Winston continued, “Now to be serious. I for one will not roll the dice as to whether Herr Hitler will send his vaunted Luftwaffe over our shores. It would be a dereliction of duty for this honored body to even entertain such an idea.”
Still another member near Winston Churchill stood and said, “Then what is to be done? If there is no hope as you see it? Perhaps the honored sir should paint a portrait of this body before we are forced to eat sauerkraut in the commissary forthwith and forever, after which Adolf Hitler will see fit to disband this institution.”
Winston put his hands on his hips. “First, I doubt I can paint a proper portrait of this body. For it would require nothing more but a canvas filled with four-legged jackasses.”
A member called out to Winston. “Is that your answer then?”
“There is but one answer. Rebuild the capabilities of the RAF...and swiftly. Time is short and much needs to be done. Every second we delay brings defeat closer to our doorstep. A defeat that cannot be reversed or cast aside like a football match gone wrong. Defeat to a nation led by Adolf Hitler will mean a cloud of darkness will descend upon us – a blackness so complete that we will never see the sun shining on the River Thames or innocent children playing in the park. Now, all of that will be no more! Hasn’t enough been revealed to us as to Hitler’s true intentions. We all seek peace and prosperity. But we cannot hope to make it so. Peace, more often than not, requires sacrifice.”
The applause was lackluster, and Winston was befuddled. Didn’t these members with their elegant suits and Oxford educations know what was in for them? Bombs and more bombs no doubt.
Herr Hitler wanted war; any sane person could see that. “I must admit that I find the blindness of the members of this body to be discomforting and foolhardy. There is no other way to put forth my disappointment that we have now chosen to leave Great Britain defenseless. I submit to you what meaning does the statue of Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square have if any, but of courage and duty. Duty I say to England and to her defense!”
Only a handful of members came to their feet to cheer. Winston surveyed the House of Commons and he knew not only would there be war...but England was wholly unprepared for it. He sat down and collapsed on his thoughts. A ship of fools, with no one at the helm. I know you fear war, but the dye is cast. Our weakness gives comfort and intoxicates Herr Hitler that his grand schemes will come to pass.
Harding Barrow
Harding Barrow, the Ashton family estate, had been handed down from Lord Ashton’s father. Lord Ashton Sr. had more than provided for his family, before he passed away just after the First World War. The English considered the conclusion of the war to be a victory. The Germans saw it as an armistice, thus sowing the seeds for the second go around on the battlefield.
Lord Ashton Sr. was a shrewd businessman and very much loyal to King and country. Therefore, when his son Captain William Ashton was discharged without honor from the RAF, Lord Ashton Sr. was devastated. However, son and father never broached the subject. They just let it lay out there untouched. In any case, what was there to say? There was nothing that could be done to change history. It was over, but for some not forgotten.
It was William Ashton who came back from the war, with more than a blemish on the family’s good name. He couldn’t forget or forgive himself. Soon and not by accident, the fortunes of the family changed as well.
It was a slow and steady economic decline that Lord Ashton Sr. never would have allowed. But the elder Lord Ashton was gone, and there was no one left to fix the mess. So his son, the former fighter ace and jettisoned captain from the RAF, found solace in the bottle.
Others might have thrown themselves into their work to free themselves from the shackles of the past. Instead, Lord Ashton eased his pain with too many drinks after dinner, which eventually morphed into more of the same during lunch. Before long, Lord Ashton was in full-fledged retreat from sobriety.
Soon, he grew apart from his wife. Her support of her husband’s wartime situation eventually turned from pity to resentment. As things slowly crumbled around him, Lord Ashton lacked the strength and the will to right the ship.
It was a foregone conclusion that the economic structure of Harding Barrow would be taken down a notch. The estate would survive, because of Lord Ashton Sr.’s investments which threw off much-needed income. But life would never be the same.
Lord Ashton had not only disgraced the family's name, but he had relegated the same to second class status in the English hierarchy. To some, that was a fate worse than death, but to Lord Ashton, that was just one more excuse to drink and complain about everything under, above and inside the sun.
