by Dan Walsh
Jack’s affections for her had only grown since that first interaction at the pub near the library. His feelings seemed to increase almost daily just thinking about her, then made giant leaps forward when he’d gotten the chance to see her in person. But that opportunity hadn’t presented itself for any of them in the five weeks that followed.
The Battle of Britain had begun.
Throughout the month of July, the German Luftwaffe had begun attacking ships, convoys, channel ports and coastal towns almost daily. Dozens of British civilians had been killed. All passes for RAF pilots and ground crews had been canceled. Jack couldn’t have met with Elliot or Renée, even if he’d tried.
Every day, sometimes two or three times a day, the fighter squadrons at Middle Wallop were scrambled to meet the Luftwaffe in the air over the English Channel. They started the month flying their Hurricanes but that changed a few weeks later when their squadron had been outfitted with brand-new Spitfires.
Although a number of foreign pilots in Jack’s squadron had been shot down, so far the rest of the American pilots were still alive and well. Jack and Joe had even managed to down four German planes apiece. With the two confirmed kills Jack had gotten in their first air battle, he was now officially an ace, like his father had been. That point had been acknowledged the following day during their morning briefing, but there was no time to celebrate. The guys had just finished bantering about the news when the phone in the hut started ringing. The men took off running for their planes as the telephone orderly screamed out their rendezvous instructions.
The sound of a ringing phone had almost become a dreaded thing to Jack. So many times over the last month he’d sat around in the dispersal hut with the other pilots, totally exhausted, trying to catch an hour or two of rest, only to be abruptly awakened by that phone, followed by the orderly screaming out instructions. Seconds later, they’d be making the same mad dash to their Spitfires. On more than one occasion, Jack wouldn’t be fully awake until his plane went bumping down the runway at full speed.
He was holding a different phone in his hand at the moment, one situated in a hallway just outside the officers’ mess. This was supposed to be their day off, although no one was allowed to leave the base. It was a few minutes before 5PM. Jack dialed the number, now from memory, of Renée’s hotel. He had called the front desk two days earlier and left a message, asking her to be near the phone at this moment, if at all possible. It had been the only way they had been able to talk this past month, and it only worked some of the time, since Renee’s work hours changed every week.
He listened as the phone rang on the other end. “Please pick up,” he muttered.
“Jack? Is that you?”
He loved the sound of her voice. “It’s me. So glad you could make it.”
“Me, too. It almost didn’t happen. I was scheduled to work. Got a friend whose shift starts later in the day to switch with me.”
“How have you been?”
“I’ve been fine. We keep hearing about all the bombings happening throughout the South, and the air raid sirens keep going off, but so far London’s been spared. But how about you? How are you doing? Are you still going out on missions every day?”
“Sometimes two or three times a day. But so far, I’m doing fine. My plane’s been hit several times, but I’ve always managed to get back to base without a hitch.”
“Oh, Jack. Your plane’s been shot? By German planes?”
She was clearly upset. He shouldn’t have mentioned that. “But I’m okay, really. And Joe’s okay, too. Actually, the other American pilots are doing fine, also.”
“I’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “I pray for you every day.”
“Thanks. Keep it up. Obviously, it’s working.” He needed to change the subject. “Have you heard from Elliot recently? Or seen him?”
“We’ve talked on the phone several times but, if anything, he seems even busier than before. Most of the time when we talk, he’s not even in London. Of course, I can’t ask him what he’s doing or where he’s at, but you said he’s preparing troops in case we’re invaded. Does it seem like that still might happen? Can you tell how things are going? Everyone at work is so scared.”
“It’s still too early to tell, Renée. We’re doing everything we can to stop them. Have you heard anything from home? About your mother or brother?” She didn’t immediately reply. It sounded like she was crying. “I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t know if something’s happened, or if nothing has. I still haven’t heard a thing. All I get is the same thing I’ve been getting all along. Bits and pieces from the radio or the newspapers. But always general things. Nothing about them, or even the town I’m from. It’s so hard, this not knowing.”
“I’m sorry, Renée. I wish I could do something to help. We don’t hear very much about what’s happening in France around here. The only negative rumors I’m hearing have to do with how the Nazis are treating the Jews, which is pretty awful. I’ve done some reading on my own about these people. They’ve got some crazy beliefs about racial purity but, from what I’ve read, they consider the French and the Brits to be part of the same race as they are. So, I don’t think your family should be in any trouble. Other than the horror of having nuts like that being in charge of everything.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Me, too. Who knows? Maybe if we can stop the Luftwaffe and the Nazis wind up not invading England, things will settle down a little and communications might open up again between England and France. Then you can find out how they’re doing for—”
Just then a siren began to wail in Jack’s ears.
“Jack, what’s that? Is that an air raid siren?”
“Sounds like it.” This wasn’t normally how the pilots on base were scrambled for a mission. They had been told in the last month the Luftwaffe had changed their tactics and began attacking RAF airfields, but so far Middle Wallop had been spared. “Hold on a minute. Let me go check.”
