Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Ignoring blood gushing from his wound and the attendant pain, Jeremy frantically worked the controls, but he faded fast. The Spitfire dove and spun, out of control.

  With the earth and sky alternately crossing his vision, Jeremy blacked out. The fighter careened toward the sea.

  Ryan pointed to the weather board. “Clouds moved in over London. The bombers won’t be able to see their targets.” She rubbed her eyes. “They’ll drop their bombs anywhere. But”—she indicated the plotting board—“their fighters are turning for home. They’re shot up, out of fuel, out of ammo, or all three.”

  Gradually, enemy markers retreated eastward across the board. “The bombers are turning now too,” Ryan said. “They’ll be easy targets. A good guess is that they’ll be met by fresh escorts when they reach the Channel.”

  Once again, her prediction was correct as markers appeared over France making their way west to the Channel. Meanwhile, more and more wooden markers disappeared from the board, the planes and crews they represented scattered across the English countryside.

  The status lights changed colors yet again. “What’s happening?” Paul asked.

  Ryan rubbed her face and broke a slight smile. “Those incredible fliers, including your brother.” Her eyes moistened. “They’ve gone back to their airfields, re-fueled, and are back out to chase the retreating aircraft and challenge the new bomber escort. But I think this raid, at least, is over.” Then she added, “Which is not to say that they’re finished for the day.”

  “How did the big wing fare?”

  Ryan scanned the indicators and shrugged. “They got a few. Nothing grand compared to what they put up. I don’t think today did much for arguments in its favor, and I doubt that it’s any more popular with pilots.”

  Jeremy came to with a start as churning waves hurtled toward him. The Spitfire had ceased spinning, and at the top of his windshield, he saw the shoreline. Instinctively, he throttled down, and then with both hands, he pulled back on the stick and eased it to the right. Gradually, the wounded fighter responded. The nose came up, and by manipulating the right-side controls and rudder and ignoring the excruciating pain in his shoulder, he managed a semblance of straight and level flight toward the shore.

  Then he checked out the sky around him as far back as he could see and gulped. The two ME 109s had followed him down to be sure he was out of commission. Now, astonishingly, they flew behind and on either side of him, keeping pace as he descended. Then, as he approached the coast, they pulled alongside, saluted, and peeled off into climbing turns back over the Channel.

  Unable to fly for long and seeing no nearby airfield, Jeremy aimed for the first empty field he saw. Reaching down, he tried to lower the landing gear, but finding that impossible, he prepared to pancake in. He pulled the stick back and flared. The back wheel hit first, and then the belly, just forward of the tail.

  The rough ground rumbled under Jeremy’s feet. His shoulder was in agony, and he no longer controlled anything. The nose dipped and dug into the ground, and the tail rose and then settled as the aircraft came to a stop. Jeremy passed out again.

  50

  Uxbridge, London

  “They’re forming up again,” Ryan intoned. “It looks like a much smaller group, heading to the southwest.”

  The small wooden blocks once more appeared on the map board. This time they stayed over the ocean, skirting along the British southern shoreline. Word came in from the coastal observers that the group was a small, fast, hit-and-run force of Messerschmitt ME 110 fighter/bombers. They turned north when they came to the Solent, the tidal estuary by the Isle of Wight, and flew over Southampton Water, up the confluence of River Itchen and River Test—and now their target became clear: the Spitfire Supermarine Works factory on the water’s edge in Southampton.

  A slew of Spitfires and Hurricanes awaited them. Exhausted pilots met more exhausted pilots in a potentially deadly minuet over the town, but this time, the encounter would prove fatal to no one. At the end of their range, the German pilots soon left the fight, with no casualties on either side. The RAF pilots returned to their airfields.

  After evening had settled in, Paul and Ryan watched as the prime minister and the vice-air marshal prepared to leave. Mrs. Churchill was no longer present, and Paul concluded that she must have left sometime during the day without his noticing. The two senior leaders made their way to the stairs, and then Churchill stopped and looked about. Seeing Paul, the PM summoned him. “I’d like you to ride with me,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Paul and Ryan glanced at each other.