Madeline greeted her brother, Randolph, at the front door of the family estate. Randolph was in his full dressed RAF captain’s uniform, and she had to admit he cut a striking figure. Randolph was her older brother, who saw things as black or white. He also had a chip on his shoulder and wanted nothing more than to restore the family’s good name.
Madeline hugged Randolph, and it was only then that she saw his friend and fellow pilot, Owen Cline. Owen was tall and handsome. Their eyes met and Madeline smiled. He took off his cap and politely kissed Madeline’s hand. Owen said with more than a hint of English charm, “Your brother didn’t tell me you were so beautiful. Perhaps he is hiding you for someone else. I hope that isn’t the case.”
Madeline said, “I’m much too independent for that.”
“I see.”
Randolph said, “Madeline this is Owen Cline, a fellow pilot. I know how you disdain pilots, so Owen, you have been warned. He isn’t all that bad. But Owen is the worst pilot in the squadron.”
Owen smiled and let go of Madeline’s hand, “I will be careful; I assure you.”
Madeline said, “Surely, Mr. Cline is more than a pilot.”
Owen said, “Your brother tells me you ride horses. I do as well.”
“Really? But I haven’t gone riding in some time. Our stables are rather bare at the moment.”
“Perhaps I could arrange something.”
Randolph interrupted the pleasantries, “Madeline, where is father?”
“In his den.”
“Is he…” Madeline looked at Owen and hesitated. Randolph went on, “There are no secrets between my wingman and myself. Now father…”
“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”
Randolph narrowed his eyes, “I’m not going in. I should think he would join us for a chat on the veranda. Drinks will be banished of course.”
Madeline smiled, “At least until he retires.”
Randolph laughed, “Then you aren’t afraid of becoming a prisoner to the bottle as our dear old father?”
“Stupidity isn’t in the blood. Mother was the smart one. She left him for good, didn’t she. Like a rat leaving a sinking ship. But she still fancies herself to be attractive. When you rub elbows with rich old men, that shouldn’t be hard to do. But father has no one to blame but himself.”
Owen said, “Pardon me; isn’t that a bit harsh. He is, after all, your father.”
“Yes Mr. Cline, I didn’t have a choice in that. But Lord Ashton has decided to find solace at the bottom of the bottle. If that were to be the case all along, I should have preferred he found the bottom of the channel, during the Great War.”
Owen’s face turned serious, and then he slowly smiled, “If it is as bad as that, perhaps I should take you away from here.”
Madeline slyly smiled, “You’re a pilot.”
“Yes.”
“Enough said.”
Randolph motioned Owen to move away from the doorway. “You’ll find my sister is quite opinionated. I shouldn’t think Madeline wouldn’t have survived basic training with her current attitude.”
“On the contrary,” said Owen. “She would have gotten on splendidly. Very splendidly indeed.”
* * *
Lord Ashton made his appearance on the veranda with a drink in his hand. Not that anyone cared; it was scotch on the rocks. Madelin
e, Randolph, and Owen were sitting at an iron outdoor table that had seen better days. They were looking at the sun which was dipping below the trees on the estate.
Madeline reached for the drink, but Lord Ashton would have none of it. He took a sip of his scotch and switched it to his other hand. Madeline said softly, “Is that necessary?”
Lord Ashton ignored the remark. Randolph said, “Father, I’m glad you could join us. How are you getting along?”
“I’m still alive, much to the disappointment of others.”
Madeline said, “Stop it.”
Though barely over 45 years of age, Lord Ashton looked 20 years older. His incessant drinking had gradually ravaged his body. The face was deeply wrinkled and weathered. He walked with a slight limp and had taken to carrying a heavy English walnut cane. He said, “And whom do we have here?”
Owen stood up as Randolph said, “Lieutenant Owen Cline, a fellow fighter pilot, and my wingman.”
