows to reach the rudder bar in the Spit.” He clapped the short pilot on the shoulder. “We love our Shorty.”
“That’s not a worry now,” Shorty shot back. “We’re flying Hurricanes again.”
“And you’re still sittin’ on pillows.”
Everyone at the table erupted in laughter.
Jeremy stood back and observed his three friends. “So, you got your own squadron now. How is it?”
“We miss the 609th,” Andy said. “We were always in the middle of the action there. We were the first recruits for the Eagle Squadron, and when we arrived, they didn’t even have kites for us. When we finally got some, they were battle-scarred beat-up Hurricanes without much life left in them. The squadron hasn’t gone operational yet.”
With a glimmer of sadness, Andy continued, “Of the seven Americans in the thick of fighting before Hitler started bombing at night, two of the originals were killed, including your buddy, Fiske. One opted not to be in the Eagle squadron.” He chuckled. “You remember Donahue. He thought we were cowboys, and he didn’t have the patience to wait around for aircraft, so he pushed for a transfer back to the 64th, where he had been.”
“We we
re back to feeling unwanted, tolerated,” Shorty broke in.
“You’re always wanted here, rest assured of that,” Claire interjected. “Always.”
Shorty beamed. “You need to stop hanging around with that red-haired bean-pole and spend more time with me.”
Everyone laughed.
“One of our Eagle Squadron pilots accidentally rammed another plane in mid-air,” Andy went on. “He never flew again. So that leaves only the three of us with experience to teach the newbies.” He frowned. “It’s sobering.”
“What about you, Jeremy?” Shorty broke in. “Are you still at Middle Wallop?”
“I’m still there,” Jeremy replied. He moved behind Claire and kissed her cheek. “I haven’t said hello to my big sister.” Then, he announced, “It’s Christmas! Let’s celebrate. The next round is on me.”
Another voice spoke up from behind them. “May we join this group?”
Recognizing the voice, Claire leaped to her feet and rushed around the table. “Surprise!” she cried, and pulled Paul by his jacket out of the shadows.
Elation beamed on her face as Paul emerged into the light, and she flung her arms around his neck. “I’m thrilled to have my brothers here at Christmas.”
Dumbfounded, Jeremy circled the table to embrace his siblings, and as he did, Ryan stepped forward next to Paul. “You must be Ryan,” Jeremy said. “I’ve heard about you from Claire. Good things.”
“And you must be Jeremy,” Ryan said. She extended her hand, and he grasped it. “Paul and I watched your dogfights from the control bunker at Fighter Command on that last day of heavy daytime fighting back in September. He was so worried for you, especially when it looked like you had gone down, and I guess you had.”
As she spoke, Jeremy grasped Paul’s shoulder. “We’ve always been very close.” Then he added with a grin, “But that only works because of my great patience. I’m fairly amazed that you find him tolerable.”
“Hey, look who’s talking,” Paul broke in, turning from Claire. He clapped his brother’s arm and then hugged him. “Look at this, a family reunion of sorts.”
“Minus one,” Jeremy said somberly. “But since we’re in a war to save lives, let’s celebrate it the way Lance would want. Our parents too.” He looked for a waiter. “Can we please get two more mugs over here and fill everyone’s to the brim.”
“This will be a somber Christmas,” Claire said. “So many people having family members far away and in harm’s way. And you three”—she gestured to the American pilots—“you’re here instead of with your families.” She sighed. “The church bells won’t ring anywhere in Britain tonight because that’s the signal that the enemy is on our shores. We’re here in this nice pub, darkened on the outside for the blackout, and many of our fellow citizens will spend the night in air raid shelters. I was gratified to hear, though, that the entire country has united to make this Christmas as good as possible for the children.
“I feel guilty celebrating, but I think we must. Preserving our way of life is the main issue of this war, and we don’t do that by giving up our special traditions, even when it’s hard.”
When she had finished speaking, the group was quiet, and other patrons who had overheard also maintained silence. Claire, with moist eyes, went to a piano in the corner and began playing “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Almost immediately, everyone in the pub, including the staff and manager, joined in singing. Then, while she continued playing, they sang through a series of Christmas carols.
Back at the table, Red nudged Jeremy and motioned him to follow. They stepped outside where snow had begun to fall and already blanketed the surroundings.
“You sidestepped talking about your new squadron. Any reason for that?”
Jeremy nodded. “Claire has enough on her. She doesn’t need to know that I’m flying night fighters.”
“Night fighters, eh?” Red regarded Jeremy through tired eyes. “You sure do keep your plate full. Stay alert, brother. I’ll tell the others not to bring the subject up again.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy peered at Red, noticing a gaunt look about his friend. His eyes had sunken and the long dimple on his right cheek had deepened. Lines furrowed his brow. “Are you all right, mate? You’re looking unusually tired. I heard that you collapsed a while back.”
“Who told you? Big mouth,” Red grumbled. He forced a grin. “Just a lot of flying and patrols. I’ll admit that wears thin. The doctor told me I’ve had a stressful year.” He laughed. “It’s good he told me, or I would’ve never known.”
