London Dawn

by Murray Pura

  Sergeant Turnbull said it quickly as she walked past, but Jane caught it. She looked up and saw the round figure of Churchill seated beside Air Vice Marshal Park. Her headphones crackled.

  “Here’s another lot. It looks like they’re pulling out all the stops. Junker 88s, sixty plus, angels two five, on the same bearing as the Heinkels. London is the target.”

  “I have Junker 88s, sixty plus, twenty-five thousand feet.”

  “Fighter cover at angels three zero, Me 109s, fifty plus.”

  “Me 109s, fifty plus, thirty thousand feet.”

  She looked at the sector clock, tagged both counters with yellow, and used her rake to thrust them over the Channel and Kent to London.

  Rows of bulbs flashed on and off and on again behind her. The long wall, or tote board, blazed. She glanced quickly at Pickering Green. ENEMY SIGHTED was lit up for both squadrons. Then she saw the same signal blaze across the board for all airfields and all squadrons—ENEMY SIGHTED. Sergeant Turnbull slipped a note into her hand.

  11 GROUP, 10 GROUP, AND 12 GROUP ARE ALL ENGAGED. THIRTY SQUADRONS. NO BREAK IS POSSIBLE. STAY SHARP.

  Jane’s headphones crackled to life. “Large formation of Dornier 17s, forty plus, fifteen thousand feet, fighter cover Me 109s and Me 110s, sixty plus, twenty thousand feet, bearing on London.”

  “Thank you,” responded Jane, “Dornier 17s, forty plus, fifteen thousand feet, Me 109s and Me 110s, sixty plus, twenty thousand feet, converging on London.”

  God, be with our boys. With Sean, with Ben, with Matt, and Ramsay. And please, please be with James. I don’t know how all this works, all this prayer and faith. But save their lives and save our country.

  Kensington Gate, London

  “Get Angelika! Get Cecilia!” Albrecht was stuffing notes into his briefcase. “We must make for the shelter at the end of the street!”

  “We’ll not make it!” Catherine had ten-year-old Angelika by the hand. “The siren’s been wailing for two minutes!”

  “We have to try. I feel like this house is a target. Where’s Cecilia?”

  “Tavy has her.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Halfway down the block.”

  “What about Darrington and Mrs. Longstaff and Norah?”

  “They’re in the cellar. They won’t budge.”

  Albrecht raced out of his room and down the staircase. The bottom floor was a shambles of broken walls and shattered windows and torn carpets. He swung open the door to the basement.

  “This place is ready to fall down!” he shouted. “Even a near miss would do it! You’ve got to make a run for the shelter with us!”

  Only Mrs. Longstaff responded. “Bless you, my legs can’t carry me that fast anymore. And just the other night a shelter took a direct hit, didn’t it, and that put paid to all those poor folk? We’ll take our chances here. One place is as good as another, that’s how we all feel.”

  “You must come with us!”

  Catherine was heading out the door. “I’m gone, Albrecht. I can hear the AA fire and the bombs. It’s Buckingham Palace again. They’re coming this way.”

  Albrecht slammed the cellar door and ran out into the street after his wife and daughter, briefcase in one hand. The siren continued to howl. He saw dirty black flak bursts in the blue sky and dozens of twin-engine bombers appear over his head with the dark drone of metal insects. Dust and smoke from high explosives spilled over trees and hedges and rose up to form massive pillars of red and black. The ground shook and shook again and it seemed to him his wife and child were running sideways on a slant and that the whole street was about to fall to the right and get pulled under the earth.

  “Papa!” Angelika had twisted around to look at him, her mother gripping her hand, to point upward. “A parachute!”

  Albrecht spotted a large cylinder floating through the air.

  “It’s a bomb!” he yelled. “It’s a mine! Run away from it! Run to the left and get behind that house!”

  A breeze pushed the mine toward Kensington Gate. It swayed back and forth in its harness.

  “Get down!” yelled Albrecht.

  Catherine and Angelika continued to run straight ahead for the shelter.

