by Dan Walsh
How could a war injury be at the root of all these lies? And who had imprisoned his father’s soul this way, had bound him up to a lifetime of deception and betrayal? Was it Jack’s mother? His father insisted it was not. Although he did admit that, though she had not died during childbirth, he had solid reasons to believe she had died at some point during Jack’s childhood. Did he think this revelation would help?
Now all Jack could think about was how many wasted years had passed, years he could have been with his mother before she did pass away. And how could his father imagine that anything would ever justify denying a young boy the opportunity to know and experience his mother’s love?
And what of his twin? Did he even know Jack was alive, that he had a twin brother living in the United States? How could his father deny his brother the chance to get to know him…his own father? Except for this glaring, horrific betrayal, Jack had always enjoyed his father’s company. Through all the innocence and ignorance of Jack’s childhood years, even throughout the awkward teen years, his father had been a constant source of encouragement and support to Jack. And yet, his twin brother had been denied the chance to ever share a single one of these moments.
It just didn’t make any sense.
A sudden jolt, down then up, jarred Jack out of his thoughts.
“Whoa,” Joe said. “My butt felt that one.” They were sitting across from each other in the last spot toward the back. “A shame these things don’t have windows. Here we are riding through the English countryside for the first time, and I can’t see a thing. Except for where we’ve been.” He pointed toward the roadway behind them.
The truck could easily hold ten to fifteen soldiers but today, it was just carrying the six of them. They had spread out across the wooden bench. Seth was sound asleep, stretched out on the floor. Well, he was until they’d hit that pothole a moment ago.
“Say Jack, you haven’t said a word since we got in this truck,” Joe said. “What are you chewing on in that old noggin of yours? We’re living the dream, Pal, right? We talked about doing this a few weeks ago and, look, we’re doing it. We’re in England. Probably a few days away from hopping in the cockpit of one of the fastest fighter planes known to man. And you got a look on your face like you just been given a pink slip.”
Jack looked up into Joe’s bright, smiling face. How could he not smile back, at least a little?
“C’mon, Bud. Live in the moment. Not in the head.” He pointed to his own head as he said this.
“Okay, you got me,” Jack said. “I’ll try and snap out of it.”
“Snap out of what? You been kinda off this whole trip. On the boat, I figured you were just feeling a bit seasick like the rest of us. But we’re on land now and everything’s going our way, and you’re still all…I don’t know, moody. Something eating you? Something you haven’t told your oldest and dearest Pal?”
Jack didn’t know how to respond. This was the first time Joe had actually inquired about Jack’s well-being. And apparently, he had begun to detect something was up even when they were on the ship. This was progress. He wanted to encourage this kind of effort, but did he really want to let Joe in on all this? “To be honest, Joe, something is going on. Something kind of big actually.”
“Yeah? Big, eh? How big? What kind of big?”
See, now Jack just wanted to drop the whole thing. How could he possibly come up with a short version of this story? A short version was most definitely all Joe could absorb. “I learned a pretty big family secret a couple of weeks ago. From my dad. And to be honest, what he told me is the real reason I brought up the idea of the two of us taking this trip to England in the first place.”
Joe’s expression might have been just the same had Jack just hit his friend in the head with a bat.
“No kiddin’?” Joe said. “We’re not here to fly Spitfires?”
Jack actually laughed. Being with Joe was good medicine sometimes.
Over the next thirty minutes—broken up by Joe occasionally pointing out interesting sites from the back of the truck—Jack shared as much of his family secrets as he dared. He wasn’t concerned about Joe’s inability to comprehend the situation. Joe had a nasty habit of forgetting that things shared in confidence should not be blurted out after a few beers with friends.
In reality, Joe had done a passable job listening to Jack unburden his soul. He’d even asked a few decent follow-up questions. One in particular, helped Jack uncover one missing piece of information that might help him in his search for his brother. Joe had helped Jack see that his British side of the family was probably wealthy and possibly—as Joe put it—a bit on the hoity-toity side.
Meaning, they were upper class. Maybe even part of the British aristocracy. Joe had pointed out that “people don’t make big secrets unless they got big things to hide, unless they got a lot to lose if their big secret ever got found out. Who has the most to lose over here in England if big secrets get found out, if not the hoity-toity types?”
14
For two hours or so, the truck continued rolling along on what seemed like the same country road they had been driving on since they’d left London. They’d ridden through or had seen signs pointing to a number of villages, but no big towns. Places like Camberley, Basingstoke and Andover. Nothing that Jack had ever heard of before.
The further they drove out into the country, the more nervous the other guys became. Most of them slid down the bench seat toward the back opening.
“Where is this place they’re taking us?” Seth said. “We are way out in the boonies.”
“I was thinking we’d be trained right outside London,” Ozzie said. “At least we’d have some kind of decent nightlife for our time off. I haven’t seen anything that even remotely looks like a modern town for the last hour. Am I wrong?” He was asking Jack and Joe who had been sitting in the back all along.
Jack shook his head no. Of course, he hadn’t been paying that much attention, nor did he care much about his nightlife.
