by Garry Ryan
The flames framed a pathway to escape. She began to walk along the corridor. The heat made it feel like her clothing was about to burst into flame.
Sharon looked up. Beck stood there with his sidearm aimed at her chest. She covered her eyes when she saw the muzzle flash.
“Sharon!”
She felt someone sitting next to her.
“Sharon!” Linda said.
“What?”
“You’re having a nightmare. You woke me up! It’s three o’clock in the bloody morning!”
“This came for you.” Mother handed her a letter. “It came last evening, and I wasn’t here when you returned.” He looked outside at the inky blackness of the early morning and smelled the threat of rain.
“Thank you.” The letter was from Sir Gerard d’Erlanger. Sharon flipped the envelope over and stuck a fingernail under the flap. She opened the letter, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat down at an empty table in an empty room.
DEAR FLIGHT CAPTAIN SHARON LACEY,
THIS IS IN RESPONSE TO YOUR LETTER OF OCTOBER 22ND, 1944.
REPEATED ATTEMPTS HAVE BEEN MADE BY THIS OFFICE TO GATHER
INFORMATION CONCERNING THE EVENTS SURROUNDING THE DEATH
OF UNITED STATES AIR FORCE AIRMAN EDGAR WASHINGTON. ENQUIRIES
HAVE BEEN MADE AT THE HIGHEST LEVELS, AND TO NO AVAIL.
THE RESPONSIBILITY FOR MAKING DECISIONS AS TO THE CONDUCT
OF SERGEANT EDWIN BECK LIES WITH THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE
UNITED STATES. THOSE REPRESENTATIVES HAVE STEADFASTLY VOICED
THE OPINION THAT THIS MATTER WILL BE DEALT WITH THROUGH UNITED
STATES MILITARY PROTOCOLS. THEIR OFFICIAL POSITION IS THAT AIRMAN
WASHINGTON WAS WARNED OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS ACTIONS AND
CHOSE TO DISREGARD SAID WARNING. AS A RESULT, NO ACTION WILL BE
TAKEN AGAINST SERGEANT BECK.
SINCE WE ARE AT WAR AND THE UNITED STATES IS AN ALLY TO GREAT
BRITAIN, BRITISH AUTHORITIES ARE RELUCTANT TO TAKE UNILATERAL
ACTION IN THIS MATTER.
SINCERELY YOURS,
SIR GERARD D’ERLANGER
Sharon inhaled to quell her anger, folded the letter, and slipped it back inside the envelope. She took her time finishing her coffee.
Mother watched her from behind the counter. The phone sat next to him. It was unusually silent even for this early in the morning.
Sharon got up, poured Mother a cup of tea, and walked over to his counter. “Here you go. Looks like we might not be doing much flying today.”
“Thank you.” Mother slid the cup a little closer to inhale the aroma.
“Don’t worry, I won’t make fetching your tea a habit.” Sharon grabbed an umbrella, stuffed the letter inside her flight suit, and stepped outside. She popped open the umbrella and walked to the hangar. The rain spattered against the drumlike surface protecting her head and shoulders.
The light from inside the hangar spilled out the open front door, where a pair of Ansons, the Storch, and a Rapide sat. The light was a breach of blackout regulations, but no one was going to attack in this weather.
She spotted Walter first. He wore a pair of grey coveralls and was looking along the shelves along the near wall where oil and other fluids were stored. He spotted Sharon, smiled, and held up a finger.
Ernie was standing on a wooden crate turned upside down. His legs and backside were visible, but the rest of him was behind the hood of a black Austin that Sharon recognized as Mother’s.
“Engine oil will work, won’t it?” Walter held up a quart can of oil for effect.
“How many times do I have to fuckin’ tell you that you can’t use motor oil for brake fluid! It eats away at the rubber seals and then the brakes fail.” Ernie backed out from under the hood, looked to his left, and blushed.
Walter laughed. Sharon smiled. Ernie stepped off the crate, pulled a rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands. Sharon spun the umbrella so that the water flew off. Then she set it down and pulled the envelope from a pocket in her flight suit. “I finally got a reply.”
Ernie moved closer. Walter tipped back his cap and leaned against the bench. “What’s it say?” Ernie asked.
“You want to read it?” Sharon held it out.
Walter reached for the letter, wiped his right hand on the side of his coveralls, and pulled the letter from its envelope. Ernie and Sharon studied his expression as he read. He finished, looked at Sharon, and handed the letter back. Sharon offered it to Ernie.
“What’s it say?” Ernie asked, then saw Walter shake his head. “Son of a bitch.”
“You know, it’s funny.” Walter crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Nobody at the base has any use for Beck. And there’s been lots of talk about what happened to Edgar. Some say he should have stopped fighting. But most say it was Beck making a point.”
“About what?” Sharon asked.
“About people like me and Edgar getting above ourselves.” Walter pointed at his chest for emphasis.
Sharon shook her head and looked at the floor. She remembered Edgar pushing her to the ground the moment before the V-1 buzz bomb exploded in a nearby field. “I miss him.”
Walter looked at the floor, then looked out into the darkness at the sound of an approaching vehicle. A black Humber with four doors and elegant front fenders pulled up in front of the open hangar door. Sharon saw Michael at the wheel. There was something in his expression that made her put her hand to her throat.
Michael left the engine running as he climbed out of the car and crossed the line of wet into the dry shelter of the hangar. He nodded at Walter and Ernie.
“What’s happened?” Sharon asked. “Is Sean all right?”
