Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Thirty-six hours into the voyage, a loud clanging sounded through the boat, and she heard the captain yell, “Dive, dive, dive. Battle stations. Rig for depth charges.”

  The bow dipped steeply.

  Amélie peeked through the curtains with round, fearful eyes. Men scurried through the tubular hull, turning knobs, battening hatches, checking gauges, and accomplishing more tasks than she could take in. Then the boat leveled out, and all became quiet.

  Along the passageway, the crew stopped what they were doing and raised their eyes to the overhead. However, they did not focus their sight. Instead, they were listening, and above them she heard a rhythmic mechanical noise muffled by the whoosh of forced water.

  From off to one side, Amélie heard a muted yet thunderous noise that shook the boat. Moments later, she heard another from the opposite side, closer, and then more from positions below them. A passing crewman saw her anxious face. “Depth charges,” he muttered. “We’ll be all right.” Then he continued on his errand, and all was quiet.

  Just as Amélie was about to lie back down, another depth charge exploded just outside the hull. The sub rocked to the opposite side. Amélie was thrown from her bunk into the passageway. Men stepped over and around her, hurrying to accomplish emergency tasks while water sprayed from broken seals.

  Unable to see on the deck in the dim light or raise herself to get back to her bunk before more crewmembers passed by, Amélie curled into a ball and protected her head. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder, and the young sailor who had first taken charge of her held the men back long enough for her to climb into her bunk.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I should have been here sooner. They snuck up on us. How are you?”

  “I’ll manage,” Amélie murmured, quelling her terror.

  “We’re going deep and we’ll run on batteries to get out of this mess, and then we’ll be on our way to Plymouth.”

  “Go do what you need to do,” Amélie told him. “I’ll do a better job of staying out of the way.”

  The sailor smiled. “I’ll come back and check on you. I promise.”

  A subordinate of Major Crockett had met Amélie at the dock and escorted her on the train to London, and then to MI-9 headquarters. Vivian had greeted her warmly in the office, scurrying to bring her warm tea and announce her arrival to the major. She started to leave, but the major stopped her.

  “You might as well sit in on this one, Vivian,” he said. “This is a first for us, and your observations could be useful later.”

  Surprised, Vivian had taken a seat next to Amélie around a coffee table where the major joined them. He had been very businesslike, but Amélie noticed an encouraging element of kindness in him. He impressed her as someone who made hard choices because they had to be made, and not because he enjoyed the authority that put him in a position to make them. That sense, more than what he said, tended to put her mind at ease.

  “Welcome. We know you’ve been through a lot. You have documents for us?”

  Amélie nodded, set her suitcase on the coffee table, and took out a thick notebook. “This is all from Swan’s memory,” she said, picturing Jeannie busily writing down her observations. She handed them over to Crockatt.

  He scanned several pages of the notebook. “This is remarkable,” he said. “Troop strengths, headquarters locations, ammunition depots. Sketches of them.”

  He diverted his attention to Vivian. “When we’re done here, call over to Lord Hankey in SOE and ask him to send over his most trusted courier immediately. Tell him that the batch of documents we were waiting for from Marseille just arrived. MI-6 should be informed as well.”

  Turning back to Amélie, he said, “What you and Swan did is beyond words. I understand that you recruited her?”

  “She needed no recruiting, sir. I was just there at the right moment.”

  “Well, while you’ve been en route, Hérisson informed us that more is coming, and one piece she mentioned on the radio is that high-speed barges are being positioned along the Atlantic coast for the invasion. We’ll be much better prepared because of what you’ve brought over. We also know how to better plan our own bombing targets in France.” He stopped talking when a look of concern flashed across Amélie’s face.

  Vivian had noticed too. “You’re scaring her.”

  Crockatt shot her a rueful glance.

  “You’re going to bomb France?” Amélie asked.

  “Sorry. Of course we are. We already have. That’s our front line with Germany. I didn’t intend to upset you.”