“Nope,” Joe said. “Seth said it right. We’re heading deeper and deeper into the boonies. I’ve only seen one or two pubs so far. And they looked half the size of that one we went to in Southampton.”
“Anyone know how much further we gotta go to get to our place?” Seth said. “What’s it called? Middle Gallup?”
“Middle Wallop,” Jack said. “Like, that guy packs a wallop.”
“What kind of a name is that? Is it a place known for fighting?”
“I have no idea,” Jack said. “But I don’t think so. Maybe when we get situated, we can ask one of the locals.”
“Anyway,” Seth said. “How much further till we get there?”
Jack looked at his watch. “Based on what Group Captain West said back in London, I’m thinking we could be there in the next ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Hope so,” Ozzie said. “I’ve got almost no butt left.”
No one said too much of anything for the next fifteen minutes. The truck came to a sudden stop, causing everyone to bang into each other and tossing Seth on the floor. It made a slow turn to the left and that’s when everyone heard, for the first time, a fairly familiar sound.
Airplane engines revving up. And they weren’t far away.
“I think this is it, Gents,” Ozzie said. “I think we’re at Middle Wallop, or whatever this thing is called.”
Joe held on to the tailgate with one hand and the canvas top with the other. “Jack, grab hold of my belt.” He leaned far enough out to swing around and catch a glimpse of the view ahead. “Yep, definitely an airbase. Can’t see the hangers from here, but there’s the guardhouse and gate right up ahead. And beyond that a bunch of ugly buildings. Probably barracks. I also see some planes taking off, way off to the south. Not sure what they are. Definitely not Spitfires or Hurricanes.”
“Well, we gotta be flying either Hurricanes or Spitfires,” Seth said. “Those are their two best fighters, right?”
“Yeah,” Ozzie said. “But th
ey’re not gonna let us train on their top-of-the-line planes. What are you guys, idiots? That Captain West even said as much in our interview.” He slid back on the bench, away from the opening. “Just sit tight. Once they check us out, I’m sure we’ll be flying the good stuff.”
Jack listened to the back-and-forth banter and, it dawned on him--he wasn’t having any of these kinds of thoughts. All his idle concentration went to things related to his mission. Like trying to figure out exactly how far this base was from London and what modes of transportation he’d be able to use to get back and forth. It was already a foregone conclusion. That’s where he’d be spending all his leave time. In London, searching out leads that might lead to the true identity and whereabouts of his brother.
A few moments later, the truck stopped at the guardhouse. They heard the guard and driver chatting in equally strong British accents. The guard seemed to know and expect the truck’s arrival. He asked for some paperwork. They talked some more, and he waved them through, after giving the driver directions about which building he should go to drop off the Americans.
As they passed through the gate, they all looked at the guard. He stood there looking at them like they were zoo animals. Joe gave him a wave. The guard did not respond. They drove for another minute then the truck pulled off to the left and stopped. The front door opened. As the driver walked toward the back he yelled, “Okay, Yanks. End of the line,” and banged on the side of the truck. “Everybody out.” He lowered the tailgate and everyone jumped out.
“Well, there they are.” Seth pointed toward the south at two huge airplane hangars, now in view. A mid-sized, two-engine plane flew overhead. “Wonder what that is.”
“That, Gentlemen, is one of our Airspeed Oxfords,” came a booming British voice with a more refined accent. “And if you are very good, we might let you fly one of those someday.”
Everyone turned to see a British officer walking in their direction, accompanied by a shorter, stockier soldier, dressed slightly different. It appears the truck had dropped them off at some kind of headquarters building.
“Why would I want to fly that crate?” Joe whispered to Jack.
“Okay,” the officer said. “Everyone line up, just there along the edge of the road. Let me get a look at you.”
The guys obeyed. Jack realized, he’d better start getting used to being told what to do from now on. That’s what he’d signed up for, the cost of getting the British to fund his personal agenda.
“Well then,” the officer said. “We’ll have to teach you boys a thing or two about posture. I am Group Captain Reginald Gibson. This is Flight Sergeant Willie Peters. I know you’ve all been sworn in, so you’re officially subjects of the British Empire. And apparently, others who outrank me have decided to let you become a part of the RAF. I’ve had a look at your paperwork. I understand you all are pilots and, supposedly, you’ve had a sufficient amount of flying experience to be allowed to jump in at this stage of the game, and skip our Elementary Flight Training. We’ll see about that tomorrow. For now, Flight Sergeant Peters is going to find out whether you pass muster on an equally important matter. Physical Fitness.”
A collective groan released from the Americans.
