Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  The enemy tank comes into view and crosses in front of the sign. They gunner fires and hits the side of the turret. The turret rips off, the tank commander is blown out, and flames shoot out of the hatches.

  BRAMPTON, 11 MILES WEST OF HALTWHISTLE

  Major Kanther, in command of 1st Battalion, 8th Brigade, 8th Regiment of the 8th Panzer division, stands in the window of the third floor of an old stone major house. An aid approaches, “The Highlanders are attacking Haltwhistle, sir.”

  “We’ve only a reinforced company there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pass the word to move out east. They’re mocking us.”

  CHURCH STEEPLE IN A VILLAGE AT THE PERIMETER OF KENLEY

  0800, 4 October, 1942

  Sergeant Ulrich studies the base with his scope, slowly passing right to left. The line of Russian aircraft draws his attention. He can see they’re getting ready to depart. He sees a large American jet. Two Tomcats take off in a roar. He mumbles, “This would be a perfect observation post. I could stay here for days, reporting every takeoff and landing. Oh, well.”

  He hears his partner approaching, “Fresh water, sergeant.”

  TARMAC, RAF KENLEY

  The SEAL team walk out to the waiting C-56, Commodore Hunt with them, “Remember, if you can’t make contact, stay with the aircraft.”

  Triage, “We got it, Commodore.”

  ENS Buford studies the surroundings, especially the perimeter; a hunter’s habit. He spots a flash of light and grabs Spike, taking them both to the ground, his back to the threat. “Sniper! Church steeple, 4 o’clock!” He feels a solid thump on his back, then hears the report.

  Aircrew are scrambling. The SEALs get their weapons out, and Whizee unlimbers his sniper rifle, dropping onto the wet tarmac. “I have him.”

  A second shot tugs at Buford’s sleeve.”

  They hear the report of Whizee’s modified Winchester Model 70 sniper rifle. Meat 1, Whizee’s spotter, says, “Good kill. I saw grey.” Whizee fires again, and a body drops out of the steeple.

  Spike, “Thanks, Ensign. Are you okay?”

  Buford, “Yeah, are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Um, are we clear to get up?”

  Whizzee, “Yes, ma’am, base security is clearing the church.”

  Buford, “I guess it’s alright.” He gracefully stands and offers her a hand. She smiles and takes it, pulling herself up.

  Mac says, “Holy shit, Buford. Your pack is fucked up.” Mac inspects Buford’s pack, sliding his hand under it. “No penetration. You okay, sir?”

  Buford shakes his head, “I…I think so.”

  Triage, “What the fuck, superman. Do you think you can stop a speeding bullet?”

  Spike delicately removes her hand from Buford’s, “Mission abort. Triage, make sure Superman is good to go. If he’s good in less than an hour, it’s a go.”

  Base security and ground crew run to Spike. She shakes them off, “I’m fine. Carry on,” and after meeting Buford’s gaze one more time, she walks off.

  She walks into the hanger and LT Oscar Hammond runs to her. He aborts his salute, and places himself between Spike and the church. “Are you okay, Commodore?”

  “I am.”

  “With your permission, I would like to arm up all the ground crew and select some for patrol. I’d also like to step up our weapons training.”

  Spike smiles, “Tell Col. Andrews you have my permission, so make it so.”

  Hammond smiles back, “Thank you, Spike,” and takes off, running.

  Then Fluffy finds her on her way out of the hanger. He’s wearing a battle helmet, flack vest, and carrying a Garand rifle, a toy in his huge hands. “Commodore, are you okay? Do you need to go to medical?”

  Spike suppresses a grin, “Fluffy, I’m fine. No medical. Hammond is beefing up the patrols and heightening security.”

  “Okay,” walking beside her, his rifle at port arms. At the door out of the hanger, he kicks it open and rushes out first, “Clear.”

  “Fluffy, what are you doing?”

  “I’ve appointed myself your bodyguard.”

  “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

  He shakes his head, once, “No, Spike. There’s nothing else even close.”

  “Okay, but you can’t sleep at the foot of my bed.”

  He smiles and relaxes a bit, “No, but I will be in the outer room.”

  They get to her jeep, “How’s Donna?”

