by Murray Pura
Kipp hesitated, taking it all in. “He’s not hurt.”
“Banged up from the crash. Nothing serious.”
“I can write him then.”
“Yes, of course. But they’ll jail you if you speak publicly about the incident with the Italian fighter.”
“Dad wanted you to come down here and tell me this?”
“In person. No telegrams. No phone calls. No letters.”
Kipp lifted up the envelope she’d given him. “What’s this then?”
She shrugged. “There were a lot of things on his mind. Once I said I’d drive down here with the news about Ben he dashed it off.”
“I should read it.”
“Go ahead.”
My dear boy,
With Caroline running to Martlesham Heath to give you the news about Ben and Victoria I thought it best to jot down some of my thoughts. First, let me say I pray for you daily and I thank God you are where you are. German rearmament is surging ahead at a frenetic pace, and no one is in a position to put a halt to it, so you must help rebuild our air force. Our government is playing a fool’s game by favoring Italy in the Ethiopian War, believing Rome will side with us against any aggression from Herr Hitler. Nonsense. Fascists will flock with fascists. Which brings me to the trouble in Spain.
You must keep this very close to your chest. I only put it in writing because Caroline is bringing this letter to you. We anticipate an uprising of Spanish fascist elements against the Socialist government of that country. My sources are fairly certain Britain will side with the fascists. We want untroubled access to Spanish ports and Gibraltar and feel we will get them from the fascists more so than the Socialists or Communists. As you know, Terry is down there with the Hood and the Mediterranean Fleet right now, keeping an eye out for Italy’s interests, though the fight is very one-sided and Ethiopia must surrender shortly. The Hood will most certainly not be recalled to English waters if the threat remains of conflict in Madrid and Barcelona. Your brother Edward is down there as well, you remember, HMS Rodney and the Home Fleet was dispatched to Gibraltar weeks ago.
I am not at all happy with the decision to continue siding with fascist elements. I have reliable information the Germans are going to begin construction on two more battleships this year. Terry and Edward have heard about this too, and Edward swears the ships will be mammoths. Although my sense is the German nation is more concerned with those they consider their natural enemies, like the French, I’m convinced they won’t hesitate to turn the guns of their ships on us just as they did in the last war. Ah, but so many in our government want to play at being clams and have buried themselves deep in the sand of illusion. Germany will go away if we just dig deep enough and keep the other European fascists in the sand with us. It will not work. Churchill warns us about all of this in Parliament every opportunity he gets and is ridiculed for his pains.
My jottings have turned into a speech. I will close. All this to say please pray for Britain in her folly and keep your hand at the task God has appointed you to. Your work is so very much needed and appreciated, my son.
Much love,
Your father
Kipp leaned back against the car seat and closed his eyes.
“May I read it?” asked Caroline.
He handed her the letter, eyes still shut. “By all means. It’s very political.”
When she was done, she said, “How do you feel about all that? Do you think he’s exaggerating?”
“Not at all. The feeling in the RAF is that Churchill is right and war will come if we don’t trim Herr Hitler’s moustache. The trouble is no one has the razor to do it. Certainly not us. We’re still testing planes and the Nazis are building them. If it came to a fight this year we’d throw up Tiger Moths and other biplanes and they’d throw up modern fighters and twin-engine bombers and shoot us out of the sky.”
“You frighten me with that sort of talk, Kipp. I don’t want another war. The first was jolly well bad enough. The boys talk about being pilots like their father. I don’t want them being pilots like their father. Not with shadows falling over Europe again. I want them to be bank clerks or Cambridge professors or bakers of bread.”
“Bakers of bread?”
“I don’t care. Anything but pilots for the Germans or Italians or Spanish to shoot down.”
He opened his eyes and smiled over at her. “Just boys’ games, love.”
“They won’t be boys much longer.”
“The whole world is going to Berlin to have a party. For all you know that will defuse everything. Germany will be on her best behavior and might just decide to stay that way.”
“Now you sound like one of the clams.”
He reached for her but she drew away.
“Caroline, what—?”
“There’s something else you need to hear.”
“And what is that? The sky is falling?”
“Lord Tanner came by twice this week.”
Kipp sat upright. “Tanner?”
“He had that Lady Kate with him each time. Insisted on seeing the boys. Chatted with them both and gave them each ten pounds on his last visit.”
Anger moved across Kipp’s face in dark lines and edges. “What else?”
“He drew me aside when Matthew and Charles were outside saying goodbye to Kate. Said he’d have Charles back. You or I wouldn’t stand in his way.”
“We’ll stand in his way all right.”
“Worst of all he invited the boys to the Olympics. Told them he had excellent seats for the equestrian events and the sprints. That he personally knew the stunt flier who would be performing at the games and might be able to get them in the cockpit.”
Kipp smacked the dashboard with his fist. “He’s filth. He’s always been filth.”
“The boys are very keen on going, Kipp. They talk about nothing else. We even had a row when I told them it was out of the question.”
“They’ll have to get used to the idea. No one in our family sets foot in Nazi Germany.”
