Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Anderson and Cunningham had taken off in their Beauforts before Jeremy and were therefore closer to the targets designated by their controllers. Jeremy reflected briefly on the natures of the two men who complemented each other so well. Anderson primarily concerned himself with selecting recruits and planning missions while Cunningham focused on training new pilots.

  Prior to the advent of Beaufighters, squadron leaders flew at the front of their formations until they ordered “tally-ho.” With the inability to see each other during night flight and the dangers of winging near each other even during daylight, normal formations were impossible in the dark, and thus mandated that night fighters fly out at staggered intervals. Leadership manifested in understanding pilots, selecting recruits, training them to the utmost, and then trusting their skills, experience, and judgment. Only combat-tested veteran pilots would do.

  Because so few British pilots flew at night, Fighter Command assigned a controller to each aircraft, and in that way, the Beaufighters were kept out of each other’s way. The concept of airborne-air intercept scopes on fighters being guided to designated targets by combat controllers had been proven. Using Cunningham’s methods, Anderson had downed a Heinkel two days after Cunningham had. Both pilots had scored again in the intervening weeks, and Jeremy had succeeded in bringing down his first night target a week ago.

  The public, thirsty for deliverance from their nightly hell at German hands and thrilled with the exploits of John “Cat’s Eyes” Cunningham, soaked up news of him, building up his aura to mythological stature. However, with still only six trained crews including Anderson, Cunningham, and Jeremy, the Luftwaffe remained relatively free to romp across British skies almost unchallenged.

  The controller from Tangmere interrupted Jeremy’s thoughts. “Blazer Two Six, your target is crossing from the south at Angels 29 on a heading of three five zero. Alter your course ten degrees south, and I’ll guide you around behind him. Expect contact in two.”

  “Okay, Starlight,” Jeremy called as adrenaline coursed through his limbs. Despite the number of times he had gone in pursuit of targets whether in daytime or at night, his body tingled with expectancy. He leaned forward, pushed back in his seat, and checked his oxygen, those actions accomplished automatically and within fractions of a second. “Target identified,” he called to Farlan. “We’re in the hunt.”

  “And here I was readying me’self for a nap,” the sergeant called back.

  18

  London, England

  Paul looked anxiously at the sky. He had lingered with Ryan longer than he had expected and would have to cross London during blackout conditions. The rumble of German bomber formations had alerted them that he should be going, and as the day cast its last shadows across the city, he started his trip.

  Leaving Ryan had been more painful than he could have imagined. Each time that he had begun to depart, she had either refused to let go of him by holding him tightly or he had turned back after taking a step away, and he once more embraced her. The thought of not seeing her for a long time—or worse, never seeing her again—seared his mind, plunging an ache into his chest. But his commitment to his assignment with Stephenson in New York had been for the duration of the war, which seemed to be still in its very early stages.

  As he steered the car from the curb, he steeled himself to concentrate on the road ahead of him. With the overhead glow of the day’s last light, he made out the edges of the street and the vehicles ahead of him. City of London authorities had thoughtfully had the street curbs painted white to assist drivers and pedestrians navigating the thoroughfares under blackout conditions.

  Those measures helped, but they held the speed of travel for motor vehicles to a pace that would embarrass tortoises and snails. Headlights had been dimmed, and although they aided in avoiding oncoming traffic, they did little to illuminate pedestrians crossing the streets, particularly elderly people with hearing impairments or anyone who chose daring over caution. In any event, within a few minutes, vehicular and pedestrian traffic had disappeared as people sought shelter.

  Roughly thirty minutes after starting his journey, the roar of bombers grew, and Paul realized that a formation of them must be passing over his head. Strangely, they dropped no bombs, and he decided that they either must have already fallen elsewhere or were headed to another city. By this time, full night had fallen, and he wondered whether he should seek refuge. He was not familiar with this part of town and had no idea where to find a bomb shelter. He imagined that people must be hurrying to them, probably even forming queues to get in, if he could just see them.

  Carefully pulling to the curb and stopping, he stepped out but saw no one; and above the low hum of aircraft high overhead, he heard no one. As he was about to get back into his car, he noticed an orange glow in the eastern sky, growing rapidly.

  Paul watched, transfixed, as he considered what must be happening. The planes that had passed over him had indeed dropped their cargoes, incendiaries that made little sound compared to the concussion of bombs, but they hurled propellants over wide areas that immediately burst into flame. With thousands of them landing on rooftops of homes and businesses as well as on the ground, conflagrations erupted and spread. More insidious, the bright flames served as beacons for the next wave of bombers carrying high-explosive bombs.

  Standing next to his car and caught in a trance while deciding what to do, Paul heard a man and a woman calling, apparently to him, since he saw no one else. They hurried from the direction he had been traveling, arriving next to him out of breath.

  “Can you help us?” the woman panted. “We need to get into London. Your car seems to be the only one on this street right now and we can’t find a taxi. We barely saw your headlights, they’re so dim.”

  Startled, Paul gave up scrutinizing the pair after only a second, a useless pursuit in the dark. “You want to go into the city?” he asked, incredulous. “Have you looked at the horizon?”

