Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Jeremy stood limp in the doorway where Brody and Sandy met him. He shook his head and murmured, “Why didn’t he jump?”

  Brody looked at him through hollow eyes. “He saved his aircraft.”

  The pilots stayed by the dispersal hut, keeping vigil. Squadron Leader Hope requested and received a release from ready status for the remainder of the day. In the early evening, he received news that Fiske was awake, aware, in good spirits, and cursing out his Hurricane. The adjutant called from St. Regis Hospital to say that he was there with Fiske, and the pilot was perky and sitting up in bed.

  Night fell. The pilots headed for Fiske’s favorite pub, the Ship, overlooking the harbor near Bosham, but the mood was subdued, somber. One by one, they made their way back to their billets for a restless night.

  At first light, 601 Squadron pilots gathered again at their dispersal hut. When they arrived, Squadron Leader Hope was already there. When Jeremy saw him, he sucked in his breath and turned away. The expression on Hope’s face delivered the sad news. Fiske had passed away a few minutes earlier.

  Hope gathered the pilots around him. His eyes were red and moist, with dark rings under them. “I want to say a few words,” he said. His voice broke with anguish, but he continued on. “I’ve known Billy for many years. He was my friend. It’s important that we acknowledge the goodness and memory of him even as we prepare to get on with the next battle—it won’t wait for us to finish grieving.

  “That’s the nature of our business. We have our few moments of glory, but they are tempered by many moments of loss—of grief for comrades, our brothers. We honor them best by preparing for the next fight and giving it our all.

  “Some people might see that view as callous, but I tell them: Practicality need not obviate compassion. If we are to win this war, we must recognize and exploit every opportunity. Failure to do so out of misplaced sentiment only dishonors and makes waste the lives of those taken from us. True compassion realizes that millions more will be saved or lost depending on what we do with the turns of battle. Our fallen would wish us—Billy would wish us—to marshal and use our resources to greatest effect so that their deaths have meaning; so that our loved ones and our nation may thrive; so that our freedom may prosper; and so that there will always be an England.” He finished speaking and lowered his head.

  The hut was silent. Hope started for the exit, but then he turned. He started to speak, but his voice broke. When finally he had regained control, his eyes swept fiercely across the young pilots and he raised a finger in the air. “One more thing,” he rasped, “do not ever, ever, sacrifice your life to save your aircraft.”

  28

  August 17, 1940

  Dulag Luft, Oberursel, Germany

  Lance heard the key turn in the lock. He did not move.

  The door creaked on its hinges. “Raus,” a guard ordered.

  Lance’s eyes cracked open. He stared into the quarter light that had attended his existence for a time he could not measure. Whether he had been in this tiny cell with only room for a cot and a small table for a week, a month, or a year, he had no idea.

  After his re-capture, he had been shoved at gunpoint back through the woods, across the field, through the big gate, and into a stone building on the edge of the compound. Then, he had been thrust into an interrogation room where a Luftwaffe major awaited him. The guards stood him in front of the desk and stepped back.

  The major had continued leafing through some papers by the light of a desk lamp, the only illumination in the room. Finally, he looked up.

  “You embarrassed your escort-guards,” he said in a reproving voice, speaking in English. “They are not happy with you. By the way, what do I call you?”

  “Sergeant Lance Littlefield.” He recited his service number.

  The major wrote something on a card in front of him. “First things first,” he said. He held the card out to Lance. “This is to inform your family that you are alive and where you are, but that they should send no mail just yet. This is a transit prison. You will go elsewhere from here. Check it over, make sure the information I’ve entered is correct, and then write in the address where you want it delivered.”

  Hesitantly, Lance took the card and examined it. The instructions were in German, but the major had entered his name, rank, and service number correctly. Below, he had indicated where Lance should fill in his home address.

  “This isn’t a trick,” the major said. “The Geneva Convention requires us to do this. We’re not so barbarian as what some people think. From me, it goes to the Red Cross.”

  After reading it again, Lance took a pen offered to him, filled in the address, and handed the card back.

  “They say you violated your word of honor,” the major said, and laughed. “All’s fair in love and war, right?”

  “My promise was good until we arrived,” Lance retorted, standing at attention, looking straight ahead. “We arrived.”

  “I see. You know you are an anomaly here. Most of our guests are British airmen. You’re wearing a British army uniform. How did you get here?”

  “Just lucky, I suppose. I think it was your chaps’ idea. It was a shorter drive.”

  “Hmph.” The major looked down at his notes. “Your guards are with an element of our border patrol; not our finest soldiers or they might have gathered more information. But they stated that a housewife in Saint-Louis saw an ambulance enter and leave an abandoned garage along her road. She alerted them. That town is to the south and east of any combat, and of course, it’s right next to the Swiss border. I’m sorry to have interrupted your plans, but I’m curious about that ambulance.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you have to tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I was blindfolded when it picked me up.”

  “And where was that? Stand at ease.”

  Lance relaxed and spread his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  If the major was becoming annoyed at the short answers, he did not show it. “How far away was that?”

