Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Roger. Be safe. I’ll see you both at destination when you get there.”

  Some minutes later, Andy’s radio crackled again, with traffic from Red Flight.

  “Red Leader, this is Red Three. I’m off course, but I’m across the water. Weather is lighter. I see an airfield. I’m going to set down and wait this out.”

  “This is Red Two. I see Red Three. I’ll follow him down.”

  “Red Two and Three, this is Red Leader. Roger.”

  Meanwhile, the turbulence around Andy had turned vicious, with sheets of rain pounding against his windshield and threatening to deafen him. He glued his eyes to his instruments. “Blue Two, Three, and Four, status?” he called.

  “This is Blue Two. I’ve seen no break.”

  “This is Blue Three. Same.”

  “This is Blue Four. Same.”

  Andy closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head. Those were his youngest and most inexperienced fighters. “This is Blue Leader. If you see a break in the clouds, take it. No heroics. Get on the ground as quickly and safely as you can.”

  Thankfully, they acknowledged his transmission.

  A faint call came through from another Red Flight fighter. “This is Red Five. I’ve spotted an airfield. I’ll ride out the storm there.”

  “This is Red Leader, Roger.”

  A farmer in Maughold on the Isle of Man heard a low rumble above the roar of wind and pounding rain. He had heard the sound before and figured that fighters must be flying nearby. This time, however, the tenor of the engines was different, louder. He walked out onto his front porch and cupped his ear toward them. Then he saw them fly across a field to his front, four of them, coming fast and too low.

  He sucked in his breath in horror.

  They plowed into a low-rise hill across the field from his house. A thunderous explosion shot flames high into the sky followed by rapid, irregular popping as ammunition burned off in a machine gun staccato.

  The farmer raced into the darkness and rain, and he soon sensed other people, men and women, young and old, running to the burning aircraft. But when they came near, blazing heat and random bullets held them back.

  Nothing could be done for the pilots who were doubtless already dead. When the ammunition had stopped burning off, the farmer continued pressing as close as the heat allowed until he could read the only one of the tail numbers that was not scorched off: Z3781.

  63

  October 9, 1941

  London, England

  “You didn’t waste any time getting here,” Major Crockatt told Jeremy. “It’s still early morning.”

  “We’ve reached the end of our window again,” Jeremy replied. They sat across the desk from one another in the major’s office. “This waiting is a killer. We were supposed to be in France more than a month ago.”

  “You and all the other teams that should have flown out, not to mention the equipment that is sorely needed there. Let’s hope for a break in the next moon cycle. Will you be staying with your sister?”

  Jeremy affirmed. “That’s where I’m headed this afternoon. At least I’ll get to spend some time with her and Timmy.”

  “Check in by phone once in a while over the next couple of weeks, but otherwise relax and enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”

  “Hmph. It’s hard to relax when people you love are in harm’s way.”

  Crockatt smiled wryly. “I understand, but give it a try.”

  “Listen, on the way up here, I heard on the news that some chaps from the 133rd had been lost in a storm. Could I prevail on Vivian to call over to Fighter Command and check the names? Andy Mamedoff is a flight commander in that squadron.”

  “Certainly.” He pushed a button on his desk, and moments later, the secretary appeared in his doorway. Crockatt explained the request, and Vivian left, closing the door behind her.

  “What do you hear from your parents on Sark?” Crockatt asked.

  Jeremy sighed. “Nothing good. They know their letters will be censored, so they don’t tell us much of substance, and they wouldn’t want to worry us with their suffering anyway. The good news is that they’re still writing, which means they’re still alive.”

  “That’s a sorry situation, the Channel Isles. To have left British territory undefended is unimaginable.”

  “Agreed, but I’ve come to accept that the prime minister had no choice. I’m not surprised that my parents chose to stay. I probably could have predicted that, but I still might wring their necks the next time I see them for having done so, whenever that is.”

  Vivian hurried in, an anxious look on her face. She glanced furtively at Jeremy and then handed the major a note.

  He read it quickly, grimaced, and looked up at Jeremy. “I’m afraid we’ve received a bit of bad news.” He handed the note to Jeremy.

  Stony Stratford, England

  Reading on her sofa in the living room, Claire heard gravel crunching on her driveway. As on the day when Jeremy came to tell her of Red’s passing, she was not expecting visitors. She jerked her head up and stared out the window with apprehension.

  A small government sedan broke from beneath the oaks into waning sunlight. She inhaled sharply, brought a hand up in front of her mouth, started to rise, and called to the nanny. “Would you please take Timmy to play in the back garden? Someone is here to see me.”

  The nanny hurried in, glanced out the window, and shook her head sadly without a word. Then she picked up Timmy. He protested, but she promised him a sugar biscuit, and that mollified the child.

  Tears had already formed in Claire’s eyes when she opened the door. Jeremy had exited the car and was halfway up the garden path. The look on his face confirmed her fears.

  “Andy?” she gasped, and as Jeremy nodded, she turned pale. He hurried to her and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Oh my God,” Claire said suddenly. “What about Penny? That poor girl. She’s not been married even a month. She’ll be all alone. I must go to her.”