He set the receiver down and ran outside. Everyone was running around in a dozen different directions. He looked toward the airfield. Several pilots he recognized were suited up and running for their planes. He ran back and grabbed the phone. “We must be under attack, Renée. I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, Jack. Please be careful.”
“I will. I’ve really gotta go.”
“Will you call me when you get back from your mission? I’ll stay here at the hotel until I hear from you.”
“Okay.” A pause. He almost said the words I love you but didn’t. “Pray for me,” he said and hung up the phone.
Jack tore off toward the hardstand where his squadron’s planes were stationed. Even on their day off, they were required to stay in a readied condition. He was wearing everything he needed to fly except his Mae West vest and parachute. One of his ground crew would have those waiting for him on a wing of the plane.
As he crossed from the pavement to the grass, he caught up with Joe, still running toward his plane. “You know anything?” Jack asked.
“Guess it’s our turn,” he said. “A bunch of Junkers JU88s are coming straight toward us from the south. Supposed to be guarded by 109’s.” Not an ounce of fear on Joe’s face. “Now, don’t you go stealing any of my planes. Today’s my day to become an ace.”
“Just don’t get so focused on that you get your butt shot off,” Jack said.
35
Joe and Jack reached their planes just in time to see two other Spitfires speeding down the grass runway. A moment later, they lifted into the air. Jack grabbed his yellow Mae West life vest and parachute off the wing and put them on.
Joe was already in his cockpit. “Come on, slowpoke. We ain’t got all day.”
“Start her up,” Jack said. “I’m right behind you.”
“You going to be my wingman today?”
Jack was normally the flight leader. “No time to worry about formalities. Le
t’s just get these birds up in the air, find these bombers before they destroy this base.”
As Jack strapped himself in and closed the canopy, Joe’s Spitfire was already moving into place at the foot of the runway. Jack got his plane fired up. He followed in Joe’s tracks and watched him head down the runway. In less than a minute, they had taken off, raised their gear and flaps and started climbing to altitude.
“This is Blue One, flying at Angels 8 with Blue Three. Anyone else make it into the air?”
“This is Green One,” Jack said. “Joe and I made it.” He banked slightly and looked down at the airfield. “See a few other guys heading for their planes, but most of the Spitfires are in the hangars getting worked on.”
“Right. Well, head on over to Andover, Green One. We’re there now. Just spotted a squadron of JU-88s at Angels 6 making a beeline for the base. Don’t worry about forming up. Just pick out a bomber and start shooting as soon as you arrive.”
“Roger, Blue One. See any 109 escorts?”
“Supposed to be here, Green One. Don’t see any. Just the bombers. But keep your eyes peeled. If they’re here, they’ll come after us as soon as we attack the 88’s.”
“Roger that.” Jack’s head was instantly on a swivel, trying to spot any German fighters. The ME-109s had proved to be a formidable foe. The Spitfire was a match on many levels, but the 109’s had more powerful guns, like the 20mm cannon. A few hits from that would send a Spitfire down in flames. The one bright spot was the 109’s fuel supply. They weren’t designed as long-range escorts and used up most of their gas just crossing the Channel. Both Andover and Middle Wallop were well inland. It was possible the German fighters had simply run out of fuel and headed back to base.
It only took a few minutes to reach Andover airfield. Jack could hear the two Spitfire pilots from Blue Flight coordinating their attack over the radio. Suddenly, a big explosion erupted below, followed by another.
“There goes an airplane hangar,” Joe said. “Jack, I see two bombers flying straight and level coming in from the west at 2 o’clock. See ‘em?”
“I’m with you. Just remember, side attacks on 88’s. They got rear gunners.”
“Roger that.”
“And short bursts. We only got twenty seconds of ammo.”
“I know, I know.” Joe banked his Spitfire to get a good angle on the bombers.
Jack followed right behind. Thirty seconds later, they were raking the German bombers with their guns. Jack had waited a moment to let Joe pick his target and went after the other one.
As pieces of the bombers began to fly off, they dove away in separate directions. Joe’s bomber had already begun to smoke. He followed it, giving it another short burst. Flames appeared. It began to spin.
Jack’s bomber had suffered some damage, but it was still flying. It made a wide arcing turn then headed back toward the airfield. He was still trying to drop his bombs. “No, you don’t.” He brought his Spitfire around so that his nose pointed to its left side, then fired a three-second burst just in front of it. The bomber flew right into it. Some of his bullets must have struck the bombs, because it instantly exploded in a massive fireball. Jack had to quickly break right to avoid the debris.
A quick once around the sky confirmed there were no German fighters. Jack looked for and found Joe’s plane about three thousand feet higher heading south. A further look revealed why; he was chasing one of the German bombers that had already dropped its load on the airfield. As he watched, tracers from Joe’s Spitfire poured into the bomber. “Go get him, Joe.”
The bomber started smoking then began to fall from the sky like a stricken bird. “With that one, I’m caught up with you,” Joe said.
“Afraid not, my friend. Just downed another one of my own. Still one ahead of you.”
Joe banked his plane and headed back toward Jack. “See anymore?”