  “Still in DC. She’s consulting with, um… radio people.”

  “Got it. Fluffy, I’m fine. Let’s not overreact.”

  “No. A sniper just tried to kill you. You are not fine. We need to get you a better car.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re too exposed.”

  “Okay, I concede.”

  “Do you know who that SEAL is?”

  “Why?”

  “Spike, are you sure you’re okay? You’re normally not that dense. He took a bullet for you.”

  “I know he did.”

  “Commodore Hunt, that’s medal of honor shit.”

  “Aren’t you overreacting?”

  “No.”

  They pull up to the tower, “His name is ENS Jeremiah Buford, and I don’t think he was hunting for medals.”

  “If he was, I wouldn’t be saying this.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “I did.”

  “Write it up.”

  They walk into control and Fluffy grabs a chair and sits by the door with his rifle across his lap.

  The watch officer looks at him for a long moment, then turns to Spike, “Gawain and Percival are up. Gawain is covering A-10s. Percival is sweeping south up the channel. Tuck is orbiting over York. Rusty 1 and Dusty 1 are working the forward edge of battle, which is now running from Oxford to Colchester. We have four Army Air Corps cargo birds inbound and two A-10 squadrons took off late from Reykjavik due to fog. They’re due in two hours.”

  “Do we have squadron number, name, and call sign?”

  “Yes, Commodore, VMA-211, Dragons, call sign Golden Gator, and VMA-213, Hell Hawks, call sign Bad Bird.”

  “Route them south over Cornwall, then into Kenley.”

  “Yes, Commodore. Also, there’s a massive battle between German infantry and the Highland volunteers near Haydon Bridge. Word is, the Highlanders were blooded bad, but they hold the field. We tasked Dog 3. Cuddles is still with them.”

  “Thank you.” She studies the map. “Hopefully, the Highlanders will force Rommel to reinforce the north. The Germans are closing on London. If it’s completely circled, it’s only a matter of time.”

  LT Colonel Andrews walks in, “Mail, Spike.”

  “Thank you.” She takes her mail. Three letters are replies from grieving families she’s written. One is from Tennessee, and she opens it:

  Dear Granddaughter,

  The news from England is frightful. We do hope you are well. We heard from John, your father. He’s still on Guadalcanal and has been promoted to second lieutenant. We are proud of him, but we so worry about the losses that must have led to his promotion.

  He said he received your letter. He also said he was healthy. I suspect that last is somewhat overstated. He sent the photos you sent him home for safekeeping, all except one with you in uniform. We’ve put up your picture from the newspaper and now, we’ll put these up with it. I must say, clothing styles change a lot after the war. If you have an opportunity to send us a picture of you in uniform, we would much appreciate it. We know you’re busy, though, so please don’t bother if it’s too much trouble.

  All is well at the Hunt farm. We have two blue stars hanging from our porch. The weather has been mild. We have three horses in foal to tend with very limited resources. Our whole community is aware now, that you are from here. The reaction is very positive. You will receive a warm welcome when you come home. We are delighted those awful reporters are gone. Your grandfather has not had to shoot at any for some time
.

  Do take care, darling.

  Your Grandmother Margaret

  Sam laughs and closes her eyes, trying to remember that barn. When she was little it had been her playground. She couldn’t recall any damage to the roof. “Oh, what change we have wrought.”

  Andrews smiles quizzically, “Commodore?”

  She turns to him, still smiling, “A letter from my grandmother. It seems grandfather hasn’t had to use his shotgun to run off any reporters lately. In a previous letter, she said he had to patch the roof of the barn because he’d put some holes in it with his shotgun. I was trying to remember if I saw any patches when I was little. They weren’t any.”

  “The roof could have been replaced.”

  “I suppose, but he and dad replaced it when I was twelve. I remember helping them.”

  “Did your dad have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Yeah, a brother, but he died in the war. Wait. He’s still in high school. He joined the Army and died on Omaha beach.”

  “Nebraska?”

  She laughs, “No. When we invaded France, the beaches were code named Juno, Gold, Sword, Utah, and Omaha.”

  “Where was the invasion?”

  “Normandy, but this time, they’re no doubt going to do it differently.”