Lord Ashton pointed the cane in the direction of Owen. Owen didn’t know what to do so he shook the cane. “That’s a smart lad. You have to be able to improvise if you’re to survive in the RAF. Flying in combat is only a small part of that. The damn bureaucrats, that’s the real danger. It’s one thing to fight the Germans and another to be stabbed in the back by the high command. Do watch out for that. If your superior can’t be trusted, then drop him out of your bomber with the rest of the explosives. Jerry should like that.”
Randolph sighed. Madeline said, “Father, please don’t bore our guest with your incessant complaints about how the RAF is responsible for your demise.”
Lord Ashton finished his drink. “My, she is like her mother. Perhaps you would see fit to leave the estate. That’s loyalty now, isn’t it?”
Owen said. “Lord Ashton I would be most interested in what happened to you and what wrongs the RAF bestowed on your record.”
“Yes well, it was a terrible misunderstanding that cost me my flying career. I was an ace you know.”
Madeline got up from the table and walked toward the garden. A half hour later Lord Ashton had told Owen Cline every sordid detail as he saw it. Randolph listened patiently and thought, Perhaps what you say is right, but that is no reason to throw your life away.
Finally, Lord Ashton stood and limped toward the house. Owen wasn’t sure what to do or say. He said the obvious. “I’m very sorry.”
Lord Ashton nodded once and waived off Owen. He held up the empty glass of scotch. “Cheers.” He dropped the glass into a flower pot and went inside.
Randolph said, “Don’t be. I’m afraid it’s too late to help him. God knows we’ve tried. My mother did all she could, but he didn’t want to change or help himself. I don’t blame her; a person can only take so much. But what she did was more than scandalous...taking up with a man while still married. So now you know all the family's dirty laundry.”
“And Madeline?”
“Madeline is mad at the world. Her actions are trying at times, but I can’t say I blame her. Madeline is a tough one to figure out, but this I can tell you, she is no one’s fool. Not in the least. If she were a man, many would cower in her sight.”
“She’s a pill.”
Randolph laughed. “And very discerning.”
Owen Cline smiled. “Then I haven’t a chance with her.”
“I didn’t say that. Not that I would be disappointed. How do you like that?”
Owen padded Randolph on the shoulders. “Very well; very well indeed.”
“But you’re flying solo on this one. Come on; let me show the rest the estate before it falls into ruin.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’ll let that happen.”
Luftwaffe Flight School
The rigorous daily physical training had taken its toll on the weak minded cadets who didn’t have any real business in attending Luftwaffe Flight School. In barely two weeks, one-third of the cadets had quietly checked out and headed for home.
Better for those who didn’t have the intestinal fortitude for the morning run or endless pushups to be washed out now, rather than calling it quits in the middle of a dogfight, where they might get themselves killed or worse yet a fellow pilot who was depending on them.
The classroom at the flight school was a different kind of rigor. Mental in nature and all the same, designed to separate the wheat from the chaff. The trio of instructors moved swiftly, and the cadets were expected to keep up. One thing was for certain, if a cadet was deficient in math or conceptual thinking, he would stick out like a sore thumb. What was the difference between pitch and yaw?
The details of flying went on endlessly for a month until they got into the serious business of living and dying. Out of the blue near the end of a morning session, the senior class instructor whose name was Werner turned to Wolf. “Cadet Kruger you are flying a British fighter... say the Hawker Hurricane.”
“Sir.”
The instructor turned his attention to Zigfried. “Cadet Bockler is coming onto your tail with our vaunted Me 109 fighter. What do you do? Can you live to fight another day? You have ten seconds or less to live unless you act... act correctly.”
Zigfried boasted to the class. “Cadet Kruger would be splattered into the Channel. Just another enemy plane to fall to my guns. A peasant belongs on the field, and not in the air.”
The class broke up with a smattering of laughter. It seemed the cadets were evenly divided in the Zigfried Bockler and Wolf Kruger camps.
The class instructor said, “Cadet Bockler you may want to complete flight training before giving yourself the Blue Max.”
“Sir the Blue Max award is a relic from the past. The Third Reich has its set of awards. I hope to be the first fighter ace of the new order.”