“Not yet.” Jack hadn’t seen the other two Spitfires in the last few minutes. “Calling Blue One, anymore bogies?”
“This is Blue One. We’re back over Middle Wallop. Head back here now. The base is under attack. I repeat, the base is under attack. A flight of JU-88s got past us.”
“Roger that. On our way.”
Before they even arrived back at Middle Wallop, Jack and Joe saw thick, billowing clouds of black smoke rising into the air.
“Looks like a direct hit on hangar number five,” Joe said.
“Hope those guys got to the shelter in time,” Jack said. As they got closer, they saw several smaller buildings were on fire. “See any of the bombers?”
“I see one trying to sneak away. Look south, ten o’clock. See the thin trail of smoke following behind him? But you’re going have to get him without me. Took some damage back at Andover. Sprung a leak. I’m running on fumes. Gotta get this plane on the ground.”
Jack looked over Joe’s plane. “Don’t see any smoke. Take her down easy, Ace.”
“Will do. Go get that 88.” Joe broke off the attack and headed back toward the airfield.
Jack checked his fuel gauge. He had plenty, so he revved the throttle up to close the gap on the German bomber. No reason to let this guy get away, only to refuel, rearm and return to bomb them another day.
The bomber was traveling slower than full speed, probably due to the damage. Jack decided to come in above him, high and to the right, so he could attack with the sun behind him. The glare of the sun would guarantee Jack got the jump on the rear gunner and his twin machine guns.
Five minutes later, he was ready to press the attack. He dove down and waited to fire until he’d closed to within seventy-five yards. Then he let them have it, a full five-second burst; starting from the starboard engine, across the wing and through the cockpit. The starboard engine caught fire then the entire wing broke clean off. The bomber started spinning and falling toward the ground.
He continued to watch, to see if any of the crew escaped before it crashed. Suddenly, tracer fire began to fly over his canopy from behind. What in the world? Large bangs. Cannon shells began hitting his plane. He banked hard to the left. Who was shooting at him? More tracer fire, this time flying just in front of him. He couldn’t help it, he was already into the turn. He flew right into it. More loud bangs. The engine started to smoke. The plane became unstable and began to vibrate.
Get out, before it catches fire.
He leveled the plane, threw back the canopy and began to free himself. More bullets, now hitting his left wing. It was too late to alter his course. Only seconds to spare. He was now standing, about to jump. The rush of wind slamming into his upper body was tremendous. As he jumped, his right foot caught on something inside the cockpit. A surge of pain shot up his right leg. His hand banged into something, then he was falling through the sky.
Ignoring the pain, he pulled on the cord. The chute’s canopy filled with air then a jolt in his shoulders. He watched as his beloved Spitfire, fully engulfed in flames, spun around and around as it fell to the ground. Before it hit, his eyes were drawn to the sudden site of an ME-109 swoop by. It seemed to have only missed him by a few feet.
The German pilot did a slow victory role then continued flying south at full speed. Where did it come from? He continued watching until another more pressing problem grabbed his attention. The ground was coming up quick. Fortunately, he had jumped over a farmer’s field. But he had two problems.
Big problems.
The pain in his right leg was excruciating. He tried to move it, but the pain was too severe. He glanced at his left hand, now holding the suspension lines. It hurt also, though not as badly. But the lines of the parachute were covered in blood. He tried to close his fingers but could not. Looking down, he had only seconds before he hit the ground. He had learned proper landing procedures in training. But he hadn’t trained on how to land on one leg.
Here it comes. Closing his eyes, he said a quick prayer. Seconds later, his good leg touched down and instantly collapsed. The rest of him followed. He hit the ground w
ith a thud.
The last thing he remembered before things went black was not being able to breathe.
36
Renée was beginning to grow frantic. It had been nearly three hours since Jack had called her. The call had been interrupted by an air raid siren going off. Jack had promised to call back as soon as he was safely back on base. Surely, he couldn’t still be flying. By now, the skies were completely dark.
About an hour ago, she had noticed a military officer wearing a similar uniform as Jack sitting in the tea room. She’d asked him if he knew how long a typical mission lasted for pilots flying a Spitfire. He said he was an RAF pilot but didn’t fly Spitfires. He was pretty sure they could only stay in the air for an hour and a half. Much less for a dogfight. She knew that term from plenty of conversations she’d had with Jack. Since the Battle of Britain began, dogfights were the main kind of missions Jack flew.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to know if he was okay. There was a telephone available for hotel guests in the lobby, but she decided to go upstairs and use the one in her room, in case she received bad news. Jack had given her the telephone number for the phone near the officers’ mess, the one he used when he called her from the base. Just in case she ever needed to reach him in an emergency.
This felt like an emergency.
Once in her room, she sat in the chair nearest the telephone and pulled out the slip of paper. Her hand was shaking. Picking up the receiver, she gave the number to the operator and waited until the phone began to ring on the other end. It rang seven times but, finally, someone picked it up.
“Hello?” It was a man’s voice with an accent she didn’t recognize.
