by Murray Pura
A Spitfire tumbled past underneath him. He caught a glimpse of the pilot slumped forward and the canopy shattered by machine gun fire. It was the new man he had seen in his cockpit on the ground. A moment later another Spitfire raced across in front of him, its wings on fire, an Me 109 peppering it with bullets. In a furious blast of red it exploded. A sudden anger made James turn after the Messerschmitt, close the distance between them rapidly, aim at the cockpit from behind, and press the gun button. Glass and debris flew, and the enemy fighter dropped into a steep dive. James followed it down to where it crashed near a stone barn. He pulled up in time to see Kipp’s Spitfire plunge into a grove of trees and shatter, setting them all on fire. A pilot in a parachute was swinging through the sky, but James didn’t recognize him. He made it back to the dogfight in time to see Patrick’s aircraft split into three pieces. Cold running through him, he tangled with an Me 110 but ran out of ammunition and had to head back to Pickering Green.
“Where are the others in A Flight?” they asked him. “Where are Kipp and Patrick and McGrail?”
James took the mug of tea they thrust into his hands. “Who’s McGrail?”
“The new chap.”
“He’s bought it.”
“What about Patrick then? Did you see him?”
“I saw him,” James replied.
“Did he take to the silk?”
“No.”
Prescott came up with his green forms. “Did you get any?”
“A Junkers 88 and an Me 109. Followed the 109 down to where it crashed by a stone barn.”
“Right.” Prescott scribbled with his pen. “What about your squadron leader? What about Kipp? Where did he end up?”
“His Spit turned into a fireball when it smacked into some trees. I have no idea where he is. I saw one parachute.” James looked into the mug of tea as if he could not figure out what it was. “How are B and C Flights?”
“None of them are back yet.” Prescott wrote on a form. “Once we confirm your kills you’ll be at nine and a half. I expect they’ll make you the new squadron leader, Sweet.”
“Kipp will turn up.”
“Right. Until then, expect to get the nod.”
James glanced at the sky overhead. It was clear and blue and empty.
The next day, the sixth of September, the Germans went after the aircraft factories, particularly the one at Brooklands. Tom Lewis was the new squadron leader for the Hurricanes, and James the new one for the Spitfires since no one had heard from Kipp. Their planes hurtled from one fight to another. More Spitfires and their men were lost; more Hurricanes and their men went down. The squadrons would return to a bombed-out Pickering Green, smoke rising from a smashed and burning hangar, refuel and rearm and return to the air to fight again. James and a new pilot, Brendan Cooke, shared a kill when they both shot down an Me 109. James’s tally rose when he pursued a formation of Heinkel 111s, his face like jagged rock, a face unseen by anyone but God and a gunner aboard one of the Heinkels, and very precisely put bullets into the starboard engines of two of the bombers. Both of the Heinkels struggled, turned back toward the Channel and France, and eventually plunged into the water just off the white chalk cliffs of Dover. Three or four chutes floated down after them.
On the ground, Prescott scribbled on his forms. “You’re acting like a man who means business.”
“There’s nothing else to do, is there?”
“Listen. They’ve found Kipp. His chute only half opened but he made it down alive. Two broken arms. He’s at a hospital in London.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But that means I’m still stuck with the squadron leader job.”
“ ’Fraid so, laddie. There’s no way out of that when you’ve bagged as many Jerry as you have.”
James took tea from a corporal and put it to his lips. “There are ways out of it. I’m just not going to take them.”
They both heard the phone ring.
“Scramble!” shouted a private as he threw the window open.
James poured the tea in the dirt and handed the cup to Prescott.
“Best of luck!” called the intelligence officer as James began to run toward his plane.
“It’s not a question of luck anymore, is it?” James turned his head as he reached his Spitfire. “It’s who’s determined to hang on to the bitter end—them or us.”
“Perhaps they’ll blink, squadron leader.”