  “So, your uncle could survive?”

  “I suppose so.” She turns to the next letter. It’s posted from Maryland and is from LT Eric ‘Puck’ Hawke, her former RIO.

  Dear Samantha,

  I’m currently in Bethesda. Doc Osborne and his staff are looking out for me and my prognosis for a full recovery is good. When I asked if I would be able to fly again, he just said, “One thing at a time.” He’s an admiral now and commands Navy medicine. He’s turned Bethesda into a teaching hospital.

  When I first arrived, Dixie was here to meet me. He’s a good one. Since, I’ve seen Groovy and Ren. Ren is the vice CNO for operations and is on the presidential staff. Groovy has his captaincy and was attending command college. He’s PCO of the USS Yorktown. They’re building big carriers as fast as they can. Hopefully, the last is vague enough to pass the censures.

  As I am a captive audience, I’ve had several aeronautical engineers from various companies seek me out for design advice. It’s weird. Lee clarified the rules and they moved me to a private room so I can work. I would love to share more specific design information with you, but I know it’s way too classified. Suffice it to say, the aviation companies have been busy.

  When he was informed, I was back in the States my great-grandfather took a train to Washington. He’s exactly as I remember, only a little younger. He’s right here with me as I write this. Here he is:

  Hello, Commodore Samantha Hunt,

  I once saw a strange thing. I saw a Sparrow attack a Hawk. I found it quite odd that this Sparrow thought it was a Hawk, and the Hawk thought it was a Sparrow. So odd.

  John Hawk

  Me again. I do not know what it means. It’s the way of great-grandfather. He’s a spiritual leader in our tribe and much respected. If what he writes makes any sense to you, let me know.

  I very much hope you are well. I know you have figured it out, but I think Lizard would be a good replacement. I miss you and the guys. Mostly you.

  Yours,

  Puck

  She re-reads it. Andrews asks, “Someone close?”

  “My RIO, Eric Hawke. He was wounded the night all this started. At least he’s alright.”

  “I heard about him, he’s an Indian, but his name is English.”

  “Well, he’s Lakota Sioux. Many of them took English and Irish and German names. The children were taken from the families and raised in boarding schools in an attempt to eradicate their culture. It was barbaric and wrong.”

  She reads the letter again and straightens up, “Oh! I see.” She turns to Andrews, “Send for the 82nd Airborne immediately. It’s time to implement Sunset.”

  “Roger, Spike.”

  From the watch table, “Commodore, six bandits taking off from Ouston. Center is scrambling Texas.”

  Spike, “Direct Percival to engage and Gawain to orbit at point Echo south of Portsmouth. Advance Lancelot to ready 5. Make my plane ready.”

  Fluffy stands up, “Boss, stay on the ground.”

  “What?”

  “They’re trying to kill you. They’re going to try in the air, too.”

  She meets her master chief’s gaze, “Chief, I have a job to do. I’m replaceable.”

  All eyes in the room are fixed on Spike and Fluffy, fascinated. “Due respect, ma’am, but, no, you are not. Our whole country is rooting for you. You’re a symbol now.”

  “God damn it, Fluffy! I am not going to hide while the Germans kill our people. I’ll fucking tolerate your security measures on the ground, but when I am needed in the air, I WILL FLY!”

  He backs up, “Um, roger that, Spike.”

  The mostly female control center personnel break into applause, and Spike and Fluffy turn and stare.

  FARM HOUSE NORTH OF HAYDON BRIDGE, UK

  0913, 4 October, 1942

  LT Gus ‘Cuddles’ Grant watches their two nurses work on Ian McCloud. Ian, “Lassies, stop fussing over me. It’s not the first bullet I’ve carried.”

  The senior nurse, Molly, says, “Stop whinging Ian McCloud. You’re the last of those we might save.”

  “The bullet went deep.”

  “It did, but it looks to have missed the artery.”

  Cuddles, “I’ve another dust off inbound, Captain. You’ll be on it.”

  Ian makes eye contact with the younger man, “Lad, what of my company?”

  “We’ve nineteen dead, twenty-two wounded, including you, and twenty-five new volunteers just walked in.”