  “I brought her here. I hope you don’t mind. She’s in the car.”

  “She’s here?” Claire wiped her eyes and stared at the car. “Of course I don’t mind.” She hurried to the sedan and opened the passenger side door. Inside, Penny sat with her face in her hands. When she removed them and peered up, she looked exhausted and confused.

  Claire leaned in and hugged her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I have no words for my anguish, which can’t approach your own.”

  Both women shook as grief overtook them. Jeremy joined them, standing just behind Claire, and when they had calmed down, he helped bring Penny into the house.

  “I got the news at Major Crockatt’s office this morning,” Jeremy told Claire when Penny had fallen into fitful sleep in the guest bedroom. “I’d heard that the 133rd had been scattered with some planes and pilots lost, so I asked him to inquire to find out who.”

  He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t believe when I learned that Andy had gone down. He was such a good and experienced pilot. He’d told me that Penny felt alone despite her wealth, and she had said she hoped you and she could become friends. She loved meeting you at the wedding.

  “I drove up there as soon as I heard. I arrived at their cottage just after she had been informed of the tragedy by the sergeant major. He and the rest of the ground crew were due to start their convoy to Eglington today, and he was the senior man present. Penny was in no shape to be left alone.”

  “I’m glad you brought her,” Claire said. “This is a horrible thing to face, especially alone.” She sank into it. “How long, little brother? How much longer must good people endure these ravages of dictators.” She buried her face in her hands.

  Jeremy went to the bar and pulled out two tumblers. “Care for a drink?”

  “I could use one. Thanks.”

  He poured them, brought one to Claire, and sat next to her. “I wish I had an answer. I imagine there will always be one somewhere in the world. This one in Germany is particularly
nasty.”

  “The one in Moscow isn’t any better. He just doesn’t threaten us at the moment.”

  Jeremy agreed and gestured toward the room where Penny slept. “You’re going to keep her here?”

  “She’s welcome to stay as long as she wants.”

  “Good. Did I mention that I’ll be staying too?”

  Claire’s face brightened with a smile. “That’s wonderful. Are you on leave?”

  “Of sorts. I’ll have to check in from time to time.”

  A frown furrowed Claire’s brow. “You’re being a bit cryptic. What’s my little brother up to these days?”

  Jeremy smiled. “What will you be doing at your job tomorrow?”

  She frowned with a hint of somber mock petulance. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies?”

  “Exactly,” Jeremy said grimly. “But I will tell you that when I report back in, you might not hear from me for a while.”

  As soon as he said the words, Claire’s shoulders drooped, but her face became resolute. She set her jaw, straightened her back, and gazed at Jeremy. “I’m getting beyond tears. That doesn’t mean I love you less. From now on, I’ll save my emotions for the day when we can celebrate the end of this nightmare, and we won’t have to grieve for yet another loved one dying too young.”

  Jeremy nodded solemnly and glanced toward the bedroom where Penny slept. “Do you have any ideas about how to help her?”

  “I do. She’s bright and well educated, and after she’s had time to mourn, she’ll need to get busy doing something to keep her mind occupied. I’m on good terms with my superiors. I’ll talk to them about hiring her—that is, if she wants to. She has the qualifications they look for.”

  64

  October 23, 1941

  The Downs Near Petworth, England

  Bunny strode into the Bertrams’ living room. “The weather’s looking good,” he announced. “We might take a few bumps along the way, but I think we have a good chance of flying out tonight.”

  Jeremy and his team had arrived there the night before. They looked up anxiously and then at each other, and the atmosphere suddenly took on a subdued quality. Each face tightened from relaxed to professionally neutral with hooded eyes.

  Bunny took in the transformation. “I’m sorry. This is a case where good news is bad news, isn’t it?” He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  “We volunteered,” Rowena said, taking to her feet. “Thank you. I’ll get ready.”

  Barbara Bertram entered the room from the kitchen, and from the expressions on her guests’ faces, she read what was taking place. “Oh dear,” she sniffed. “Antony will be so upset that he’s not here to see you off.” Then she hugged all three members of the team. “Take care of them,” she admonished Bunny as tears formed in her eyes.

  “I’ll do my best, mum.” He turned to the group. “We’ll have snacks on the plane, but I’d avoid drinking much liquid from here until we reach your destination. We have no facilities on board, and it’s a long flight.”

  Near dusk, they rode in a special station wagon with darkened windows, taking a winding route. When they emerged from the vehicle, they found themselves behind a high, solid gate blocking their views except along the length of the runway, but some ethereal quality in the air made Jeremy believe that he knew where they were: RAF Tangmere, where he had flown so many missions prior to transferring to Middle Wallop to be with Red, Andy, and Shorty.

  He scrutinized the landscape he could see in the waning light beyond the end of the runway, certain that he recognized the shape of rolling hills in the distance. Then, he glanced wistfully in what he estimated to be the direction of the churchyard of St. Mary’s and St. Blaise in Boxgrove, where he and his mates had buried his great friend, mentor, and Olympic gold medalist, another American eagle who had flown for Great Britain and given his life for her, Billy Fiske.