  There was a huge roar and boiling black smoke. The pavement split under Albrecht’s feet, and he heard a sharp cracking as houses burst and toppled. He was on his back and on his stomach and on his back as a wind hurled him down the street. His briefcase was gone, his wife and daughter were gone, Kensington Gate was gone. He went through fire, he went through heat, he went through oil, he put out his hands to try to break the momentum, but a wrist snapped and his cry of pain was just another loud sound among many other loud sounds in the rough whistling shriek of tumbling bombs and falling buildings.

  The Fordyce residence, Camden Lock, London

  Libby had her arms around Montgomery and two-year-old Paul while Skitt had his arms around all three of them.

  Upstairs they could hear glass breaking.

  Under their feet, mud and dirt heaved and thick dust filled their mouths and nostrils.

  The boy began to wail.

  “It’ll not last forever, remember that!” Skitt kissed his wife and son. “The planes are passing over. They only have so many bombs. They have other targets.”

  For a moment it was quiet.

  Skitt lifted his head. “That’s it then.”

  An ear-splitting roar. It was as if a beast broke down the cellar door, breathed fire and spit, and dragged all the stone and brick and earth it could tear loose down into the dark on top of them.

  RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex

  “They want you back up as soon as you’re refueled and rearmed, sir.”

  Ben bit into a ham sandwich with one hand and brought a cup of tea to his mouth with the other. “Right, Corporal, as soon as the ground crew have us filled with bullets and petrol we’ll give chase.” He glanced over the airfield from the doorway of the Officers’ Mess. “Ramsay! Matt!”

  The two young men broke away from a group of pilots and came across the runway.

  “Did you get yourselves something to eat?” asked Ben. “We’ll be going up as soon as the kites are ready.”

  “Not really that hungry, sir,” replied Ramsay.

  “Neither am I,” said Matt.

  “Well, force something down. You need to keep your strength up.” He gestured with his teacup. “What were you doing hanging about with that mob?”

  Ramsay grinned. “They’re brilliant.”

  “Canadians, a Yank, couple of Kiwis, an Aussie, an Afrikaner—we call that lot the League of Nations.”

  Matt shrugged. “They shook some wool off our backs.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Ben drank his tea. “Look. I waited a bit to get more news. We had family hurt in yesterday’s bombing. Ramsay, your mum was wounded, but she’s all right.”

  Ramsay’s face tightened up. “How badly wounded?”

  “There was a telegram waiting for me when we got down ten minutes ago. She has a broken ankle. Sends her love.”

  “That’s it then? Just her?”

  “No. Grandmother and Grandfather got banged up. Both of them are in hospital. Jerry hit West London—the palace, Whitehall, Kensington High Street.”

  “Are they—are they going to make it?”

  “Grandmother’s on her feet. Granddad isn’t. Not yet.” Ben looked at Matthew. “Your mother was hurt. She was unconscious. But the cable says she’s pulled through. She’s sitting up and taking soup and tea. We can all thank God for that.”

  Matt’s face had gone gray. “Are you sure?”

  “I am. It’s a lot to take in. But the bombers went after Camden right after they struck Buckingham Palace and Kensington. And our families are packed into Camden like sardines, aren’t they?”

  “What about Cecilia?” demanded Matt. “And what about Eva?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because they told me
yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “No. You two had enough on your plates.” Ben drank off the rest of his tea, his eyes remaining on Matt. “You still do. You need to keep your wits sharp and your nerves on ice. Your mothers want to see the pair of you again, so fly tight. Two-second bursts. Never fly more than a few moments in a straight line once the fight’s on. If hanging about with the yellow props helps, then stick with that mob. But they go for blood, so if you’re in their neighborhood you’re bound to see a lot of traffic with crosses on the wings.”

  “You said you were going to send us back to London,” Ramsay reminded him.

  Ben nodded. “So I did. But you both fly well. I’d never have sent you here with the hours you’ve had on Spits. But you’re here now, aren’t you? Goering’s got his dander up. We’ve got to give the Luftwaffe blow for blow or we’re done. You want to help your families? Shoot down a Heinkel. Shoot down as many as you can. Just a squirt. That’s all you need. Get in close from behind or underneath and tag them.”