  Amélie shook her head. “I understand. I had not yet thought of that, but of course it’s inevitable.” She made an effort to smile.

  The major seemed at a loss for words. After a moment, he said, “Your English is very good.”

  “Getting better, I hope. Your Sergeants Horton and Kenyon have been helping me with it.”

  “Right. Well look, we’re sending you to some rather specialized training, but I need to know that you know what you’re getting into.”

  “I haven’t been told much. Just that I’d be trained as a courier, and that I’d also be trained on Morse code and radio transmission.”

  “Given your on-the-job training and success so far, we need to talk about that, but have you ever had a discussion about the dangers.”

  Amélie searched the major’s face with a surprised, almost glaring look. “I thought you had been briefed on me.”

  Chagrinned as much as his stern face allowed, Crockatt replied, “I didn’t mean to diminish what you’ve done. I know about the German soldier you killed in Dunkirk and what you did and were willing to do in Dinard if Swan had turned out to be a collaborator. I’m talking about what could happen to you if the Gestapo captures you; and let’s face facts: you’re on their wanted list.”

  “Tread lightly, would you please, sir?” Vivian cut in. “Terrifying this poor girl will do no one any good.”

  “It’s all right,” Amélie replied. “A frank conversation is a good thing.”

  Once more, Crockatt directed a deprecating glance Vivian’s way. Amélie turned back to the major. “Hérisson said that was the reason she wanted me to be a courier instead of a radio operator.”

  “The difference in danger is a matter of degree. As a radio operator, the Germans will have triangulation vans searching for your radio signal.” He read Amélie’s questioning look. “That means they have technology to follow the radio band to where you are. Either way, if they catch you, the treatment will likely be the same.”

  “So, they’ll kill me. It happens.”

  Crockatt sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s not the worst of what they’ll do. They’ll want whatever information they can force out of you.” He went into detail about pulling out teeth, pushing splinters under fingernails before yanking them, puncturing breasts with needles… By the time he finished, Amélie sat pale, almost shaking.

  Vivian stood and put her arms around Amélie’s shoulders. “Is this necessary? You’re scaring the life out of this poor girl.”

  “Of course I am,” Crockatt said with a tinge of exasperation. “Miss Vivian, I value your service. I asked you to stay for the benefit of future conversations, but I must ask you not to interrupt. We cannot and will not send anyone forward who has not understood thoroughly the dangers.”

  Looking properly miffed, Vivian squeezed Amélie’s hand and re-took her seat.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Amélie whispered.

  Crockatt sucked in a deep breath. “There are still some things to discuss. Hérisson wants you back as soon as possible, and her organization belongs to SOE, which is still in formation. For that matter, so are we. Your father’s Boulier network falls under my organization for support. In a lot of instances, the needs of our two organizations are the same, and that’s true for MI-6 too. The information you obtained and how you got it is normally done by MI-6.”

  Amélie shook her head in frustration.

  Crockatt noticed and stopped. “
This can all be very bewildering. The agreement I have with SOE is that we’ll train you jointly based on who has the current ability, and we’ll share use of your services as needed. Since you’re working with Hérisson, changing that would make no sense. Our interest is in helping downed pilots and separated soldiers escape and evade back to Britain. SOE’s is in blowing up things— ‘set Europe ablaze,’ to quote Churchill. Hérisson can decide which missions you’re assigned to.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask,” Amélie said quietly.

  Crockatt sat in silence for a time, studying this small, almost shy girl barely in her twenties who had experienced as much as many seasoned operators. “All right then,” he said, and his voice caught in spite of his normal reserve, “Miss Vivian will see to the details and get you set up with the right people. Do you have any questions?”

  For the first time, Amélie looked reluctant to speak. “Jeremy Littlefield came back to France on two missions from your office. I know I’m not supposed to ask to see him, but can you tell me how he is?”

  Vivian caught her breath, reached over, and grabbed Amélie’s hand without speaking. She sniffed and cast an indignant glare at the major.