  “We need to get there,” the man interjected. “I’m a reporter from America. We were doing a story on 11 Group at Uxbridge, but I got a call that the bombers are hitting London’s historic district. Apparently, their target is St. Paul’s Cathedral. We heard confirmation of that on the BBC.”

  Paul listened in amazement. “That’s not where I was going,” he said, opening his door to have a little light by which to see the pair.

  “We’ll pay you,” the woman said. She reached for her purse.

  “No, no,” Paul replied. “It’s not that.” He tried to see her face through the darkness. “There must be horrific things going on over there.”

  “Which is exactly why we need to be there,” the woman insisted. “If you won’t take us, can we take your car? If it’s wrecked, our employers are good for it.”

  Paul almost burst out laughing. “I don’t even know that you’re really reporters,” he said. “You could be a couple of brilliant con artists.”

  “He’s right,” the man cut in. “Look.” He reached for his wallet while telling Paul, “If we were crooks, we’d hardly have called out to you when we could have snuck up and banged you on the head.” He stretched his arm out, wallet in hand. “Here are our credentials. I’m Bill White with The Emporia Gazette and Reader’s Digest.” He gestured at his female companion. “This is Marguerite Higgins. She reports for the New York Herald Tribune, and she got out of Paris just ahead of the Nazis. She’s covering the war from London and helps Resistance forces here. Our organizations are collaborating on our story.”

  Paul took the press card and studied it in the dim light while Marguerite fished hers from her purse and handed it to him. “All right, I’ll take you. It’s a government car, so if you’re feeding me a line, your employers will get to reconcile the loss with our government. Where specifically do you want to go?”

  “As close to the fire as we can get. I’m guessing we’ll find streets closed off, so the route will be circuitous. We’ll just have to aim for the center of that orange glow an
d keep taking whatever streets are available.”

  “Get in,” Paul said. Bill took the front passenger seat while Marguerite piled into the rear. “I’m Paul Littlefield.” Before he started the engine, he turned to face them. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “That’s our job,” Marguerite replied. “Thank you for being so courteous.”

  “Thank me if you live through it,” Paul said. “If you don’t, I might never forgive myself.”

  “Before we came out on the street, we made calls to acquaintances in the area that’s being hit,” Marguerite said. “They told us that the formations seem inordinately large tonight. The incendiaries fell like huge raindrops, thousands of them. The flames engulfed whole neighborhoods and commercial centers in minutes.”

  “What makes you think the target is St. Paul’s?”

  “We could be wrong, but if we are, so is the BBC. They’re basing their conclusion on the pattern of the falling incendiaries. The bombers keep concentrating in that vicinity, and some incendiaries have landed on the cathedral, but so far, firefighters have kept the flames at bay. I’m guessing the stone walls and dome must be keeping the propellant from leaking inside and spreading the fire there.”

  “You might be right,” Paul said grimly, “but I hate to think of what’s happening to the poor people living in those neighborhoods and the workers still in those commercial sites.” He turned slightly to Bill. “What’s your interest?”

  Bill let out a deep breath. “I told you, we’re reporters. There’s a huge debate going on inside the US about whether America should be in this war. Frankly, I think we should, and Marguerite agrees. We’ve formed our opinions from what we’ve witnessed. If Hitler wins here, he’s not going to stop. He’ll take a breather, gather his forces, and in no time, New York City will look like London does now.

  “I believe that, but we have to keep our personal opinions out of our reporting. So, we go where the facts are, report them, and let people form their own opinions. It’s hard to see that they’ll come to any other conclusion.” He laughed. “If they believed Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds radio broadcast two years ago, they ought to at least consider the possibilities. Then again, he might have blunted our effect.”

  “This is a new type of warfare,” Marguerite said. Paul had sensed that she had a spirited personality, but right now, her tone was urgent and serious. “The people on the streets are the targets, and if one of your spotlights manages to shine on one of the bombers, they can see the aircraft trying to kill them and watch the deadly cargo falling on their heads. And those bomb shelters are not always going to withstand direct hits. Hundreds of people will die tonight.”

  Her voice caught, but she pressed on with increased resolve. “Americans need to feel the danger viscerally before it reaches them. The United States is the only remaining country strong enough to stop the Nazis.”

  As the small car puttered through city streets, not a single window light or streetlamp broke the darkness, but as they drew closer to London’s center, the wail of sirens rode the air, bringing with them the acrid smell of smoke.

  And then Paul steered around a corner. Immediately to their front, not a block away, a wall of fire danced across their path, rising several stories into the sky, the ferocity of its flames casting debris all about.

  The trio slid out of the car and stared in disbelief, and as their gazes climbed higher, they saw spotlights swaying back and forth across the smoke-blackened sky. The beams crisscrossed and then parted, and as they watched, a shadow appeared in one. Several other beams converged around it, illuminating what appeared to be a swarm of black flies streaming through the lights.

  Almost immediately, the raucous noise of heavy anti-aircraft guns overrode the sirens with thumps and whooshes, and moments later, the air around the bombers filled with flashes of fire and the dull sounds of distant blasts as time fuses on projectiles released the kinetic energy of their munitions.