  The young men’s eyes were dark.

  “Rotten luck them hitting Camden,” said Ramsay.

  “There’s nothing there for Hitler,” added Matt.

  “People are there,” replied Ben. “Just as there were in Poland and France. That’s what it’s about. Killing people and frightening the rest of the country out of its wits. It’s worked for Jerry before.”

  “Not here it won’t.” Ramsay’s face and eyes grew darker. “Not anymore.”

  A corporal ran up and saluted. “The kites are ready to go for your squadron, sir.”

  “Right.” Ben thrust his head into the Officers’ Mess. “My mob. Back up after Jerry. Come on.” He faced Ramsay and Matt. “I want you keen. But no heroics. Just blast them out of the sky.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Squadron Leader.”

  “Go.” Ben jerked his head in the direction of the aircraft. “Get into your kites.”

  The Fordyce residence, Camden Lock, London

  “Shh.”

  Eva put a finger to her lips. The two men stopped pulling timbers free of the bricks and dirt.

  “Do you hear that?” she whispered. The men shook their heads.

  Eva crawled to a corner of what was left of the house. She put her ear up against the earth and rubble.

  “There’s a baby crying. I’m sure of it.” She grabbed a shovel and began to dig dirt away from the spot. “Help me. Quickly.”

  The men came over.

  “We don’t want a cave-in,” said one.

  “We don’t want them to suffocate either, do we?” responded Eva. “Work swiftly and carefully but let’s get down to them.”

  A truck inched its way along the battered street. Eva waved to them once she saw the back of the truck was loaded with shovels and picks and ARP volunteers.

  “We have a family trapped!” she called. “Help us out, will you?”

  The men piled out of the truck and came running toward the ruined house.

  “Careful then, careful,” said one of the men at Eva’s side. “Let’s not bring the lot down on their heads.”

  The group dug slowly and steadily, Eva putting her hand up every few minutes so she could listen for sounds.

  Suddenly a man broke into an open space with his spade and shouted, “I see a face!”

  Eva scrambled to the hole. “Aunt Libby!”

  Libby’s face was thick with white dust. The only openings were her eyes and mouth. She lifted Montgomery’s son up to Eva.

  “Take him! He’s choking!”

  Eva scooped up the child and ran with him to a patch of grass.

  “Get them out!” she called over her shoulder.

  “We’re doing that,” replied one of the men. “Ups a daisy, there you go, ma’am.”

  Libby was tugged out of the opening.

  “Who else is down there with you?” the man asked.

  “I can’t…I can’t…” Libby began to cough.

  “Here.” He put a canteen in her hands.

  Libby gulped at it, spat, and then took in more water.

  “A husband and wife,” she managed to get out. “They’re both unconscious.”

  “Right. Harry, you’re slender as a matchstick. Jump down and push them up to us.”

  Eva ran her finger in and around the boy’s mouth, soaked a cloth from her ARP tunic pocket in water, and wiped his face and hands and nose free of dirt and dust. He looked at her, seemed to hold his breath a moment, then let out a pent-up wail. Eva laughed.

  “There, you’re fine! Make as much noise as you want!”

  She held the boy in her arms and called to the men. “See? He’s full of fight!”

  The men grinned. “We need plenty of that, right enough,” said one.

  “Here we go,” said another, bending over Montgomery’s body. “This one’s coming around too.”

  Eva put one of her arms around Libby as they embraced, holding the boy in the other.

  “Thank goodness you came, thank goodness.” Libby was striking at tears with her fingers.

  Eva kissed her on the cheek. “It’s my job to take care of Camden, isn’t it? We were in the West End as well, by the palace, and along Kensington High Street.” Her face lost its brightness as she told Libby this.

  “What’s happened?” asked Libby. “What did you see there?”

  Eva shook her head. “Albrecht and Catherine and Angelika are alive, heaven knows how. Knocked about, and Albrecht’s broken his left hand in two or three places. But alive after a mine exploded at Kensington Gate.”