  Churchill looked back and forth between the two, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips while his eyes momentarily twinkled in amusement. “Sparks flying, are they?” He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “We’re at war, you know. It’ll keep. Come along.”

  Blood rushed to Paul’s face. He cast a furtive glance at Ryan and saw that her face had also turned red. He thanked her for her help, said goodbye, and followed the prime minister. Churchill’s car waited at the entrance, his driver holding open the rear door. Paul waited, bewildered. Park saluted and took his leave.

  “Well come on,” Churchill commanded impatiently, “we all have things to do.”

  When the black motorcar drove away, Churchill sat in silence. He appeared lost in thought, possibly of the morose type, given the slackness of his expression.

  Sitting next to him, Paul looked about, having no idea what to do and sure that he should not speak unless spoken to. For a fleeting moment, Ryan’s face flashed before his eyes.

  “I’m overcome again with what our young pilots do,” Churchill said at last. “That debt of gratitude we owe only grows. I wonder what the casualty figures are.”

  “I keep a tally,” Paul volunteered hesitantly. “I’m sure they’re subject to change.”

  Churchill regarded him in surprise. “Let’s have them.”

  Paul extracted his small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it. “I show that the Germans launched between 350 and 450 aircraft. Of those, seventy-nine were shot down along with 170 crewmembers. It’s been their most costly day in nearly a month.

  “On our side, we lost twenty-nine aircraft and twelve pilots. The Germans will have had more casualties because we shot down bombers while they shot down only fighters.”

  “What are the figures to date for this Battle of Britain?”

  Paul flipped through his notebook. “We show 2,698 of their aircrew killed, 967 captured, 638 missing bodies identified by British authorities, and 1,887 aircraft destroyed.”

  “And on our side?”

  Paul flipped through more pages. “We had 544 aircrew killed, 422 wounded, 1,547 aircraft destroyed.”

  The prime minister grunted with disdain. “And according to Bletchley, Göring thought we went into this with around three hundred fighters.” He sighed. “It’s not over, despite that today was a stunning victory, but God, our pilots paid such a high price.” His voice dissipated into a whisper as emotion overtook him. He shook his head and sighed again. Then he said, “Your brother is one of the few, is he not?”

  “He is, sir.”

  Churchill grunted and slouched back in his seat. “You must be proud of him.”

  They drove through the streets of London, making their way to the War Office. Despite the earlier bombing, people were out and about, maneuvering past stacks of sandbags in front of stores, apartments, and building entrances.

  The route did not take them past ruins. Whatever fires had resulted from the bombing had been extinguished. Damage had been relatively light today.

  Churchill spoke again. “At dawn, I must visit the sites that were bombed today.”

  He turned again to Paul. “The mission you’re going on is one of extreme importance. You need to know that; which is why you’re riding with me.” He peered through the windshield. “Our country nearly saw its demise today.” He lapsed into silence once more and settled back in his seat.

&n
bsp; After several minutes, he spoke again. “You weren’t selected in a vacuum, you know. I’m aware of your family background; about your brother, Lance; what your sister does; and by the way, she’s pulled off another intelligence coup in northern France. She got us an agent inside the German invasion planning command. We’re getting immensely helpful insights.”

  “She never ceases to amaze.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents. Deciding to stay on Sark cannot have been easy. They’ve got spunk.” Once more, he stared into the dark streets, watching the faces of those passing by. “We have many battles ahead, but today might turn out to have been decisive. I don’t know how the war will shape up, and your family might never know of the contribution you’re about to make. If they ever do, they will be every bit as proud of you as they must be of Jeremy.”

  Paul inhaled sharply. “That’s nice of you to say, sir, but there’s no competition between us. We support each other.”

