Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Prime Minister Churchill’s fury at the killing of non-military British subjects in London was visceral. He ordered that bombers execute retaliatory runs over Berlin the next night, and then two nights later, and yet again the night following.

  Luftwaffe chief Göring had promised the German people that no British bombs would ever fall on Berlin. Now, barely two and a half months after the Wehrmacht’s victory at Dunkirk, and after he had repeatedly assured the führer that the RAF was near extinction, Berliners had experienced the terror of large aircraft formations vibrating overhead, the hiss of falling ordnance, and the thunderclaps of exploding bombs.

  The damage to Berlin had been militarily insignificant, but psychologically, it affected everyone living in Berlin: each resident and soldier, every leader to the top levels of military and political leadership, and schoolchildren. The illusion of invincibility that Germans had possessed had been shattered. Conversely, the raid had lifted spirits for Britons who celebrated, at last, an offensive blow against the Nazis.

  Adolf Hitler was enraged. Delivering an impassioned speech in Berlin on the second day of September, he had vowed to burn London to the ground.

  Remembering the führer’s words, Joel sucked in his breath. Is this the fulfillment of his obscene promise?

  The weather had been bad for air operations most of the day, with clouds and poor visibility hampering an attacking force. Regardless, on the other side of the map in the filter room below, plastic markers materialized representing the squadron of Hurricanes, dispatched to meet the Luftwaffe bombers and fighters.

  RAF Pilot Officer Tom Neil flew in the middle of RAF 249 Squadron. It climbed through thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen thousand feet. In front of it, the enormous formation drew massive antiaircraft fire. Zipping like bees around the main body were the fighters.

  Tom looked to his left and right and gulped. Only twelve Hurricanes were there to meet the greatest assault force to threaten Great Britain since the Spanish Armada. We’re stashed. Expecting that the Germans would split into smaller formations and head toward British airfields, his stomach sank when they canted their flight toward their target: London.

  39

  Claire and Amélie had barely stepped inside a department store near Canary Wharf when a loud, high-pitched siren blared. Amélie looked about wildly, but Claire smiled at her calmly and waved off the warning. “That’s an air defense alarm. We hear them all the time.” She was about to start viewing merchandise when another sound caught her ear, low and ominous, undulating, vibrating, and growing in intensity.

  A voice over a public address system announced, “Customers and staff will now take cover in the basement. Please don’t browse, and keep moving.”

  “Follow the others,” a salesclerk told Claire. “Take cover.” She pointed to a line of people forming a queue and climbing down a set of stairs. More patrons descended from higher floors via escalators, dutifully following instructions, having practiced this exercise many times.

  “May I please look outside, just for a second?” Claire asked. “I want to see what that noise is.”

  “You’ll get me in trouble with the warden, mum. You must go into the shelter.”

  Claire started to protest, but then the noise climbed rapidly to a deafening roar, and through the display window, high overhead to the east, she saw dark objects, looking like big black birds flying toward them by the hundreds, blotting out the sky.

  “What are those?” someone called.

  “Germans,” Claire yelled back. She grabbed Amélie’s arm. “Let’s go.” Together, they followed the stream of customers into the shelter.

  Bombs fell before the door closed. Dull thuds followed by concussive explosions rang in their ears, rolling closer with increasing frequency, but the air raid warden succeeded in getting everyone in without injury.

  For an hour munitions dropped with infrequent intervals between plane formations. The dull roar of engines was a constant sound punctuated by explosions. The far bombs hit with a dull whoomph, the near ones with a crushing noise that shook the ground and showered bits of ceiling on the people huddled below.

  Amélie and Claire found seats near a ventilation shaft that rose through the ceiling to the air outside and replenished that flowing through the shelter. Their proximity provided a slight breeze that might have been refreshing had it not also amplified the terrifying sounds of explosions and funneled in the stench of war: smoke, spent munitions, fire, and less identifiable smells that mixed with the odor of many people in a confined space and overused facilities.

  Next to them, a woman held a little girl. Fearfully clinging to her mother when explosions shook the basement, during lulls she was playful and smiled shyly at Amélie. She wore a pink pinafore with matching bonnet, and she held up a teeny puffy hand.

  “I’m three,” she said proudly in her tiny voice while attempting to display three, and only three, fingers. With her other hand, she tried to push down the little finger and thumb but found no cooperation.

  Amélie laughed, then leaned forward and touched the tips of the little girl’s fingers as she counted off in French, “Un, deux, trois. You’re three? What’s your name?”

  The little girl pulled back into the security of her mother’s arms, but then she held up her hand again and said, “Clar.”

  Next to Amélie, Claire had watched the exchange. Now she leaned forward. “Your name is Clar?”

  The girl shook her head. “It’s Clar,” she insisted.

  The mother turned to them and smiled. “It’s Claire. Her name is Claire.”

  “My word,” Claire said delightedly, “we have the same name. My name is Claire.”

  Little Claire gazed up at her in wonder. Then she once more sought the safety of her mother and peeked around her coat.

