London Dawn

by Murray Pura

  Lord Preston had been leaning forward to listen to the broadcast. Now he leaned back in surprise, staring at the tall radio set as if he could see her face in it.

  “I appeal to you once again in the spirit of Marshal Blücher of Waterloo, the German commander—we must be allies. My fiancée Katarina appeals to you in the spirit of your great friends in America.”

  “It is pointless to keep on fighting,” said Lady Kate. “The cost is too high.”

  “Look at your casualties for October,” Lord Tanner added. “It’s horrendous. By our calculations, over six thousand civilians killed and over eight thousand badly injured. Many of them will never walk or talk again. For what? What sort of country will you have left to you in a few more weeks? How many people will want to live among ash heaps and blackened timbers? Death is in the air, death is on the ground, death is under your feet, and more death is yet to come. You wretched, miserable English, what has all your stubbornness bought you? Better the swastika than the Union Jack, better Hitler than Churchill, better the Luftwaffe to guard your skies than the RAF.”

  “And better death than dishonor,” said Lady Kate.

  Suddenly there was a shot. And another shot.

  It sounded to Lord Preston as if chairs fell over and doors slammed. The radio began to give off a high-pitched squeal.

  “Fight, England! Fight and you will win! Hold on now and you will win! Believe me! There will be no invasion! Morgenstund’ hat Gold im Mund!”

  The broadcast went dead. Then, suddenly, Nazi marching music blared from the radio set.

  A moment later it was a speech by Hitler with the chant “Hitler, Hitler, Hitler” rising from the audience whenever he paused. Lord Preston immediately recognized it as a speech from the month before, delivered in early September. While his mind whirled, trying to understand what had happened to Lord Tanner and Lady Kate, thinking Gestapo had come into the studio and shot her, a narrator came on and translated Hitler’s speech into English.

  “If the British Air Force drops two, three, or four thousand kilos of bombs, we will drop a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, four hundred thousand kilos or more in one night. If they declare that they will attack our cities on a large scale, we will wipe theirs out! We will put a stop to the game of these night-pirates, so help us God!”

  Deafening screams of support forced Hitler to pause.

  “The hour will come when one or the other of us will break, and that one will not be National Socialist Germany!”

  A roar that made the speaker in the radio set buzz.

  “In England they’re filled with curiosity and keep asking, ‘Why doesn’t he come?’ ”

  Laughter.

  “Be calm. He’s coming, he’s coming!”

  More laughter. Cries of “Heil Hitler” and “Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil.”

  “Hail victory!” the translator said in a loud voice.

  Lord Preston snapped the radio set off with the sharp twist of a dial.

  October 29, 1940

  The skies over Kent

  “A tight left, Mirrors! A tight left! He’s on your tail!”

  Wilkie saw the tracers from the Me 109 zip over his starboard wing as he banked hard to the left. Within seconds his vision began to blur as he made the turn tighter and tighter and faster and faster. Suddenly everything was gray and he couldn’t feel his hand on the stick. Then he blacked out. Five seconds later he blinked open his eyes and saw the German fighter that had been behind him was now off his port wing. He rammed the stick over to the left again and came at the enemy plane side-on. The pilot was a pink face with an oxygen mask. Wilkie pressed the fire button. The smell of burnt cordite filled the cockpit. The Me 109 slewed to the left, smoke pouring out of its engine.

  “Well done, Mirrors!” Sean watched the Messerschmitt drop into a dive and its pilot parachute out. “Heads up, Quaker! Dropping out of what sun we’ve got! Shake him!”

  Hurtling at another Me 109, Sean lost sight of Miller’s Spitfire that had gone into a short, stiff climb and a loop. His own target flashed over with fire as he thumbed the gun button. Pulling away he saw it explode in a blur of orange. He caught a quick glimpse of Packer and Peterson turning and tumbling with almost acrobatic precision, German fighters diving after them, overshooting the Spitfires and falling into the range of the eight machine guns in their wings, large holes opening in the German fuselages and tail fins.