James got into his cockpit. “They will have to, Prescott, because it won’t be me. And it won’t be Peter. Neither of us know how to do that anymore. If we ever did.”
“You and Peter.” Prescott stared at James as he started the engine of his Spitfire. “Quite right, sir.”
James imagined Peter at his wingtip. Diving ahead of him into a swarm of enemy fighters and bombers. Giving Heinkels and Dorniers and Junkers and Messerschmitts burst after burst. Peeling away as they erupted in white and blue fire. Hunting more enemy aircraft. Pushing them back from the airfields and factories. Pushing them back from England. Fighting even as other RAF pilots went down. And James fought with him.
“A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee.”
The next day James sat in his plane again and waited. His pilots, many of whom he hardly knew but for Sean, sat in their Spitfires and waited with him. The phone didn’t ring. Tea was brought out to the planes. The sun shimmered in a blue sky speckled with high white clouds. James leaned out and drummed his fingers on the painting just beneath his cockpit. It showed a dragon being pierced by the nose and prop of a Spitfire. The dragon writhed in its death throes. It was black, and the swastika on its side red. Underneath the dragon were thirteen smaller swastikas, also red. Finally Prescott came up to James’s plane.
“What’s going on?” asked James. “Is the radar knocked out or what is it?”
“The radar’s fine, Squadron Leader. It’s just that they haven’t gone after the usual targets. They’ve surprised us.”
“Where?”
“They’ve gone after London, Squadron Leader. At least three hundred bombers and six hundred Me 109s. And none of us called up to resist them.”
“London. A daylight raid on London.”
“Yes. The tonnage they’ve dropped has been massive. Including incendiaries.” Prescott put a hand on James’s aircraft, planting it just on the dragon’s head. “The city is in flames. The German press and Lord Tanner are crowing that we couldn’t stop the raid because the RAF has ceased to exist as a fighting force. They are telling the world the war is won and that Britain is only days away from capitulation.”
9
Wednesday, September 11, 1940
London
“Your son seemed in good spirits, my lord.” Tavy carefully steered the Rolls around a turn on a narrow London street.
“He did indeed.” Lord Preston drummed his fingers restlessly on his knee. “Too good, perhaps. His mother and I don’t want him back in the air before he’s ready.”
“Surely the doctors will keep him at the hospital until he’s fully mended.”
“Who can say? The fighting is as desperate as ever. The RAF needs pilots badly. Kipp himself would talk himself out of that hospital bed if he could.” A smile flashed over his face. “Did you see the card Cecilia made for him? And the jar of flowers she picked?”
“Lovely.”
“Lovely indeed.”
A bobby, tall helmet strapped firmly to his head, held up his hand in front of them. Tavy brought the car to a halt.
“That’s far enough,” the police officer said. “No closer to St. Katherine’s Dock. We’ve an unexploded five hundred pounder down there.”
Tavy and Lord Preston looked at the shattered buildings and rubble.
“So they’re coming after London now, right enough,” said Tavy.
“Well, they’re still bombing our airfields and factories,” Lord Preston replied, “but not on the scale they were in August and the beginning of S
eptember. Yes, they appear to be concentrating on London.”
Tavy nodded toward a shroud of dark smoke. “They used incendiaries last night.”
“It seems to be a favorite weapon of the Luftwaffe, the incendiary. Ever since Spain.” Lord Preston opened his door. “Well, we can get out and stretch our legs, hm?”
They stood together by the Rolls and continued to survey the bombing damage.
“God’s will some would say,” Tavy murmured, his eye on a scorched doll with half its long hair burnt away. “The fighting has moved from Kent and West Sussex to us.”
Lord Preston’s face filled with sharp lines. “Not everything that happens is God’s will, Tavy. That’s monstrous thinking. It would make our Lord the agent of rape and murder and all manner of evil. That is why we pray, ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven’—because it isn’t being done. Yes, of course, ultimately we believe our God is sovereign over all the events and affairs of men. The human race doesn’t have the final say. Yet the force of evil on this earth and the will of men to work evil cannot be discounted. Often enough—too often—it is their will that is done. And we must face it with the grace and power of God.”