  Amélie and Claire continued playing with the little girl and conversing with her mother, and after an hour, the bombs stopped, and the dull roar of the planes receded. The warden made an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, the bombers are gone.” A collective sigh of relief arose, and people prepared to leave.

  The warden raised his hand. “Unfortunately, we’re going to be here a while longer.” People stopped what they were doing and stared. “A lot of bombs hit close by. Parts of this building are burning; some of the neighboring buildings too. The fire department is preparing your path to safety, so please remain as comfortable as you can. I’ll keep you posted.”

  At dusk, two hours later, German bombers droned overhead again, raining down their explosive payloads. In the shelter below the department store, the people waited. Claire and Amélie squeezed together with little Claire and her mother. People sat in dull trances, listening to the thuds followed by explosions that rocked the buildings to their foundations. Babies cried, little girls wailed, little boys looked toward doors and windows with wide, wondering eyes. Mothers held back fearful sobs while trying to comfort their children. Fathers looked about anxiously, helpless to do anything to ward off the evil visited on those they loved and that mocked their ability to protect them.

  The attack continued for hours. Men and women, overcome by anxiety, fell into exhausted sleep next to strangers and then were jarred awake by still more bombs. Finally, long into the night, the planes moved on, and the dreadful sound of their engines faded in the distance.

  “Your people are good, and brave,” Amélie remarked.

  “How do you mean?”

  Amélie looked about. “They’ve been so patient. No yelling, no screaming. They help each other.”

  Claire smiled with some pride. “That spirit will win the day, you’ll see. We do have our bad apples, though.”

  “I must help,” Amélie said, rising stiffly to her feet.

  Startled, Claire asked, “How? What do you intend to do?”

  “There must be wounded. I’m trained in first aid. I can help.” On impulse, she crossed to the ventilation shaft and looked up through it. Far above her, black smoke swirled, laced with intermi
ttent fingers of orange flame. She pulled back in horror. Turning wordlessly, she stared at Claire.

  “Are you all right?” Claire asked. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  Without answering, Amélie left her and struggled through the crowd to the air raid warden standing by the exit. Behind her, Claire followed, bewildered.

  “The all-clear hasn’t been given,” the warden told Amélie. As if to punctuate his point, a series of bombs exploded nearby, shaking the shelter and causing bits of debris to fall from the ceiling. “Late detonations,” the warden said, “probably set off by fire.”

  “We have to get these people out of here,” she cried urgently.

  “Be patient, we will. Please return to your seat.” He pushed her gently with his hand on her shoulder.

  “You don’t understand. There’s a fire—”

  The warden gave her a piercing look. “We know about the fire. Keep your voice down. You’re going to cause panic.”

  Suddenly, behind them, a huge explosion ripped through the shelter, throwing them to the floor. They lay stunned, at first unable to move, aware of smoke, dust, and people screaming in pain and fear. Gradually, as senses returned, Claire groaned and tried to rise. Finding the effort too great, she flopped back down.

  Amélie rolled over and stared through blurry eyes at the ceiling. Bringing herself to her knees, she looked about. Near her, a boy of around age twelve sat with a gash in his head, his blood gushing. He held the hand of a woman who lay still next to him, her eyes staring and sightless.

  “Mummy,” the boy moaned. He dropped his head, oblivious to the blood running down the side of his neck.

  Amélie crawled to him through the still clearing dust. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “We have to stop it.”

  The boy fought her off. “My mum,” he cried. “My dad told me to take care of her.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the RAF. I brought her here. I told her we would be safe.” Tears ran down his face as he broke into fierce sobs.

  Amélie looked wildly about. “We must stop that bleeding.”

  “I don’t want to,” the boy wailed. “I don’t want to live.”

  “You’re going to live,” Amélie said with some force. “That’s what your mother would want.”

  She spotted a woman wearing a scarf a few feet away staring at them. “Let me have that,” Amélie said, pointing.

  The woman shook her head. “Oh, I dunno. I don’t want it bloodied.”

  “Give it to me,” Amélie demanded, “or I will take it.” She rose to her feet and stepped forward. Startled, the woman reached up with a sullen expression, removed it, and handed it over.

  Amélie folded it and pressed it against the boy’s head. Claire appeared at her shoulder. “Hold this,” Amélie said, indicating the makeshift dressing. “Keep applying pressure until the bleeding stops.”

  The boy was descending into shock. “Find a blanket,” Amélie told Claire. “Cover him and get his feet up.”

  While Claire tended to the boy, Amélie moved through the crowd of stunned, listless people. Among them were more dead: mothers, children, fathers, families. She applied a tourniquet on a little girl’s leg. “Get this treated right away,” she told the distraught mother, “and tell the doctor what time I put it on.” The woman nodded, and Amélie moved on.

  She came to the place where she had sat with Claire—and stared. There, little Claire’s mother rocked back and forth in anguish. In her arms, she held the still body of the precocious three-year-old whom Amélie had taught to count in French only a few hours earlier. She still wore her pink pinafore and bonnet.