  At the last moment, before he was swallowed up by a dark cloud, Sean spotted Miller finishing his loop on the tail of the Messerschmitt chasing him, and jagged chunks of metal flying from the Me 109 and spinning through the air as Miller peppered the Messerschmitt. A minute later, once he had emerged from the cloud, Sean saw the fight was miles behind him to the east and banked his Spitfire in that direction. By the time he reached the dogfight again it was over, the Germans fleeing south across the Channel, some of his squadron racing after them, the others heading for Pickering Green.

  “Squadron Leader to all pilots,” he said into his R/T. “Check your fuel levels and make your way back to base. Prescott will have a lot of green forms for you to fill out. Congratulations.”

  “We got them this time, sir,” Wilkie radioed. “I’m sure we knocked eight or nine out of the sky.”

  “Eight or nine bombs that won’t drop on Camden or the West End or any part of London. I say again, well done, Mirrors, Viking, Quaker, Puritan…well done, all of you.”

  “This calls for a spot of tea, Squadron Leader.”

  Sean relaxed radio discipline for a moment and laughed over the R/T. “Enough tea to float the British Isles, I think, Flight Sergeant Wilkie. I trust you’ll join me in a cup?”

  “As many cups as possible, sir.”

  “That is a lot of cups, Flight Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  October 30, 1940

  The prime minister’s residence, 10 Downing Street

  “Come in, Lord Preston. Shut the door.” Churchill lit a cigar and settled in his chair.

  Lord Preston took the first seat he saw in the small room.

  “Never been in here before, eh?” asked Churchill.

  “Not in this room, no, Mister Prime Minister.”

  “Hardly anyone knows about it. Scarcely bigger than a wardrobe. One of my favorite rooms. No one ever finds me here. They think it’s a broom closet.”

  Smoke from his cigar quickly filled the space. Lord Preston put his hand over his mouth and nose. Churchill didn’t notice.

  “I have something rather singular to relate to you, William. That Lord Tanner fellow who used to be a servant of yours years ago—Goebbels’ barking dog with his propaganda broadcasts. He was shot and killed during his broadcast the other day. And it was his fiancée who shot him. An American woman, Lady Kate Hall. She had a small pistol in her stocking or some such thing, or so MI-Six tells me. I understand she was supposed to make her own pitch for our surrender. After she shot him she shouted into the microphone for England to fight on. ‘Morgenstund’ hat Gold im Mund!—The early morning hour has gold in its mouth!’ A German proverb. I expect she was addressing that to our fighter pilots. It is the most extraordinary thing. Did you know her at all?”

  Lord Preston was stunned by the news, and it took him a long moment to answer. He sat looking at the prime minister.

  “I did, Winston. Or I thought I did. She had a great deal of pluck. But I confess I did not see this coming.”

  Churchill grunted. “Neither did Lord Tanner or the Gestapo, apparently.” Churchill drew on his large cigar. “We knew the invasion barges were dispersed in mid-September. Though part of the reasoning behind that was to prevent the RAF and Royal Navy from destroying them. Now we have evidence that just in the past few days several military units earmarked for the invasion have been deployed elsewhere.” A gleam came into Churchill’s eye through the haze of smoke. “He’s calling it off, William. Herr Hitler has decided he doesn’t have all the cards he needs for a successful assault on Brita
in’s shores. Even though the tides would have remained favorable till the fourth of November, he’s pulling out troops. We must remain vigilant, of course, but the weather is turning in our favor as well. A heavy chop in the Channel, strong winds, heavy rain…the bleakest and, for our purposes, the best sort of English weather. The same sort of brew that scuttled the Spanish Armada’s plans. Thank God for the miserable weather He’s given Britain from time immemorial, eh?”

  Lord Preston was still taking it all in. “Yes, thank Him.” He stared at a portrait of William Pitt the Younger on the wall behind Churchill. “Do we know what happened to Lady Kate Hall?”

  “The Nazis won’t say. She is an American, after all. They don’t want to ruffle Roosevelt’s feathers.”

  Lord Preston continued to stare at the portrait. “Silenced but not spared. That was the judgment on Lord Tanner.”