The instructor said directly, “Then perhaps a satisfactory mark in this class should be your priority. Men, not all of you will be fighter pilots. Some of you will wash out of course. Still others will fly transports hauling supplies. Not glamorous service, but very necessary. The rest will fly bombers and drop iron packages on the enemies of Germany. Cadet Kruger, you’re out of time?”
Wolf answered “Sir I would try to use the Hawker Hurricane’s superiors turning ability to lose the Me 109. After all, I’m at a distinct disadvantage since my plane’s top speed is only 340 MPH and the Me 109 can fly at 350 MPH.”
The instructor looked at a set of papers on his desk. “Cadet Kruger, you mean 325 MPH. That is the top speed of the Hawker Hurricane; I have it right here. All of you in this class, I expect you to know the flight characteristics of the combat planes of the RAF. Cadet Kruger, I’m disappointed. Please be seated.”
“Sir the top speed of the Hurricane is 340 MPH.”
Zigfried smirked. “What do you know? Nothing.”
The instructor looked carefully at Wolf. “How can you say that?”
Wolf was alone now. Everyone, including Hans, looked at him with total skepticism. Zigfried was more than happy at the corner Wolf had boxed himself into. Any and all credibility Wolf had built over these short few weeks was slipping away. And worse yet, this would only mean everything he had done up to this point was for nothing. It was more than Wolf could stand when he realized that Zigfried had won.
Hans looked at his friend for some answer. Come on Wolfe. The instructor said, “Cadet Kruger, the question remains. How do you know the top speed of the Hawker Hurricane is 340 MPH? You have the RAF specifications in front of you, like the rest of the cadets. Do you need reading glasses? If that is the case you may be excused permanently.”
Wolf saw Zigfried stare him down. The smirks and the cat call were building in the classroom. The instructor didn’t do anything to stop them. Finally, Wolf swallowed and said, “Because I have flown one. I have flown the Hawker Hurricane.”
The class became quiet. The instructor put his fighter specification papers on his desk. “What do you mean?”
“Sir, I flew the Hurricane 18 months ago.”
Zigfried didn’t wait for the i
nstructor to answer. “That’s impossible.”
Now, Wolf looked down at Zigfried, who was still sitting. “I was in England at the time.”
The instructor furrowed his eyes and he slightly chuckled. “And who let you do this, the RAF?”
“No Sir, Winston Churchill.”
The instructor’s jaw dropped. But this revelation didn’t detour Zigfried Bockler from going for the jugular. “I don’t believe you. No one does. You’re mad. Winston Churchill is an enemy of the Third Reich, and so are you if you’re his friend. In any case, you’re a liar.”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. It’s the truth.” Wolf turned toward the instructor. “My parents are acquaintances of Winston Churchill. I flew the Hawker Hurricane at the Biggin Hill Air Base. Granted it was a two-seater trainer, but I got it up to 340 MPH in level flight at 6000 feet. And sir, it does turn at the drop of a hat. I believe that it can turn inside our Me 109. In fact, I know that to be the case.”
The instructor was still skeptical. “Did they know you were going to be a pilot in the Luftwaffe?”
“Yes.”
“Why then did the RAF let a potential foe fly their newest fighter plane?”
A sly smile broke across Wolf’s face. “Because they assumed I would believe their claims that the Hawker Hurricane topped out at 325 MPH. That, however, isn’t the case; the plane is faster than I was told.”
The instructor was more than impressed. “Cadet Kruger, perhaps I owe you an apology.”
Zigfried wasn’t detoured. Not in the least. “Perhaps Cadet Kruger owes all of us an explanation why his family is friendly with Winston Churchill. Not only is he hostile to our Fuhrer, but England will soon be our enemy.”
Wolf shot back, “At that time, it wasn’t so.”
“Tell us who else your family is smitten with.”
“I volunteered to be a pilot in the Luftwaffe. Did your father pull some strings for you to get in? Tell us that!”
“I assure everyone here that my own merits placed me into flight school. Nothing more, nothing less. But we aren’t talking about me. I wonder about you Cadet Kruger and your loyalties.”
Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Page 7