  But the formation flew on, inexorably. Trying to take in the whole of their effect, Paul saw that the orange glow over the city had grown to epic proportions.

  When Jeremy had flown close enough to London to see the extent of the incendiary-induced fire overtaking the city, he gaped in disbelief. “Starlight,” he called to his controller, “London is ablaze. We must stop this. Put me on a target.”

  “We’re hearing reports, mate, but keep your head. We won’t do any good by throwing caution into the fire as well. Stay on your last course and make a shallow climb to Angels 28. Orbit there, keeping clear of the corridor from the coast. We don’t need you to become a casualty of our own AA guns.”

  “Roger, maintaining course. Climbing to Angels 28.” Jeremy took a deep breath to control his breathing.

  “Blazer Two Six,” Starlight broke in. “You should see targets at any moment. Flash your weapon.”

  Seconds later, Farlan yelled, “I have a solid contact. He’s less than a thousand feet ahead of us on this trajectory and five hundred feet up.” He whistled into the mic. “I hope Starlight gives us better notice in the future.”

  Jeremy squawked his radio. “Starlight, we have a firm contact.” He flipped his commo switch again. “All right, Sergeant. Guide me in.”

  “We’re closing at a good pace. Keep your trajectory. He’s about eight hundred feet out, dead ahead. Slow down a bit and go nose up.”

  Keeping his anticipation in check, Jeremy glanced out the top of his cockpit, trying to ignore the distant sight of London in flames. He found mind-boggling the notion of being invisible to hundreds of enemy bombers flying only a few hundred feet above him while they were plainly tracked for airspeed, direction, and altitude.

  He dropped his wheels to act as airbrakes and throttled back to slow the aircraft. Immediately, the engines’ booming roar changed to popping noises as the Beaufort descended under control.

  For a fraction of a second, visions of his desperate flight across the beach at Dunkirk flashed through his mind. Was that really only six months ago? Since then, he had escaped across France, survived a shipwreck, flown Hurricanes and Spitfires in the Battle of Britain, and been shot down three times. And now, here he was flying almost within reach of the enemy, invisible to them. As he brought himself back to the present, the roar from hundreds of engines vibrated through the Beaufort’s skin, and the backwash from their props buffeted his aircraft.

  “Check port,” Farlan called from his perch in the gunner’s seat. “Closing on six hundred feet.”

  Jeremy took a deep breath as excitement and anxiety collided. He made the correction and trailed his fingers along the triggers, checking to ensure they were unlocked. Curiously, far to his front in the target area, a black hole appeared in the middle of a wide circle of flame.

  He scanned the sky above again, searching for the dark blob that he knew must pass across his view for him to have a viable target, but all he saw were stars. And then, there it was, a dark void moving against the throng of the heavenly darts of light. As he watched, it took shape with an elongated body, a nose, wings, and a tail.

  “I see it,” Jeremy called back, barely subduing his excitement. And now he saw that elusive tell-tale sign, the dull red glow of engine heat.

  “Passing through five hundred feet,” Farlan said. No emotion tinged his tone. “Lift the nose a notch and increase speed a tad.”

  Jeremy complied, retracting his wheels.

  “On target.”

  Jeremy’s excitement grew. “Roger. Keep reading me proximity numbers.”

  “Passing four.”

  Sweat formed on Jeremy’s forehead and streamed down into his goggles. Unable to wipe it away, he blinked his eyes to ward off stinging.

  “Three hundred.” For the first time, Farlan’s voice sounded tight, anxious. “Are you going to fire?”

  “Hang on. The ride’s going to get rough.” Jeremy pressed the triggers, firing a stream from his canons and three two-second bursts from his machine guns.

&nbs
p; Before he had fired the third volley, flames shot into the sky above him. Immediately, he shoved his nose down, pulled the stick to the left, and pushed hard on the pedal. Simultaneously, he called his controller.

  “Starlight, this is Blazer Two Six. Target found; target hit. Get me out of here and find me another big boy.” As he pirouetted away, he rolled into a U-turn so that, looking through the top of his cockpit, he saw where he had come from marked by flaming wings and a fuselage falling through the air. Its nose plunged, and it exploded in a ball of fire on the ground, well short of London.

  19

  Hot wind fanned the flames through the street toward Paul and his companions. Too late, they realized that they had no time to dive into the little car to reverse course. As one, they turned and raced through the darkness, driven by self-preservation and a wave of heat that threatened to suffocate them, and seeing only the white lines painted on the curbs as a guide toward possible escape. Behind them, they heard an explosion, and scanning over their shoulders, they saw the sedan lifted into the air and dropped where it had been, fueling the cauldron.

  They came to a wall. Having no idea what its purpose was and being unable to make out any of its dimensions, they dove behind it and huddled together, listening to the roar of flames and the crashing and moaning of bending metal structures.

  Amazingly, the flames receded. The trio edged from behind the wall and stared at the inferno.

  “What happened?” Bill asked. “We’re not in the bomb area.”