Caroline took a handkerchief out of her coat and dabbed at her eyes several times. “Your father and mother are going. They invited Charles and Matthew without knowing a thing about Lord Tanner’s offer. So it’s just made things worse.”
“Father and Mother? Why?”
“A British Olympic team is going, naturally. Prime Minister Baldwin asked a number of MPs to attend the Berlin Games as a goodwill gesture. And to show the government’s support for our athletes.”
“Just what we need. Next thing you know little Cecilia will be squawking about going with her brothers.”
“Little Cecilia will be all of seven this October and thinks she’s the Queen of the Nile. She’s already asked her grandparents to take her and they’ve said yes.”
“For heaven’s sake.”
“I really don’t need you to work yourself up, Kipp. I’m worked up enough as it is. I need my cool, calm, test pilot, my handsome RAF flier, my sweet and kind golden boy. Can you be that for me?”
“Caroline, Lord Tanner Buchanan is an absolute villain.”
“And you’re an absolute hero. I need my hero right now. I need him to hold me and kiss me and tell me everything is going to sort itself out. I need him to pray with me. All right, Kipp?”
Kipp wrestled with his thoughts, the darkness in his eyes coming and going and then coming again. Finally he let out a lungful of air, his eyes cleared completely, and a full smile broke over his face.
“All right, love. We’ll put it in God’s hands. That’s where it needs to go. Somehow all the pieces will fall into place.”
Her eyes glimmered. “Thank you, Kipp. I’ve been feeling absolutely wretched since Tanner showed up at our door.”
Kipp gathered her into his arms. “Shh. Shh. Let me pray. Then let me kiss you. Then let me take to you my flat. How does that sound? Does that sound like I’ve got everything lined up in a good and proper row?”
She leaned her head into his chest as tears darted down
her cheeks. “Yes.”
Dear Ben,
I just got the news, so I’m writing you a note to say how grateful to God I am you’re all right and how sorry I am the whole thing happened at all. I’m not sure what your plans are now. I imagine you’ll keep preaching and organizing the mission where you are, but it’s tough you can’t fly to the other churches you’ve started until the Methodists are able to get you another plane.
So I expect you’re praying about what God’s will is for your family as you sort out this mess. Let me throw something else into the pot. I know I shouldn’t, but what are brothers-in-law good for if they’re not a source of constant challenge and irritation? Here it is—might God not want you back in England, even for a while? I say this because the situation is getting a bit rough. The Germans have rearmed at a fast pace. We’ve let them do it, and now we’re trying to rearm in order to defend ourselves. We need test pilots and flight instructors in the RAF, and they’ve made it pretty clear they wouldn’t mind seeing you at Martlesham Heath. Your family could rest and regroup in London while you test aircraft that go well over three hundred miles per hour. What do you say, Ben Whitecross, VC? Give it a prayer and see what our Commanding Officer at seventy thousand feet plus has to say about it. Christian civilization needs you as much here as it does there in British East Africa.
Kipp
May, 1936
RAF Martlesham Heath, Suffolk
Harrington snapped the newspaper open. “Right, so with the war in Ethiopia well over, there weren’t any obstacles to the return of Ben Whitecross, VC, to his mother country, hm?”
“I expect him this morning, sir. He arrived in London two days ago with his wife and his two sons.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“No, sir. My wife rang me once they made it in.”
“I expect he’s having the physical assessment done by the RAF I requested. Filling out all the paperwork they want for a raw recruit. Though I’d hardly consider Ben Whitecross, VC, a raw recruit.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, we can’t wait forever. Humphrey’s typing up his report for the Air Ministry. It’s favorable. He wants an undercarriage position indicator, but other than that it’s a thumbs up. I’d still like to hear from you and Whitecross though.”
Kipp looked out the window at the aircraft crouched on the ground as if it were about to leap into the air on its own. “Yes, sir.”
Harrington glanced up from his reading. “You fancy the plane, Danforth. I don’t see why you can’t just hop in and give it a go.”
“I promised Ben he’d get first crack at it. He’s had a disappointing year. This is something he’s been looking forward to. Almost three hundred and fifty miles per hour.”
“He might push it past that—you never know.” Harrington slapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. “What do you think of this Mussolini? They reckon he had close to six hundred aircraft and almost eight hundred tanks while the Ethiopians had…what, two or three planes and two or three tanks? Yet it took Il Duce over half a year to subdue those tribesmen. Incredible, eh? I think we backed the wrong horse.”
“I think we’re backing all the wrong horses, sir.”
“Hm? What do you mean by that, Danforth?”
“I believe that’s him, sir.” Kipp practically ran out the door. “Just pulling up. He’s brought the whole brood.”
Ben came out from behind the wheel of his car in a blue RAF uniform. Kipp laughed and shook his hand and slapped him on the back.
“You’re dark as Birmingham coal, Ben.”
“That’s Africa for you. You’re looking well.”
“Of course I’m looking well. I’m flying fighter planes again.” Kipp wrapped his arms around his sister. “Vic! No woman ever looked so stunning in short hair!”
She hugged him back. “Thank you, dear gallant brother who never ages. We had a wonderful visit with your wife and children before dashing down here.”