  “Mum and Dad’s house?”

  “They’re still at hospital. They weren’t at the house.”

  “But Cecilia was staying there—”

  “Tavy got her out and into a shelter at the end of the street. She’s fine. And Tavy’s her new best friend.”

  They both smiled.

  “That’s grand,” Libby said. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Eva held the boy closer and kissed him. His crying had stopped. “The servants wouldn’t leave Kensington Gate. They huddled in the cellar during the raid. Only Tavy was out of the house because he took Cecilia to the shelter.”

  “Why…Mrs. Longstaff…Norah…Darrington…”

  Eva kept her eyes on Libby. “Dead. All dead. The house took a direct hit.”

  Libby put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  “I haven’t told anyone yet. Only Tavy.”

  “Oh, this is terrible, terrible…we’ve had Mrs. Longstaff with us since I was a girl.”

  “We’ve got them both out and awake!” called one of the men. “It’s a pretty sight, dust and dirt and all!”

  Eva walked quickly toward the ruined house. “That’s something, Lib, that’s something. We haven’t lost Skitt or Montgomery.”

  “No. I thank God for that.” The tears were coming freely now, and she didn’t wipe them away. She followed Eva.

  Montgomery was flat on her back with a blanket over her, her face washed, and Skitt was sitting up beside his wife, drinking from a canteen.

  “Hullo, you two.” Libby knelt by Montgomery and smoothed back the young woman’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Where is Paul?” asked Montgomery.

  “Right here.” Eva bent down as Montgomery sat up and put the boy in her arms. “His cheeks are red as berries now.”

  “Oh, bless you, bless you.” Montgomery hugged the child. “What would we have done if you hadn’t come along, Eva? What would we have done if all of you hadn’t come along?”

  Skitt nodded, wiping the grime from around his eyes with a cloth. “Thanks, mates.”

  “Believe me,” responded one of the men, “after all we’ve seen over the past week and more, bringing you up out of that rubble is better than a pint of stout.”

  “Aye,” said another. “And it’s the best reason we’ve had all day to toast you with two or three of them.”
/>   Skitt laughed along with the men.

  The siren began to moan. Everyone looked up.

  “The Spits are on them,” growled one man. “Go get ’em, lads, go get ’em.”

  “Aye,” said another. “Bloody their noses and knock ’em out of the sky.”

  White vapor trails swirled over their heads. As they watched, a Heinkel 111 fell through the air like a bird that had been shot. They couldn’t tell where it hit the ground. A huge streak of white flame leaped upward with a tall geyser of water. A Spitfire roared past, banking over Camden and climbing back up into the battle. Everyone cheered, including Eva and Libby and Montgomery.

  “That’s it!”

  “Well done!”

  “Send Jerry packing!”

  “Give us another!”

  Bombs were falling. They heard the whistling screech and the whump, whump of the high explosives. But no one moved. They continued to watch the fight winding about the blue sky. Skitt pushed himself to his feet.

  “I can’t stay on the ground anymore, Monty,” he said. “I can’t.”

  She rocked Paul in her arms as the white lines went around and around over the London sky. “I know, love.”

  September 15, 1940

  Lord Preston’s hospital room, London

  Lord Preston’s eyes blinked open. “Where am I?”

  He came up so swiftly to a sitting position he knocked a glass of water off a table beside him. It shattered, and a nurse ran into the room Lord Preston shared with five other men.

  She yanked back the curtains from around his bed.

  “Lord Preston!” she exclaimed. “You’re up!”

  “Of course I’m up!” he snapped. “What’s going on?”

  “You were wounded, sir. You’re in a London hospital.”

  Lord Preston narrowed his eyes. “Where is my wife?”

  “She’s in another ward. She’s fine, sir, but we have her resting now.”

  “What about the others? My daughter Catherine? Her husband, Albrecht? Their daughter, Angelika? Where are they?”

  “They are well.”

  “My servants? My home at Kensington Gate?”

  “That, I don’t know.”

  The windowpane shook as the sound of distant explosions rumbled into the room.

  “Are we under attack?” he asked.