  Churchill chuckled. “Well said.” Then he added, “I know you were kept from flying with the RAF.” They approached the entrance to the War Office. “I’ll walk in,” he told the driver. “Drop me on the street, and then you may take this young captain wherever he wishes to go.” He redirected his attention to Paul. “You fly out tomorrow?”

  “Late in the evening, sir.”

  After the prime minister had exited, he leaned back in. “Good luck, Captain Littlefield. Rest assured that you have the thanks of the nation.” He gave a small laugh. “Or at least its very verbose prime minister.” Then his eyes twinkled. “We’ll see what we can do about keeping you in touch with that flight officer. What was her name?”

  Startled, Paul hesitated. “N-Northbridge, sir. Ryan Northbridge.”

  “That’s rather a strange name for a girl, isn’t it?”

  Paul shrugged. “She said her father wanted a son. But you shouldn’t bother—”

  “Nonsense. She’s in this fight too, and attractive. We can’t let this war spoil everything.”

  51

  September 16, 1940

  London, England

  “I received news about Lance this morning,” Paul told Claire. “It was one of those messages coming through Red Cross channels with a twenty-eight-word limit.” He had traveled out to see her at Stony Stratton to have lunch at The Bull before his flight to New York.

  Claire’s eyes widened with excitement. “Then he’s alive. Thank goodness for the Red Cross. Where is he? How is he?”

  “The news came from Mum and Dad,” Paul replied. “They heard from him two weeks ago. So, add another two weeks to that, and you figure this news was current a month ago.”

  He pulled a wrinkled yellow paper from his pocket. As he opened it, Claire said, “Why wouldn’t he write to us too?”

  “Probably because he doesn’t have our addresses. Remember what Horton said. He was captured with only what he had on his back. He’d probably only remember our home address on Sark.” When he finished opening the note, the Red Cross logo appeared in the top left corner. It was a form, with instructions and labels in German and lines for sender and receiver addresses.

  He handed it to Claire. About two-thirds of the way down the page was a wider area for the actual message. In their mother’s familiar, artful handwriting, it read:

  Wish we could see you. Doing well. Food supplies plentiful. Drinking ersatz tea w/wild blackberries. Heard from Lance. Temporarily at Dulag Luft in Oberursel. Love, Mum and Dad

  Claire looked up at Paul in concern. Then she scrutinized the message again.

  “What is it?” Paul asked.

  “Aside from their food supplies getting low? No one drinks ersatz tea unless there’s nothing else, and Mum wouldn’t make a point of it if food was ‘plentiful.’ They’re hurting, Paul, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “I’ll tell you, Paul. I’ve held my hatred in check, but it’s becoming more difficult by the day. Especially with this news from Mum and Dad.” She sighed. “What about our other brother? Have you heard anything about Jeremy? Is he all right after that horrendous battle yesterday?”

  As she asked the question, her eyes widened again, this time a mixture of shock and dismay. “I completely forgot to tell you. I met Amélie. She’s a lovely girl. Incredibly smart and brave.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. “And she’s so in love with our baby brother. I met her on that first day of heavy bombing in London—” She stopped talking as her eyes caught Paul’s astonished expression.

  “You saw Amélie? Here?”

  “She stayed with me overnight.” Reading her brother’s ire, she said, “Don’t be angry with me. Major Crockatt and Vivian both tried to reach you. I did too, but you were off doing that study for Menzies. Then the bombing started, and we had to seek shelter in a department store basement…” She related all that had occurred that night.

  “So much has happened since then, and I completely forgot to tell you. Amélie is truly amazing, and she plays Chopin better than I do. It’s no wonder Jeremy fell for her.”

  “I’d love to have met her,” Paul said, visibly piqued. “What was she doing here, and how did she get out of France?”

  Once again, Claire looked around for listeners. Perceiving none, she leaned closer to Paul and spoke in low tones. “The Royal Navy brought her over in a submarine. She was here to train to be a spy, and then she’s going back. Come to think of it, she should be finished soon. Timmy loved her.”