  Lance shrugged again. “I didn’t see the odometer, and I fell asleep. We could have been driving for an hour or ten hours.” He scrunched his eyebrows. “We can shortcut this easily. You have my name, rank, and service number. Per the Geneva Convention, that’s all I’m required to provide, so—” He shrugged a third time.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. May I offer you a cigarette.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “You’ll do well when you arrive at your permanent camp. Cigarettes are currency. Remember that advice. Would you care to sit down? We can bring a chair.”

  “Are we going to be here long? What if you send me on to wherever I’m going? I’d like to get there so I can receive mail too. My mum must be terribly worried.”

  The major locked his eyes on Lance, studying him. “You know we could use more extreme measures.”

  Lance grinned. “That would be wasted effort. I’m a lowly sergeant. An infantryman. I don’t fly airplanes, I have no technical information to collect, and I know nothing about the ‘grand plan.’ Like most of those tens of thousands you captured, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Save your energy.”

  The major smiled and exhaled. “You win this round, Sergeant,” he said with a resigned look. He glanced at the soldiers. “Take him downstairs.” Shifting his gaze once more to Lance, he said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t reach a better accord. Maybe next time.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Raus,” the guard ordered again, and nudged Lance’s leg with his rifle.

  Lance rubbed his eyes, then struggled to a sitting position. “I’m coming.” He held up an arm in an appeal for patience, and then rose slowly to his feet, grimacing at each body pain and movement of stiff joints.

  The guard stood aside as he exited the small cell, and then led him back to the same room where he had been interrogated before. The major sat b
ehind his desk.

  “Sergeant Littlefield, how good to see you. What’s it been? Three weeks, I think. How are you doing?”

  Lance smirked. He folded his arms across his chest and peered at the major through the slits that passed for eyes. His uniform hung on him.

  “Robust, wouldn’t you say?” he croaked through chapped lips.

  “I don’t suppose that in your solitude you were able to recall details you might disclose to me?”

  “About what?”

  The major chuckled. “You made a good point when we last spoke about of how little value you are. I’m coming to your way of thinking.”

  Lance let loose a hoarse guffaw. “We can’t all be important.”

  “True. I sent a team to search the garage where you were captured. They didn’t find anything of significance. It appears to have been abandoned for several years, which is probably why you were taken there.”

  “Could be. I only saw the inside of it.” He pointed at his eyes. “Remember, I was blindfolded.”

  “They brought back everything they found.” The major sighed and reached for a box on his desk. “It’s hard to get good help these days. The guards who delivered you didn’t search at all, and my team brought back too much of nothing.” He reached inside the box, brought out wadded butcher paper, and held it up. “Can you believe they brought me this? You must have eaten a sandwich.”

  Lance pursed his lips, arched his eyebrows, and nodded. “Guilty. Is any left?”

  “And look at these,” the major said, holding out a handful of rusty bolts. “What would a soldier on the run do with these?”

  “If I had seen them, I suppose I might have put them in my sock and used it as a weapon to swing around and club your soldiers.”

  The major laughed. “What about this, does it mean anything to you?” He held out a soiled scrap of paper. “Read it.”

  Lance took it, noticing that the major was watching his face closely. The paper contained three words. “Horton Kenyon Lancas.”

  His heart skipped a beat.

  He looked up at the major. “Is this somebody’s name? If we were in England, I’d say it sounds like a law firm.”

  “Then it isn’t yours?”

  Lance grinned and held up his right hand. “On my word of honor, I’ve never seen it before.”

  The major’s face flushed with anger. “Let’s not play games, Sergeant. As near as I can tell, you’ve escaped twice. Or at least you successfully evaded capture for a considerable time and escaped once. Most POWs might dream of bolting, but only a relative few will attempt. Those that do, after we get them back, they try again and again… It’s lunacy. Recapturing them uses up our resources. So, we’re establishing a special facility to hold those showing such propensity, but it’s not ready. I’ll recommend that you go there at first opportunity.” With a wave of his hand, he signaled to the guards to take him.

  “Downstairs?” one of the guards asked.

  The major shook his head. “Put him with the permanent staff of POWs but give the sergeant at the gate this instruction.” He scratched out a note, handed it to the guard, and turned back to Lance. “We’ll keep extra security on you until you are no longer the responsibility of this camp.”

  For the first time since entering the ambulance in Saint-Quirin, Lance walked out into sunlight. Despite his emaciated condition, he breathed deeply and smiled as he exited behind the guards. They walked him a short distance to an internal barbed-wire fence with its own gate. Another guard met them, read the message from the major, and called for the gate to be opened.

  Inside the enclosed area, POWs lined up on both sides of him, and almost immediately, he was pummeled with good-natured queries about when and where he was captured, and did he have news of home, or did he know the status of certain people. Of particular interest was that he was an army noncommissioned officer.

  As he walked with them, he noted a peculiar feeling, one he had not known since finding himself separated and abandoned at Dunkirk. In all that time, the sense had never left of being prey fleeing a tenacious predator. For the first time, he did not feel hunted. His predator knew where he was, but for now, it was not intent on killing him.

  A voice called to him, “Sergeant Littlefield, we’d like a word with you, if you please.” Lance turned, surprised that someone knew him by name. Two RAF officers approached him, a wing commander and a squadron leader.