  Crockatt sat nonplussed. At last, he said, “I’ll tell you what I can.”

  20

  August 1, 1940

  RAF Tangmere, Southern England

  Pilot Officer William Meade Lindsley “Billy” Fiske III was a good-looking chap, Jeremy had to give him that. He was also charming in a humble way, an odd combination for someone of his wealth and fame. A two-time Olympic gold-medalist bobsled driver, the American champion was feted wherever he went, but the adulation seemed not to go to his head. He had a unique ability to enjoy his wealth and celebrity without flaunting it, preferring to share it in subtle ways that avoided ostentation. Thus, when out on the town, he often slipped funds quietly to pub and eatery proprietors to cover the check for less fortunate pilots. They received the explanation that their tab had been satisfied by patrons grateful for their service.

  “You’ve been assigned to me,” Fiske told Jeremy. “I’m supposed to teach you advanced combat tactics. I’m not sure why.”

  “Pay attention to him,” the squadron leader told Jeremy. “He’s your flight leader, and I’ve never known a more gifted or natural fighter pilot.”

  “You say that,” Fiske replied, “but I haven’t shot anyone down yet.”

  Fiske had told Jeremy about their squadron leader, Sir Archibald Hope, the 17th Baronet of Craighall. He had been with the squadron in one capacity or another for years but had just been appointed to his current position.

  Earlier in the year, he had been shot down while attacking Dornier bombers over France, his second such escapade. The second time, he had crash-landed his Spitfire on a beach, set fire to it, and evaded German capture, reaching Dunkirk and evacuating with the flotilla. He had arrived in Dover still carrying his parachute.

  Since arriving back in England, he had shot down four more enemy aircraft. In short, he had become a legend, a notion which he brushed off. A tall man, he had a high, wide forehead and narrow chin, and he generally carried a jovial disposition that turned serious on his own command. The pilots of 601 Squadron thought well of him.

  Hope chuckled. “Billy is frustrated because our squadron keeps being scrambled, sometimes many times in a day, but the Huns are on their way back across the Channel by the time we get to them. We’re too far west for most of their attacks. Nevertheless, I stick with my assessment that Billy is the most gifted pilot I’ve ever known.”

  “I’m no better than anyone else,” Fiske shot back. “I’ve just had more practice making critical decisions at high speed. That’s what wins bobsled races, and that’s what keeps you alive in aerial combat.”

  Jeremy listened to the repartee in fascination. “When do we fly?” he asked.

  “Now,” Fiske replied. “You can unpack later. And plan on dinner at my house this evening. I’ve let my wife, Rose, know you’re coming, and some of the other guys will be there too.”

  “You live close by?” Jeremy asked as they rode a bus to the dispersal hut.

  “We bought a house here shortly after marrying. I was a little put out with Rose a few days back. I had a German dead in my sights. He was out of ammo and almost out of fuel. I chose not to shoot him down, but instead I herded him to our airfield. On the way, I flew right over our rooftop, but she couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed and look.” He laughed. “I guess I was showing off a little.”

  Jeremy liked him immediately, awed by his confidence, achievements, and rare humility. Learning from him would be like understudying a master.

  “Stay close to me in the air,” he said as they left the dispersal hut and walked out to the parked aircraft. “I’ll talk you through the maneuvers as I make them. There’s no such thing as slow up there, so when I say do something, do it. Don’t question, hesitate, or do something else. Got it?”

  Jeremy nodded. Then he stopped abruptly and stared at the airplanes on the field.

  “What’s wrong?” Fiske asked.

  “Those are Hurricanes. I trained on the Spitfire.”

  “Oh, and now you think the Hurricane is beneath you?” He jostled Jeremy’s shoulder. “Come on. Hurricanes are what 601 Squadron is assigned, and that’s what we fly. Besides, if you can handle a Spitfire, this battlewagon will be a piece of cake. We’ll take it easy at first to get you familiar with the aircraft, but I’m here to teach you tactics, not how to fly. And by the way, all bets are off if we meet the enemy, in which case we’ll engage as necessary, but none are expected in this area today. We should be able to practice unmolested.”