  Paul listened, dumbfounded. “Did she get to see Jeremy?”

  “Sadly, no. She doesn’t know he’s a fighter pilot. I thought telling her would not be helpful. A condition of bringing her over was that she had to stick to training. She did so well that she stole the hearts of Crockatt and her trainers. He thought she should meet members of Jeremy’s family. After all, she saved his life. We have good reason to thank her. I think Vivian worked on him to make that happen.”

  “That poor girl,” Paul said. “She’s been through hell, and to get to anything approaching normalcy, she has so much more to go through. And the worst is, she’s missing out on all the beauty and excitement of fresh love, maybe her first love.”

  Claire pulled back in amused surprise. “Paul Littlefield. Did you just say something about fresh and first love?” She clapped his shoulder playfully. “So, there are romantic inclinations buried somewhere in those austere gray cells.”

  Paul chuckled. “Maybe one or two. I’ve had a few crushes along the way.”

  “None you’ve ever spoken about. Let’s hear.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “You’re right, though,” Claire murmured, a faraway look in her eyes. “Who knows how many years of war our little brother and Amélie will see before they have a chance of happiness together.” She looked around the restaurant at the customers quietly conversing and eating their meals. “I suppose the same could be said for everybody. Even here. Hitler has been so wanton that, just sitting at our dinner, we don’t know from one minute to the next if a bomb will drop on us. Think of the parents who delivered their children into the hands of the government to get them out of London by the trainloads.” She closed her eyes. “That man is so evil.” Reaching for her wine, she added, “I need a stiffer drink.”

  Paul studied her face. “If I’ve never told you before, little sister, let me tell you now that I love you more than I could ever express. You’re a treasure to anyone who knows you.”

  Claire stared at him. “You’re going to make me cry.” She inhaled sharply and wiped her eyes with her napkin.

  “Tell me about Red,” Paul said gruffly, “or is it Donahue I should be asking about?”

  Claire heaved a sigh. “As we were discussing, everyone’s life is on hold for the moment. Of the two, I—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. They’re so different from each other. Red is jovial and fun, and a natural leader. I think he has a girlfriend back home in America. Donahue is cerebral. His confidence and authority are quiet
yet commanding. I haven’t seen either of them since we were all together back at the beginning of August, or was that in July? I’m lost in time, and even a day that recent feels like a century ago.” She threw her hands up in a futile gesture. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings, or next year, or the year after.”

  “I’m sorry, sis.” Paul squeezed her hand. “You asked about Jeremy. I’ve checked the casualty lists, and he’s not on any of them. He’s been in the thick of fighting, though. I can say that, but I can’t say how I know.” I’d have to tell her about the Fighter Command bunkers.

  Claire sighed. “I understand.” When she looked up, Paul had leaned forward, his mouth half-open as if he were about to speak but struggled with whether or not to do so. “You’ve got more unpleasant news,” she said. “You have that ‘I don’t know if I should say this’ look about you that you’ve never been able to hide since we were children. You might as well spit it out. You know it’ll come out anyway.”

  Paul smiled wryly, then leaned back and crossed his arms. “Caught in the act,” he said, and leaned forward again. “I have to go away.”

  “You what? Where? When? How long?”

  “As soon as we say our farewells. I can’t say where, and it could be for the duration of the war.”

  Claire sat up straight, staring at him, fighting back emotion. “This is so silly,” she said. “Family members can’t have a frank conversation about what’s going on in their lives. What that man has done to this family is something I’m taking personally.” She took a deep breath in a vain effort to stem tears. “Our parents might be going hungry, I just learned of Lance’s whereabouts and that he might be relatively safe for the moment, and now I’m about to lose you to another abyss?” She dropped her face into her hands. “I’m strong,” she whispered, trembling, “I know I am, but the challenges sometimes feel too great.”