  Churchill narrowed his eyes and puffed on his cigar. “What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?”

  All Hallow’s Eve, October 31, 1940

  RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex

  “Are we going up, Squadron Leader?” asked Ramsay over his R/T.

  “Are we going up, sir?” pressed Matt, right after Ramsay.

  The pilots had been sitting in their cockpits for more than an hour, canopies pulled to, drizzle from low gray clouds coming and going.

  “Jerry’s launched his attacks in rotten weather before,” Ben snapped. “Clouds and wet didn’t stop him through August and September. Count your blessings and stay in your offices.”

  But a few minutes later Ben radioed Operations in their hut a hundred yards away. “Do you have any trade for us?”

  “Nothing on the radar yet, Squadron Leader. No orders from Uxbridge. Please maintain your positions.”

  There was a cloudburst, and the rain pelted the wings and windscreens of the Spitfires. The pilots and planes sat on the runway another ten minutes watching gray raindrops bounce off gray wingtips. Ben radioed Operations a second time.

  “I ask again, do you have any trade for us?”

  “We have nothing, Squadron Leader.”

  “It’s raining cats and dogs. Permission to stand down.”

  “Permission granted. Stand down, Squadron Leader. There’s nothing happening in any of the sectors.”

  “Right, you all heard that,” Ben said over the R/T. “I’ll meet you lot in the Officers’ Mess.”

  “The Germans aren’t coming, are they, sir?” asked Matt.

  “It looks not. We have, I thank God, a change in the weather.”

  The bombers did not come the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. During the daylight hours they never came again.

  11

  December 24, 1940

  Ashton Park

  My dearest Terry,

  There you are on the Mighty Hood bobbing about, and here I am rooted to the spot. Well, not actually rooted, I do move around a bit. We have all gone up to Ashton Park for Christmas to be with Lady Grace and Mum and the children. I have squirreled myself away in the Nelson Room because it makes me feel closer to you. The rest of the household is asleep after a rather rambunctious evening—you remember how lively our Christmas Eves can be.

  The air war that was filling our skies all summer and fall appears to be gone forever. The Blitz is still on—it was a very blitzy few days before Christmas—but all the dogfights and attacks on the airfields and the daylight raids on London are nothing but memories. Of course the night bombing is bad enough, but thank goodness we’ve weathered the storm the Luftwaffe sent our way for so many months.

  I had hoped to see Jane here, but she is just finishing up her flight training and couldn’t get away. She expects to start ferrying aircraft in January. The last time we got together I thought she was doing rather well, but she admits to having her midnight days, as she calls them. Poor thing, she has lost a great deal of weight, far too much really. Please pray for her.

  Robbie is posted to Africa immediately after Christmas, and so is Skitt, who is now a corporal in Robbie’s regiment. Patricia will stay here at Ashton Park with Mum. Skitt’s little boy, Paul, is already here with Montgomery, so that’s taken care of. But tears all around as more of our lads head off to fight this awful war that was forced upon us.

  Owen was supposed to join his father on Rodney, but once they realized his father was an officer on the ship they transferred him to HMS Prince of Wales—a ship that hasn’t even been finished up yet and that is sitting in the docks at Birkenhead. He’s still sulking but bearing up well and writes Charlotte that he is a Leading Seaman now, a nice little promotion for him.

  As for Edward, his letters are few and far between to Charlotte, but she reports he is getting along though chafing at the bit for some action. He’s hoping the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen will try to break out to the Atlantic and that he’ll be the one to bar their passage. I suppose you and everyone else on the Hood feel the same way.

  I should tell you Kipp’s other cast is due to come off in the new year and no one is looking forward to that, least of all Mum and Dad and Caroline. You know he has this thing about hunting down Wolfgang von Zeltner. He holds him responsible for the deaths of the twins. Of course he’ll have to get the strength in his arms up to snuff, and he’ll need to take a refresher on the new Spitfires, but you and I both know none of that will hold Kipp back for long. The whole thing is rather a cause for concern. When Sean was on leave earlier in the month he said Kipp reminded him of Captain Ahab after the great whale.