  McCloud smiles, “Will you do it for me, then?”

  “If that’s your order, sir.”

  “It ‘tis. I’ll tell you, Lieutenant, you’ve got starch in you, and a good mind. You can handle them.”

  “You’ve taught me a lot, sir. When we’ve chased the Hun off, then I’ll be back for the next lesson.”

  A British lieutenant walks in, back straight, chin raised, and moustache twitching, “Who commands this rabble?”

  Ian smiles and nods at Cuddles. Grant straightens and, in a facing movement, turns to the lieutenant. Noting the uniform, he says, “I command the Highland volunteers, Lieutenant. Now salute and state your business.”

  The lieutenant looks at him with ill-concealed contempt, “And, who pray, are you?”

  “I am Lieutenant Grant, US Navy. Now, all the British lieutenants I’ve met so far start with a salute, Lieutenant. Is there something amiss with your arm?”

  The lieutenant pops to and salutes, “No, sir. I have a message for you, sir,” and hands it over.

  TO: Highland Volunteers

  FROM: Commander, 51st Leeds Rifles

  The 51st will be advancing south very soon. As your unit has proven its combat effectiveness, higher has suggested we coordinate operations. Please coordinate through Lieutenant Jones and make your advance south, rather than east.

  Brigadier James Noel Tetley

  Grant, “You have a radio, correct?”

  “I do, sir. Why does your unit look in such disrepair?”

  “We just met three companies of German infantry supported by Panzer 4s. We sent them packing, but it cost us dearly. Tell the Brigadier that we will move out as soon as we’ve completed the dust off of our wounded.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 23

  ARTHUR FLIGHT, 35,000 FEET OVER LONDON

  0922, 4 October, 1942

  Spike is in a wide left turn so their radar can identify threats. Thud and Trollop are engaging ‘262s over York, covering A-10s working over a German supply convoy. Tuck and Robin are engaging V-1s over the English Channel. Hot Pants and DeGraaff are escorting the Russians out over the North Sea. A convoy and amphibious group are off Plymouth.

  Lizard, “Boss, six aircraft coming north out
of France on the deck at 600 knots.”

  “Call it. We engage. Launch Lancelot.”

  Lizard relays and their flight turns south, breaking the speed of sound in the dive at full military. Spike, “Launch at 40 miles and we follow them in.”

  ARTHUR 2

  ENS Nix focuses on staying on Spike’s wing. ENS Heather Kohlman says, “Okay, six. We’ve the right three. Eighty miles. Oh God, we’re doing this.”

  Nix, “Just give me a lock, okay?”

  “I have lock. Sixty miles. They have us.”

  “Okay, AIM-1 selected, master arm enabled.”

  Kohlman, “Fox 3. Fox 3. Fox 3.”

  Nix pickles off three AIM-1s and the launch is good. One misses the beam and flies off, but the other two track. Kohlman, “They’ve launched and they’re turning back.”

  GERMAN FIGHTER GROUP

  Major Kurt Welter looks over his left shoulder at the decoy rocket flying away. He shuts off his radar and continues straight at the Americans. “I very much hope this works.”

  In the mirror, he sees explosions behind him and smiles, “They’ve hit the wrong targets.” He turns his radar back on.

  ARTHUR 2

  Kohlman, ‘Something’s not right.”

  Nix, “What?”

  Kohlman on radio, “The missiles are the jets. We hit robots.”

  They hear Lizard, “Roger. Close and engage.”

  “Okay, I have visual. These are ‘279s. Good lock, select sevens.”

  Nix, “Good lock, firing.”

  Kohlman, “Fox 1. Fox 1.” Then, “Damn, they’re breaking upward. Lock lost.”

  Nix, “On it.” He pulls out of the dive and fires a quick burst, but his rounds fall behind. “Fuck. Gs.” He rolls left and climbs, going after the Germans. He adjusts and fires, his rounds sparking off the fuselage at an angle, and the German jet flashes by, rocking them in his wake. “Where’s Spike?”

  Kohlman, “2000 feet above and behind.”

  “Gs.” Nix levels his wings and pulls up into an Immelmann. Tracer passes below them and another German passes them. “Shit! Where did he go?”