  Closing her eyes and drawing her face to her hands, Amélie wept. “Will this never end,” she muttered to herself in torment. “It’s too much.” She sat down cross-legged on the floor against the wall, covered her eyes, and sobbed. After a minute, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. “No time for this,” she murmured. “I still have Chantal to take care of.”

  She climbed to her feet and comforted the mother as best she could. Then, glancing across the room, she noticed the air shaft. It had a gaping, wide gash torn through all the way to its full height. Above it, the roof had been blasted away. It took a direct hit. A delayed explosion. The smoke had intensified, the flames had grown larger.

  She hurried back toward the exit. Claire was still there taking care of the boy and comforting him. “These people must be moved out of here,” she said. “This place is burning down on top of us. I’m going for help. Bring him out with the others.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Amélie stared across at the warden. “Talk some sense into that man.”

  She strode over to him. “We have to go.”

  “We don’t have an all-clear,” he said stubbornly, and moved between Amélie and the door, his arms crossed. “Your safest place is here. We don’t want to scare people even more than they are.”

  “We don’t have time to discuss,” Amélie retorted, jutting her face close to his. Her hand flashed, and she jabbed his throat forcefully with the edge of her fingers curled at the middle joint. As he choked and fell forward, Amélie brought her knee hard into his groin. He dropped to the floor, coughing and writhing.

  Amélie darted through the door and raced up the stairs. She emerged at the top into a ghastly scene. In the dark of night, most of the lighting was out, the store’s interior illuminated by an undulating orange glow from outside that threw strange shapes across the floor in dancing shadows. The windows had been blown out. Mannequins were tossed across display counters, many of them shattered. Carousels and shelves had been cast about, their merchandise heaped on the floor. Hot wind whipped through the showroom, blowing dust and objects through the air. Amélie curled her arms over her head protectively as she proceeded to the main exit.

  40

  Cautiously, Amélie crept through the front door and out onto the street. The horror that greeted her was one she could never have imagined, even in Dunkirk. The street was a cauldron, the orange glow generated by massive flames leaping from nearly every window on either side along the street. Many buildings had collapsed, and they burned bright, giant bonfires lighting up the sky, extending the glow against the night’s darkness and reflecting off of billowing smoke clouds. Searing heat rode the wind generated by higher and higher flames sucking in oxygen.

  Firefighters had spread out along the street, manhandling high-volume hoses gushing under pressure through long, heavy nozzles. The handlers aimed them high into the flames with no noticeable effect. Burning debris had fallen onto cars parked along the street, igniting them and, in turn, causing secondary explosions from their fuel tanks. Flaming rubble floated on rising heat waves.

  A supervising firefighter spotted Amélie and hurried to her. “What are you doing here?” he yelled. “Get back in your shelter.”

  “It’s going to burn,” Amélie yelled back, pointing to the department store. The upper floors were a firestorm. “Hundreds of people are in the basement.”

  The fireman looked to where she indicated, dread spreading across his face. “That building is coming down.” He glanced at Amélie. “Keep close to me.”

  Together, they hurried to the nearest fireman manning a hose. “Stay with him but don’t get in his way,” he yelled over the roar of wind and flames. “If he drops the nozzle, it could take your head off. I’ll get help.”

  He was gone for only minutes, but the time seemed like an age. While Amélie waited, she watched the young fireman. He strained under the weight of the hose and nozzle, shooting a long, broad, forced stream of water into an inferno across the street.

  In another building, a man screamed for help from a fifth-floor window. Flames licked the walls all around him. Below, while several firefighters braced a hook-ladder, another one climbed, stopping at each floor to re-set it, his silhouette stark against the orange sky. An ambulance arrived and waited close by.

  “That building could collap
se at any time,” Amélie murmured in awe. “He must know that.”

  She watched in wonder as the firefighter reached the fifth floor. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, spoke to him, loaded him onto his own back, and started their descent. At each floor, while the flames reached for them, the fireman with his terrified sufferer stopped and re-set the ladder until finally the two reached the ground. The rescued man staggered and had to be supported. Medics led him to the ambulance.

  Amélie ran over. “Sir,” she called to the first medic she came to. “Injured people will be coming out of a shelter soon. Would you wait and take as many as you can?”

  The medic looked at his partner. “We can treat this man for shock here,” he said. “He’ll be all right.”

  When the supervisor returned, more firemen followed him. He stood in the middle of the street instructing them while they grouped around him.

  Less than a block away, a large stone church from the middle ages stood alone. It had taken a direct hit, and flames shot into the sky from its interior, but its near wall stood intact. However, the building across from it burned from the ground up, its hungry flames stretching in all directions, seeking additional combustible items to consume.

  The supervisor directed his men into the street between the two buildings. Then, returning to Amélie, he shouted above the roar, “When we bring the people out, lead them down that street.”

  Amélie looked warily to where he pointed. The street ran north at a right angle to the one where they stood. “That’s very narrow,” she said. “The flames from across the street are almost touching the stone wall.”

  “Please do as I say,” the supervisor said. “We’d do it ourselves, but I don’t have the men to spare, and I don’t have time to explain. Wardens will meet you on the other side to guide you to another shelter. You said there were hundreds—”