“I understand, my lord. But no doubt there are Christians in Germany praying for their armies and air force to triumph and they are not wicked people. No doubt they believe it is God’s will they win this war.”
Lord Preston nodded. “They are not wicked people on the whole, most assuredly not. Often we follow our leaders and nations into sheer folly because we are blinded by politics and rhetoric and patriotism. Indeed, I have seen that happen here; I have seen what we did in Ireland. It is for the God of all of us, the God of all Christians, to sort out the misdirection of the human heart and life. Only He knows how to judge rightly. For my part, we didn’t attack Germany or wish it ill, though we did wish for a tempering of the harsh Nazi spirit. Now they are bombing our cities and killing our women and children. It’s evil, Tavy, and we resist it, praying for God’s will to be done—not the devil’s, not the Third Reich’s, not Hitler’s, but God’s. And I believe God’s will is that we should not be conquered and that the Nazis should not rule over our green and verdant land, regardless of what the German churches pray or think.”
Lord Preston slowly went to his knees in the rubble. “Hitler and Goering wished to destroy the RAF by going after the airfields and factories without letup,” he continued. “They were thwarted in that endeavor. Now they intend to break us by breaking London and Liverpool and Coventry. They shall not succeed in that enterprise either. For we shall resist them. We shall fight them. We shall pray against them. We will cry out to the Lord our God for our freedom and He shall hear us and blunt the Nazi schemes. And then, Tavy, one day—a day that is not far off—we shall turn our hand to regaining the freedom of our neighbors, the freedom stolen from them because of the wicked will of wicked men.”
“I wish that with all my heart. But pardon me, my lord, it often seems it can take a great deal of time and effort before something approaching God’s will actually occurs.”
“ ‘The Lord is not slack concerning His promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering toward us, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.’ There is war in heaven, Tavy, just as there is war on earth. You must not think it is over and done because God reigns, for there is rebellion under His divine rule. You must never be persuaded the war is finished because of the cross or because of the resurrection. Christ’s work on earth gave us the power and the means and the authority to do battle. Now we must finish the fight. It will be a triumph of good over evil, Tavy. But there will be hardship and sacrifice on the way to that final victory. In the end, each of us will carry on his own cross. I mine, you yours. As you say, it takes time, and indeed it takes much effort. But we do not surrender to the wicked inclination within or without, Tavy, no matter how long it takes or what setbacks occur. When all is said and done, we shall not lose, for our Lord shall not fail us.”
Tavy remained standing a moment longer while Lord Preston clasped his hands together. Then he knelt beside him.
“There is no need, Tavy,” Lord Preston murmured. “You shall soil your pants.”
“Excuse me, my lord, but there is a very great need. Before such a need my pants and my suit matter not at all. Neither do yours.”
Lord Preston smiled. “Quite right.”
The bobby, hands behind his back, looked them over. “Odd place for a church service, gents.”
“I beg to differ, officer,” Lord Preston responded. “I cannot think of a better location.”
Friday, September 13, 1940
Kensington Gate, London
“I expect I’ll turn in now.” Lady Preston sat up in her chair in the parlor. “I’m practically falling asleep here.”
“Hm.” Lord Preston glanced up from his open Bible, reading glasses on his nose. “I shall check in on you in ten or fifteen minutes.”
“In ten or fifteen minutes I’ll be fast asleep.”
“Will you? Then I’ll be sure to kiss you goodnight very softly indeed.”
A siren began to moan. It was soon followed by the thump of antiaircraft fire and the bang and crash of explosions.
“What area of the city do you suppose the Germans are bombing this time?” Lady Preston asked.
Lord Preston was listening, cocking his head in the direction of the open window. “I can’t tell. At any rate, it’s far from here.”