“Ramsay! Darker than his father.”
Ramsay shook Kipp’s hand and grinned. “Hullo, uncle. How are you getting on?”
“Taller than his father too. I’m excellent, Ramsay. Sorry to pull you out of Kenya.”
“I hope to go back once I’ve got my pilot’s license and some Bible training.”
“Do you like it there, Ram?”
“I do, Uncle Kipp.”
“The mountains, the jungles, the lions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what are you now? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen! What are you feeding them, Vic?”
She smiled. “Bananas and wildebeest milk.”
Kipp thrust his hand at Timothy. “Hullo, Tim. Are you on your way back to Africa as well?”
Tim’s black hair and blue eyes flashed along with his smile. “I don’t mind being here, Uncle Kipp. I like seeing the castles and beaches. We hardly ever get to swim in Kenya.”
“Sure we do,” argued Ramsay.
“We never swim in the sea.”
“It’s too far away. We went to the ocean once.”
“Once.”
“It was beautiful. White sand. You don’t remember. You were too young. Practically a baby.”
Tim’s eyes sparked. “I wasn’t a baby.”
“You’re only eleven now. How old could you have been?”
“I wasn’t a baby!”
“Timothy!” snapped Victoria. “Ramsay! Stop it, both of you! Remember where you are and who you are!”
“Vic,” Kipp spoke up, “Ben, Captain Harrington is just here.”
Harrington had stepped out of the hut. Ben came to attention and saluted. Harrington returned the salute.
“You look smart in your uniform, Whitecross,” said Harrington. “How was your trip home?”
“Very good, sir.”
“I understand you had a bit of a disagreement with an Italian fighter pilot.”
“That’s right, sir. Still looking for him, sir.”
“Hm. Well, you won’t find him here.” Harrington turned to Victoria. “How do you do, Lady Victoria? I trust I find you well?”
“Thank you, sir, quite well.”
“No trouble at the gate?”
“No, sir. They seemed to be expecting that my husband would be accompanied by his wife and children.”
“I told the guards there was a good chance of that. They were instructed to treat you with kid gloves.”
“Oh, they certainly did that, Captain.”
“Good show.” Harrington turned to Ben. “They rang me up and asked me to evaluate your flying skills. Are you ready to take Reginald Mitchell’s latest design for a hop?”
“The fellow who built the fast flying boats? I am, sir.”
They all looked at the aircraft on the runway.
“What do you think, lads?” It was the first time Harrington had acknowledged the two boys’ presence. “Fancy a go with it?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” piped Tim.
“I would love that, sir,” responded Ramsay.
“Stay keen. Stay sharp. Watch out for one another. The day will come sooner than you think.” Harrington continued to stare at the plane. “They were going to call it the Shrew. Then a chap hit on the idea of naming it after one of his children. A wild one, I expect.” He glanced at Ramsay and Tim. “Spitfire.”
Kipp peeled off his fleece-lined leather flight jacket. “Here you go, Ben. You didn’t need an Irvin in Africa but you will here.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s a scarf in the pocket.”
Ben tugged on the heavy jacket. “White silk?”
“Navy with polka dots.”
“What?”
“The latest thing. You’ve been in the jungle too long.”
Ben pulled out the scarf. “Maybe I should go back to the jungle.”
“Nothing wrong with it. Sturdy English manufacture. It’ll save your neck all right.”
“Maybe I s
hould risk the skin rash.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Victoria took the long scarf and wound it about Ben’s throat. “You look smashing.”
Harrington flicked his chin at the Spitfire. “Get her up.”
Ben made his way in the stiff-legged gait his artificial legs forced on him. He got up on the wing and swung first one leg and then the other into the cockpit. After a few minutes he began to move the plane along the airstrip. Then he opened up the throttle, the engine howled, the fighter raced over the ground, and Ben was in the air.
“Dad tells me you’re going to Berlin with him and Mum,” Victoria said as she stood by her brother and watched the Spitfire climb.
Kipp’s face tightened. “That’s right.”
“Why the long face?”
“Our old friend Buchanan is going to meet up with us there.”
“Lord Tanner? He isn’t!”
“Oh, he is. He’s dropped by with his lady friend a number of times. Offered the boys tickets to the sprints. Then Dad up and wanted the lot of us to accompany him and Mum to the Olympics. We said no, but Charles and Matt gave us no peace until we relented.”
“Didn’t you tell Dad about Tanner?”
“Of course I did. He quoted the Sermon on the Mount and said it was time to forgive Buchanan and move on.”
“I see. So you’re stuck. Dad’s asked our family along as well, you know, so at least you’ll have Ben. You won’t have to take Tanner on alone.”
Kipp’s eyes hardened. “I’ve taken him on alone before and I’ll do it again if I have to. But Ben’s welcome to whatever’s left.”
The Spitfire roared in so low and so loud that even Kipp ducked his head a bit and clapped a hand over one of his ears.
“You both must drink from the same pot of tea!” roared Harrington.
“Have you told Charles who his father is?” asked Victoria, putting her mouth close to her brother’s ear as the scream of the Spitfire engine obliterated all other sounds.