  They turned to the other men surrounding Lance. “Give us some room, please,” the squadron leader said. “We need to speak with the sergeant.” He was young, approaching Lance’s own age, in his mid-twenties, good-looking, of average height, with a ready smile. The other officer was tall and slender, in his forties with a distinguished, narrow face and gentle eyes that nevertheless probed.

  Lance stood at attention and saluted. Both officers returned the salute. The senior one extended his hand. “I’m Wing Commander Harry Day, the senior British officer, or SBO.” He broke a smile that was as gentle as his eyes. “Under these circumstances, mine is an official position and an unwelcome one. I command the prisoners while they are here.”

  He introduced the squadron leader. “This is Roger Bushell. We’re both on permanent POW staff, meaning we administer the transient prisoner population until they are transferred to another camp. Our main tasks are to maintain order among the POWs and help them adjust to life in captivity.”

  “Very nice to meet you, sir. The length of my stay appears in question. My interrogator informed me that I’m being sent to a special facility for prisoners ‘with a propensity for escaping,’ but it’s not yet ready to receive me.”

  “We know,” Day said, lowering his voice. “I learned a few details while you were in solitary. I’ve heard rumors about this new facility, but I don’t know anything about it or where it is, other than it will take at least another month, and maybe two, to prepare for British guests.” He chuckled sardonically. “I’ve heard mention that only Poles are there now, and they seem to be very capable escape artists. The Germans want to keep the Brits and the Poles apart. In the meantime, the camp commandant will hold me personally responsible if you make another escape attempt.”

  Despite his weariness, a surge of obstinacy overtook Lance. “Meaning what, sir?”

  Day laughed again. “Meaning nothing that concerns you, Sergeant. We’ll settle you in, get you fed, and discuss further.”

  “By the way,” Roger cut in, “your name has raised some conjecture. Are you at all related to Lieutenant Jeremy Littlefield?”

  Lance stopped in mid-stride, stunned. “My brother? You know my brother?”

  Startled at his reaction, Roger responded, “Not personally. I got here in May. Most of us were shot down during the Battle for France, but we’ve had a few RAF chaps come through since the Battle of Britain started. Some mentioned that your brother caused a stir at home. He was on the Lancastria when it sank at Saint-Nazaire, and he rescued a small child. The ship’s captain appointed him legal guardian.”

  Lance felt the blood rush from his head. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet.

  Roger watched him in concern. He braced Lance by the shoulders. “Steady, man,” he said. “How rude of me. You’re starved, and I’m babbling on about news stories. We should get you some food.”

  “It’s not that,” Lance said, recovering. “Until this moment, I didn’t know whether or not Jeremy had made it out of Dunkirk. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  “I say, chap, have you been on the run for that long? Let’s get you fed, and you can tell us your story.”

  “Take care of him, would you, Roger?” Day said. “I have some things to do.” While he went on his way, Roger led Lance to a barracks where he called to all present to be generous and share items from packages received from home or the Red Cross. While Lance ate, a group formed to listen to his story. Ravenous at first, he settled down to munch on cookies as he spoke.

  He started by telling of finding himself among a group of eight Britis
h soldiers, each separated from their units, having found each other, starved and dehydrated, in a wooded area northeast of Dunkirk; of trekking across France with the help of French families along the way, hiding his group from German troops; of being bombed at Saint-Nazaire and escaping a shipwreck there; of joining with a French Resistance group and dynamiting a field of petroleum fuel tanks; and forced-marching to Germany.

  “That was the worst,” he said. “I’ve eaten more since entering your barracks than I had in a week on that march.” He related to them how he first escaped, was helped by more French people, and then was recaptured. “Would you believe there’s an American on the German border patrol at Lörrach?” He told his audience about Kansas. “I don’t know his real name. That’s what I call him.”

  “He probably did you a favor,” Roger said. “You’re among air force officers here, and there’s some cordiality between us and our captors. A few of the interrogators are ruthless, but some are fairly decent and observe the Geneva Convention on the treatment of POWs. We’ve had plenty to eat and the Red Cross packages come through regularly. If you had stayed with the army POWs, you’d undoubtedly be in a much more crowded place with scarce food and even more ghastly conditions.”

  He looked around at the other men hovering around Lance. “Everyone in this barracks has been vetted and is trusted, but I caution you about telling your story outside of this room. No one here has a tale like yours. Most of us were shot down and crash landed or parachuted. Some were wounded, but for the rest of us, aside from being sequestered in this purgatory indefinitely, that’s the extent of our suffering. Nothing approaching what you went through.

  “The Germans would like nothing better than to learn the identities of your helpers, and much as I hate to admit it, we have bad apples who would trade better treatment for the type of information you carry. We’ll bunk you in here with us to alleviate that. Wing Commander Day is going to make a case to the commandant to keep you here with us.” He grinned. “The Geneva Convention stipulates a difference in what officers and noncoms may be required to do. Day is going to say that we need a noncom. You might have to run noncom errands for us once in a while for show, but we’ll try not to be too overbearing.”