  A Lysander sat on the apron. It gave an aura of strength and versatility with its monstrous Mercury engine and tri-bladed propeller jutting pugnaciously skyward, huge cowlings over its front landing gear, and double-struts supporting wings of a wide and peculiar shape. Strapped to the underside of its short fuselage was a torpedo-like tank that provided added fuel for extended range.

  Bunny was already there. He guided the group to the steel ladder welded to the fuselage behind the wing and forward of the stabilizer. “This is it,” he said grimly. “Just a reminder: when we land, get out quickly and follow your guide away from the aircraft. I won’t be on the ground more than three minutes.” He reached forward and shook the hand of each team member, telling them, “Thank you for what you do.”

  Then he helped them climb the ladder into the cramped rear compartment. Moments later, the ignition cranked, the propeller turned, the engine roared to life, and the aircraft taxied to the runway before lifting into the night sky.

  Flying low by the light of a slender, waxing moon, Rymills guided his tiny, lone aircraft across the turbulent waves of the English Channel, crossing into France between Luc-sur-Mer and Ouistreham along the Normandy coast. Heading south, he entered the Loire Valley and followed it.

  His only navigational instruments were a map and a compass, although he had flown the route enough times that the valley itself and some landmarks had become familiar sufficiently that he amusingly stated a belief that God had put them there at creation to aid Lysander pilots flying at night. Nevertheless, the rumble of the gigantic engine along with the cramped cockpit and low light made navigating difficult, and if he happened to drop his map from his knee, searching for it by torchlight became a challenge he preferred to avoid.

  Tonight, he would be delivering his passengers to a field near Montrichard in the Cher Valley of Torraine Province. He imagined that the area must be beautiful with rivers and streams; intermittent forests; and wide, open fields on gently rolling hills; but having seen it only at night, he could not know for sure. The Resistance group there had been thoughtful enough to have planted potatoes at one end of the landing field and wildflowers at the opposite end so that spotting it and gauging its length from the air at night by the light of moon and stars had been made less difficult.

  On a previous landing there, grateful Resistance members had given him a bottle of wine. Later, back at Tangmere, he had studied the label and determined that the wine had been produced in that province, and on further study, he had learned that Torraine hosted many vineyards.

  Bunny knew the ground team to be competent. On hearing the Lysander, one member with a pocket torch flashed a single letter of the alphabet in Morse code at the approach end of the field. Receiving a return signal from Bunny, the second person would flash another torch. When the aircraft had touched down, a third member stationed off the field halfway down its length flashed a third signal, letting Bunny know where along the field he should stop.

  Squashed together in the small compartment behind the cockpit, Jeremy, Rowena, and Atlas felt every vibration, jarring turn, bank of the aircraft, and bump of the entire flight. They sat in the dark, mentally and emotionally stretched, hearing the rush of wind over the skin of the aircraft and its moans and screeches from metal rubbing metal when they encountered turbulence. As they neared the time that they knew instinctively that their flight must soon be over, their hearts beat faster, their hands became clammy, and adrenaline revived them to alertness.

  Since the Lysander had flown so low to the ground, their descent had occurred almost undetected. Their first clue was a sudden upward swing of the nose as the plane flared, and then a thud with a lurch as its front landing gear hit the ground. Then, after the rear wheel settled and a very short taxi, the aircraft came to a halt.

  Almost before the engine cut to an idling hum, someone outside climbed the ladder and pulled the compartment open. “Vite, vite!” a figureless voice urged, and the three passengers scrambled down.

  As soon as they were on the ground and clear of the ladder, they heard new passengers scrambling up. Within three minutes, B
unny flew his aircraft back into the moonlit sky, leaving the three arrivals with their unknown hosts.

  65

  October 24, 1941

  Montrichard, France

  Jeremy eyed the young man sitting across a long table from him. They were in a dimly lit, underground wine cellar. Several of the Resistance group’s members, men and women, were grouped around them, some sitting at the table, some standing. They wore tired, neutral expressions. None were hostile, but none were openly friendly, although some repressed smiles while glancing furtively at their comrades.

  The reception team had been efficient, whisking their charges away from the field in small trucks and vans. The drive had not been long, but it had been bumpy, and when the vehicles finally came to a stop, Jeremy, Rowena, and Atlas had found themselves in front of a barn stuffed with stale and decaying hay. From there, they had followed their guides through the barnyard into a stone courtyard to another non-descript building, and then down some dark stairs into their present location.

  The young man eyed them coolly. “Welcome to France,” he said, but his voice lacked warmth. “I am Jean Monmousseaux. My codename is Faucon. If you are tired, we can speak in the morning, but I think the sooner the better.” He looked across the group. “Which one of you is Labrador?”

  Jeremy raised his hand. “That would be me.”

  Faucon regarded him appraisingly. “I hear your French is very good—that you can pass for a Frenchman.”

  “I do my best,” Jeremy replied. He studied Faucon. He was roughly Jeremy’s age, mid-twenties, and he seemed generally friendly. But on this night, at least, he projected an edge that added to Jeremy’s unease, and probably to Atlas’ and Rowena’s as well.