But it was not far. At the next second, the windows blew in with a roar, and sharp glass cut apart the wallpaper. Lady Preston shrieked, blood pouring over her face, got up, staggered, and fell. Lord Preston leaped out of his chair to help her, his Bible falling to the floor. Another blast threw him across the room and slammed him against the wall.
“William!”
Lady Preston bent over her husband, grasping his shirt and sweater and arm. “Get up, do you hear me? Get up!”
A third blast seemed to lift the house from its foundation, taking Lady Preston’s feet out from under her, and she collapsed by her husband.
Tavy and Norah Cole came running into the room and saw the blood and wreckage and the bent and twisted bodies.
“Oh, my Lord!” Norah’s hands flew to her mouth.
Tavy bent over them, blood quickly staining his white shirt. “Lord Preston! Sir William! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
Caroline had just pulled the curtains closed when the siren sounded. She glanced at Charles, who was sitting in the corner of the kitchen reading a copy of Mein Kampf.
“Do you think we should take Angelika and make our way to the shelter at the end of the street?”
Charles shook his head and turned a page. “They aren’t interested in Camden. It’s the docks they want. No point in waking Angelika up and spoiling her sleep, is there?”
There was a loud explosion close by. The windows shook.
He lifted his head and saw the fear in his mother’s eyes.
“Don’t fret,” he said. “That was a mistake. The plane missed its target.”
All the windows in the kitchen shattered at once, and flying glass cut Caroline’s arms and legs open. She cried out Angelika’s name and headed toward the staircase, but a second explosion picked her up and hurled her down the hallway. Charles jumped to his feet and went after her, book open in one hand, when two blasts, one on top of the other, twisted him around and tossed him through a window onto the street, banging his head sharply against the pavement.
Victoria was standing in what she often referred to as her Royal Mail backyard since it seemed to her to be hardly larger than a postage stamp. A pair of scissors in her hand, she walked toward the rose bushes that were filling the yard with their rich scent, intending to place half a dozen long-stemmed pinks in a vase. The siren howled just as she bent her nose to take in the perfume of a fully open blossom.
“Mum!” Tim poked his head out of the second-story window. “What should we do?’
She continued to breathe in the fragrance of the pink rose. “Nothing.”
A thunderclap. The yard erupting. Mud and grass and rose bushes spinning around her. Her feet off the ground, her body in the air, turning over and over in flashes of light and rushes of fire. Looking at her fingers. Feeling spatters of rain on her face. Whirling. Never knowing when she fell or where.
“Camden. And West London.”
Bursts of light. Darkness. More bursts of light. Rumbling finally making its way to their ears.
Emma had her hands around Jeremy’s arm as they watched the city’s skyline. “Are you sure?”
“I am. I daresay they’re aiming for Whitehall and Buckingham Palace.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong. That’s altogether too close to Mum and Dad’s. Not to mention most of our family lives in Camden.”
Flak broke open the dark of the sky with white sparks as antiaircraft guns hunted the German bombers.
“It’s like fireworks,” Emma whispered. “If only we were celebrating.”
Billy came through the door to where his parents stood in the street. “Rotten Nazis! Blast them!”
Jeremy and Emma snapped their heads around.
“What is it?” Emma took in the rage on his young face. “You’ve seen London bombed before.”
“You didn’t hear the phone ring, did you? Either of you?”
Both his parents’ faces went rigid.
“No,” replied his father.
“Aunt Victoria’s house was hit. Aunt Caroline’s house was hit. They’ve blown Grandfather and Grandmother’s home to bits! Blast the Nazis! I hate them! I hate Hitler!”
Saturday, September 14, 1940, 9:00 a.m.
RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex
“How on earth did this happen?”
Ben Whitecross stood on the airstrip under gray skies and a light sprinkle of rain. Two young men were facing him in blue RAF uniforms.
One of them shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad. I mean, Squadron Leader Whitecross.”