  They flew until they ran short of fuel, landed long enough to replenish, and flew again. Fiske led Jeremy through vertical and horizontal loops, turns, rolls, dives, corkscrews, and myriad other maneuvers. He taught him how to hide in the sun and behind clouds. “You’ve got to think three to five steps ahead of the enemy. If I do this, what is he likely to do—and then you plan to counter that. It’s not enough to evade him when he comes at you. You’ve got to position yourself to come back at him in a way he doesn’t expect. Always look for chances to seize the initiative, and don’t be shy.”

  By the time they had landed for the final time, Jeremy was exhausted. Fiske seemed indefatigable. He led off at a jaunty pace from the aircraft to the dispersal hut, keeping up a running conversation that continued as they took the bus back to HQ and the billeting area.

  “You did a great job today,” he said.

  Jeremy looked askance at him.

  “You did, really. I would say so otherwise. I pushed you, and you kept up. Not everyone can keep up with me when I’m out free flying. You don’t let fear get in your way, and that’s half the battle. The other half, as I mentioned this morning, is anticipating what your enemy will do.”

  “What about changing direction every twenty seconds?”

  “That’s a survival tactic, and you must stay alive to be in the fight. I’m teaching you to take the other guy down.”

  They drove to his house in his super-charged racing-green Bentley sports car. As they raced through the curves along the narrow country road, Fiske called to him above the sound of the engine and the wind, “I heard your story about Dunkirk and the Lancastria.” He downshifted as they entered a turn. “It’s incredible what you did. I don’t think I could have held up.”

  Jeremy threw him a disbelieving look. “You,” he yelled. “Don’t flatter me. If anyone else had said that—”

  “It’s true,” Fiske yelled back. “I don’t flatter. I read the newspaper reports. Keeping your head when finding yourself abandoned, trekking with the refugees across all the destruction in France, and then rescuing that kid from the shipwreck.” He shook his head. “Amazing. If it were me, somewhere along the line, I might have met my breaking point.” Then he grinned and added, “You think bobsledders have no fear? I promise you, we do.”

  Jeremy raised a skep
tical brow. “You didn’t just win the Olympics, you set a record that’s unbeaten, and you had one of the most exciting finishing runs in history. I saw the newsreels. I saw you carry the American flag in the Lake Placid Olympics. Mr. Roosevelt was there. He was the governor of New York then. During the competition, the German team crashed its bobsled, and you loaned it one, and you even recruited a couple of German-Americans to stand in for injured members of that team. And you still won. I’m in awe. In fact, sitting in this very expensive sports car with you and talking like we’re chums is surreal. I’m curious, though. Why did you pass up the last Olympics? Everyone expected you to compete, and you were favored to win a third gold medal.”

  Fiske turned his head and grinned. “Simple, really. I won’t compete in front of that mustachioed Nazi tyrant. He deserves no respect. Besides, I had won the Grand National Championship on the Cresta Run at St. Moritz that year, and I went back and won it again this year and beat my own speed record. I have nothing to prove to that repulsive waste of protoplasm.”

  Jeremy remained speechless for a few minutes. Then he asked, “Is that what brought you to England to fight? You effectively gave up your citizenship when you joined the RAF. I thought you might have done it for the thrill. The competition.”

  “Those elements exist in what we do, and I enjoy them, but that’s not why I came.” They reached a straightaway, but instead of speeding up, Fiske let the car cruise along at its current speed. “I fell in love with England while attending Cambridge. It birthed our country. From Great Britain, all our American institutions, customs, and traditions originated. If we lose it, we lose our ancestry, our history. Britons are fighting against odds that seem insurmountable.

  “So is France, and I grew up there. I love the people. They’ve been good to me.” He grinned again. “They taught me bobsledding.” Then he became serious once more. “Britain is fighting for its existence. France is fighting to become sovereign again. Given that I can help, I must.”