“I’m sure you’ve heard on the radio or read in the papers,” Captain Gibson continued, “things are going pretty badly for us across the Channel. That may be. And it may also be likely that a major air war will soon be raging above our skies, especially here in southern England.” He walked slowly back and forth in front of them. “We’ll need every skilled pilot we can get. Emphasis on the word skill. But it is also essential that these pilots be in tip-top physical condition. Once the air war starts, you can expect to be sent out on missions possibly two or three times a day. Sergeant Peters here is going to help me decide whether or not I should even allow any of you Yanks to be checked out in one of our planes. I have ordered the lorry driver to remain here a little while longer before returning to London. Over the next hour, Sergeant Peters will be putting you through a barrage of physical training exercises. If you pass, we’ll get you set up here at this base, give you the proper uniforms and assign you a place in the officer’s quarters. If you fail, you’ll be getting right back on that lorry and be driven back to London.”
“What’ll happen then?” Joe asked.
Jack had no idea why Joe asked these kinds of questions. He was in phenomenal shape.
“You’ll be reassigned to another base whose training regimen will be centered more on physical conditioning. I think you Yanks call this kind of training boot camp.”
“After that,” Joe said, “do we get to come back here?”
Joe, what are you doing?
“Perhaps,” Captain Gibson said. “What’s your name, young man?”
“Joe, Joe Bassett.”
“Well, Mr. Bassett. Sounds like you’ve already determined you’re not up for these physical exercises. Perhaps you want to hop back into the lorry right now?”
Everyone laughed, except Joe. And Jack.
“No,” Joe said. “I’m just asking. I’m the curious type.”
“I’m the curious type, SIR!” the Flight Sergeant yelled, right in Joe’s face.
“Sorry. I’m the curious type, sir.”
“Well, we’ll soon see if that’s your only problem,” Captain Gibson said. “Flight Sergeant Peters? They’re all yours. Do with them whatever you want.”
“Yes, sir.” Peters saluted. The captain returned the salute and headed back toward the headquarters building.
“Right Yanks,” Peters yelled. He backed several paces into the grassy area. “Line up in front of me. Give yourself plenty of room. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
15
May 22nd, 6PM
London, England
What a bizarre new world Renée had stepped into.
She stood alone in what could only be described as a luxury suite in downtown London, in front of a bay window that looked out across the river Thames. A beautiful view. This day was ending so radically different compared to how it had begun.
Even compared to how things had been just a short while ago.
She had spent half an hour flying through the clouds across the English Channel on a noisy plane, praying all the while that no Luftwaffe plane would find them. She’d breathed an audible sigh of relief when they’d finally dropped out of the clouds and saw the white cliffs of Dover up ahead.
Once over land, the bumpiness and turbulence had mercifully subsided. Elliot had said they still had a way to go. They were aiming for an airfield just north of London, called Hendon. For reasons he didn’t explain, the pilot had flown around the western rim of town. She had hoped to be able to see London from the air.
Elliot had said not to worry. She would soon get her fill of London. He had picked The Savoy, a hotel in the very heart of town, because of its proximity to where he would be reporting for duty each day. She still didn’t know what Elliot did in the military. Only that he was a major and that it had something to do with intelligence. But she had no idea what that meant.
Shortly after they’d landed at Hendon, they were met by a junior officer who seemed to be expecting them. Well, he’d been expecting Elliot. He seemed surprised when Elliot said she’d be coming with him. The officer had carried their things across the field and led them to a small office building. Once there, Elliot asked her to wait outside for a moment while he went in to secure an auto.
Ten minutes later, they were driving down the road toward London. The traffic wasn’t bad until they got into town. She was fascinated by everything out the window. London was so different from Paris. So many things she wanted to see. But Elliot seemed distracted and drove like a man in a hurry.
He’d finally admitted why. At the airfield, he’d spoken on the phone with his commanding officer who, for some reason, had expected Elliot to arrive several hours ago. Now he had just enough time to get her checked in at the hotel and drive to wherever he and his CO were
supposed to meet.
He’d apologized profusely. This wasn’t the way he’d intended their first evening in London to unfold. After tipping the steward at The Savoy with instructions to take very good care of her, he’d left her standing there in this magnificent lobby promising to return and take her to dinner two hours from now.
The moment Elliot left her standing there in this majestic, high-class hotel, Renée felt terribly self-conscious. Her family was not wealthy, not anymore. They had been once, years ago when she was a little girl. Something had happened, something she didn’t understand, and their fortunes had been dramatically and instantly reduced. The changes that followed didn’t matter much to her, but they ruined her father. His health had immediately begun to deteriorate.
A few years later, he was dead.
“Madam?”
Renée looked up.
“Please, follow me.” The hotel steward led her toward the elevator, carrying her one small bag. “Are these…all your things, Madam?”
“Yes.”
She did own a few dresses that might make the grade in a place such as this, garments that used to belong to her mother. The two of them had made several alterations, attempting to modernize them and make them fit on Renée’s smaller frame. But those dresses now hung in her wardrobe back in France.
After ascending the elevator to the sixth floor, they walked about halfway down a long hallway. When the steward had unlocked the door to her room, she stepped into this amazing suite. Once again, she felt so entirely out of place. He carried her lone bag into the separate bedroom, set the bag on the bed and opened the doors to a huge wardrobe. “Would you like me to hang up your things, Madam?”
“No, thank you.” She’d be horrified to have him even open her bag.