Red’s banter did not end Jeremy’s concern. He grasped the tall American’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself. We like having you around.”
They headed back inside. Before reaching the door, the way narrowed, and Jeremy went ahead. Behind him, Red heaved a sigh and closed his eyes momentarily. Then he re-opened them, shook off his fatigue and, forcing a smile, followed.
15
Colditz Castle, Colditz, Germany
Despite that Sergeant Lance Littlefield sat between two crack German guards, and a third soldier sat in the front passenger’s seat, he enjoyed a cozy feeling of wellbeing that he had not known in months. The drive from Dulag Luft, the transit POW camp at Oberursel, had been less than ideal, but getting out of that hellhole provided a sense of relief, even if it was fleeting. His former fellow prisoner, Squadron Leader Roger Bushell, had seen to it that he left with a full belly, courtesy of other POWs who contributed from their Red Cross parcels.
As he sat scrunched in the back seat of a kübelwagen with the heater blasting, the drive took him through the wintry gray of Germany’s peaks and valleys. He turned a sardonic grin on one of the guards but saw only a stern and unresponsive profile. Turning the other way, he encountered a similar countenance.
He stretched his legs and leaned back, crossing his arms for greater warmth as he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and smiled. Jeremy made it home safely. No one’s shooting at me. I’m rested and fed, and I’m not hiding. Life is good. He dozed for a while, and then sat up and took in the view. No bombs, no airstrikes, no destruction. Just peace.
He first saw Colditz Castle from a distance, high on a hill that dominated the landscape for miles. From a distance, it appeared as a fairy palace with high walls in a yellowish tint with steepled red and gray slate roofs and quaint dormers covered in snow. As he and his escort drew closer, the mood the edifice evoked changed from one of wonder to one of dread. Built with massive walls bedecked with a honeycomb of windows buttressed by tall towers crowned with spires, the fortress evinced impregnability. Since the year 1046, it had stood as a bastion against outside attack. Now, the Nazis used it to house Oflag IV-C POW camp.
The kübelwagen wound through the village’s narrow streets, then up an inclined cobblestone driveway before turning left to enter an arched gateway and halting. Sentries checked papers, signed documents, and swung open a great portal. Inside, the vehicle turned left again and ascended a shallow rise through a short, narrow tunnel. On reaching the other end, it turned right, waited while another set of arched gates opened, and entered a quad roughly twice the size of a basketball court. More tall gray stone buildings loomed on all sides. They sobered Lance out of his sense of a life changed for the better.
The guards stepped out of the vehicle, and Lance followed. As on previous occasions when he had entered a new POW population, prisoners surrounded him, called greetings, and asked about news from home. Then, they parted, and a tall, distinguished Royal Air Force officer strode between them.
Lance came to attention and saluted. “Sergeant Lance Littlefield,” he reported.
The officer returned the salute and extended his hand. “Welcome, Sergeant. I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Guy German, the senior British officer. I hope you realize that you’ve arrived among the elite, and therefore the most guarded of POW escape artists.”
“There are twenty-five of us Brits so far, including you,” Guy said as he escorted Lance across the courtyard. “We have sev
enteen officers, seven other ranks, and one unfortunate civilian volunteer who was captured on a return trip to defend Finland. You’re the first British army person we’ve seen here.
“The Poles have a rather large contingent, around a hundred and forty. Some Belgians, Frenchmen, Dutch, and even a Yugoslav are also here. Quite a mixture, and the guards try to keep us from socializing between nationalities, but I don’t think that will last long.”
Guy glanced around the high, imposing walls of the buildings surrounding the courtyard. “This castle is too large for the Germans to know all of the nooks and crannies without a lot of time for exploring. The place is a maze of staircases and interconnecting passages and doors.” He grinned. “Time is all we have, so the various nationalities are already finding out how to visit each other. When the guards find POWs in the wrong section, they punish them, but it’s becoming so frequent that soon they’ll have to put all of us in the cooler. I expect that rule will go by the wayside soon.”
As they walked, Guy pointed out various facilities. “We have a canteen over there—one of your fellow inmates can explain how the money works later. Just past it is our own kitchen—the German rations taste horrible; we can’t wait for Red Cross packages to start arriving. The showers are two stories above it.” He indicated a low, shed-like structure built against a main wall in front of the kitchen. “That’s the delousing station.” Then he turned and pointed in the opposite direction. “Over there is the chapel. And at the top of that building”—he gestured—“we have a theater.” His face pinched in a sardonic grin. “It’s supposed to keep us busy and out of trouble.”
He pointed to a set of windows at ground height in the corner of one section near the clock towers. “That’s where they house the prominentes. Well, there’s only one there now, Giles Romily, but I expect there will be others. He has a special curfew, and when he’s allowed out of his cell, which isn’t often, he must be back in by ten o’clock at night. If not, they send an armed squad of guards into our barracks to find him, and then march him back to his cell. Guards are always posted outside, and it’s fitted with a hole so that he can be seen every minute. All of those arrangements are supposedly for his own safekeeping, the implication being that the POWs could be a threat to him.”