  I’m getting sleepy, so I’ll put my pen down for now and get this in the post first thing after the holidays. All our boys in the squadrons are fine, including Sean at Pickering Green and Ben, Ramsay, and Matt at King’s Cross. If I’ve got it right, Billy is posted to the new RAF base at Hunters Down, which is an odd coincidence because I’m sure Jane told me that her first task would be to help get a lot of Spits to the base in January and February. I gather it’s not quite operational yet. Well, it will do her good to see a familiar face.

  I’m positively knackered. I love you with all my heart.

  Your Libby

  December 27, 1940

  HMS Hood, the North Atlantic

  Dear Lib,

  I haven’t heard from you since Henry VIII was on the throne. That’s how it feels. Mail takes so long to reach us. And I hardly know what to write if I don’t have anything from you or Jane to write back to. The censors chop up every letter that mentions our whereabouts or what we’re doing, so what is there to say? Mind you, I don’t think they care if the Germans know we had a splendid Christmas dinner, so I can tell you about that. I expect it wasn’t as lavish as what you had in London or Ashton Park, but it certainly cheered up the crew. A little bit of action in forty-one would go a long way to putting some zest back in the lads.

  Hope and pray all is well. Miss you terribly. I so wish I could take you in my arms again and disappear to that little beachside cottage you ferreted me away to years ago. Plenty of time once there’s peace and Hitler’s in the grave.

  All my love,

  Terry

  January 2, 1941

  Camden Lock, London

  My Terry,

  I expect you will have heard about the firebombing on the night of December 29. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get a letter off to you sooner than this, but we are as well as can be expected. You needn’t fret any longer. Jane was far from London and out of harm’s way, so please don’t lose any more sleep over her or me.

  Oh, but it was horrid—it was diabolical. The city was a great Guy Fawkes bonfire from one end to the other. Heaven knows how many people were killed. And the tide of the Thames was at its lowest, so it was harder for the fire crews to pump water onto the blazes. Of course the Nazis would have planned for that.

  St. Andrew’s Cross is gone. Completely gutted. It was a Sunday, and we had all gathered at the vicarage for a family meal and prayers and then a service at the church. The incendiaries began to fall, and we simply could
not put them all out. Jeremy got badly burned in the attempt, and he’s laid up now. Dad told me sixteen or seventeen churches or more were burned to the ground. St. Paul’s Cathedral would have been one of them, but they managed to beat back the flames. You must have seen the photograph the Daily Mail reporter took of St. Paul’s dome surrounded by fire and smoke.

  The entire neighborhood was devastated. What a shocking night. Like some sort of visit to hell, a visit no one wanted to make. The only thing we were able to do was keep the fire from spreading to the vicarage. But now there is no church for the vicarage to be part of. I am not sure what Jeremy and the Church of England will do about all this. It’s a proper mess.

  I can relate one bright spot to you, and then I must get this in the mail. Eva is with the ARP, as you know, and so is Charles. They helped fight a fire and evacuate an entire neighborhood the flames were threatening. Indeed the whole area went up like a torch for blocks and blocks. Some of the firefighters working alongside the ARP were killed. How Eva and Charles came through with only a few cuts and burns is beyond me. I can only use the word miracle—what other word would suit? They helped get about three hundred people out, and here’s the thing. Long after other ARP volunteers and fire crews had retired, the pair of them remained in the area, saving as many as they could at great danger to themselves. It’s quite marvelous really. Dad tells me they are going to get some sort of special medal for what they did. The other astonishing bit is Kipp went looking for Charles and Eva, he was frantic, and he helped them with the last row of houses. Then he hurried them out to safety along with the rest of the evacuees. Eva says Charles embraced Kipp, and there were tears on Charles’s face. Who would have thought it possible after all Charles’s antagonism and the dark mood he was in since Lord Tanner was shot and killed? But Caroline has been praying like a nun for all her children, Matt and Charles in particular. That such a grace should emerge from such a hell can only be the touch of God.

  Must post this note so you know all is well.

  My love and prayers,