“It’s not Sean; it’s my father.” Michael stood there until she came to him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck.
It took almost half an hour and two cups of coffee before Michael could tell them what happened. He stared at his half-full coffee mug while he sat on a toolbox. The others sat on upturned crates and pails.
“I got news this morning. His body was identified. A rocket hit Woolworth’s in London. Over five hundred people were killed. Apparently, my father was in there doing some Christmas shopping.” Michael looked up at Sharon. “It was one of those quirks he had. He loved to shop to clear his mind.”
“You said a rocket killed him,” Sharon said.
“Another of Hitler’s vengeance weapons. A V-2. We’ve known about them for some time. So far, they’re too fast to shoot down. They have to be destroyed at their source.” Michael turned his cup upside down and watched the remaining coffee drip onto the floor. “I have to tell Honeysuckle and Linda.”
“The weather’s clearing, and Church Fenton needs a Mosquito night fighter.” Mother handed the chit to Sharon. “It’ll be a bit cramped for the three of you, but this will get you close to home. The Anson has room and is waiting to ferry you to Church Fenton. If you leave now, you’ll be there before dark.”
Sharon took the chit and saw that they were headed first for Hatfield, situated south and east of London. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in Church Fenton by midnight. “Thanks, Mother. Will you keep an eye on things for me?”
“Don’t you worry. We’ve got this place running so it will operate whether we’re here or not.” He dropped his voice and leaned closer. “I’ll keep Lady Gannet from getting too puffed up with herself.”
“How did you hear about Lossiemouth?” Sharon asked.
“You’re referring to her command performance and your uneventful emergency landing? It’s my business to know what goes on with all of my pilots. My friend Robert has an extensive intelligence network.” Mother smiled and waved her out of the door.
Sharon found Michael and Linda in the hangar. They were chatting with a man who weighed at least twice as much as she did. She was pleased to see he had a better-fitting tan flight suit than she’d seen him wearing the last time. Dougla
s, one of the Anson taxi pilots, turned to her and smiled from under a pair of eyebrows badly in need of a shearing. “Hello, Sharon. We need to be on our way to make Hatfield before nightfall.” His voice was part growl, part laughter.
“Douglas. Thank you for giving us a ride on such short notice. How are the boys?” Sharon asked.
Michael reached down to help Linda up.
“The twins are fifteen. I just hope this war’ll be over before they’re called upon.” Douglas maneuvered his way to the Anson. He danced delicately over a puddle. “Watch your step. Just gave the old girl a cleaning inside and out.” He opened the side door of the aircraft and squeezed inside.
Michael followed Linda and Sharon.
Sharon sat down. She saw that her sister-in-law’s face was aged with grief. She touched Linda on the knee. Linda made eye contact for about thirty seconds and unsuccessfully attempted a smile.
They were in the air soon after. The sun was low in the sky. Leafless trees left long fingers of shadow on the ground.
Sharon thought about Harry and the way he’d warned her to stay away from London. Then she remembered the smell of his wool suit as he’d walked beside her. She closed her eyes and remembered how her arm was tucked through the crook of his elbow at her wedding. She thought about how they’d walked up the aisle of the church to Michael and the minister waiting at the altar. And how Harry had said, “It’s an honour to stand in for your father, Patrick.”
Linda, Michael, and Sharon sat cocooned within their memories until Douglas throttled back. Sharon watched him crank the wheels down. Then she studied the dance of his massive fingers on the throttle and the controls. He held the wheels off of the ground as long as possible until they skipped over the surface of the runway. Five minutes later, they watched him take off.
“Whatcher here for?” The man’s voice made the three of them turn. He wore a leather vest over a sparkling pair of coveralls. Even his boots shone. He wore sergeant stripes on his sleeve.
Sharon reached into the breast pocket of her flight suit and pulled out the delivery chit. The man took the chit and studied it. Sharon noticed that his fingernails were clean and his face was clean-shaven, except for a precisely trimmed moustache.
“This is only for one aircraft,” the sergeant said.
“That’s correct,” Sharon said.
“There are three of you.” He looked at them, pointed at each in turn, and crossed his arms. “Against regulations to take passengers along.”
Sharon looked at Michael, who stared at the sergeant, then reached for his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out his identification and stuck it in front of the sergeant’s nose.
The sergeant stepped closer, looked at the document, and looked at Michael before he said, “Romeo Sierra is nearly ready. The aircraft is fully operational. That means you. . .” He pointed a finger at Sharon. “. . .will keep your finger away from the arming switch and the firing button.”
Linda opened her mouth to speak. Sharon saw that her friend’s face was red. Michael gripped his sister’s elbow. Sharon shook her head, turned, walked away, and did her walk around the aircraft. That pompous sergeant will get an earful if he’s not careful.
After the exterior check, Sharon was the first to climb through the Mosquito’s floor hatch. Michael followed and settled himself into the observer’s chair. Linda sat on his knee.
The sergeant peered up at them as Sharon began her preflight checks.
The sergeant pointed at Linda. “You keep your fingers off of the radar set!”
Linda looked down at him, pulled on a pair of headphones, switched on the radar set, and said, “Shut the fucking hatch!”
Sharon slid open the side window. “Clear!”
The propeller on her side began to roll over.
The sergeant’s face disappeared and the hatch shut.
Sharon soon had both engines running smoothly. She nodded at her husband and her friend, then taxied out to the end of the runway.
Sharon felt the familiar thrill when she had the runway lined up and the power of the Merlin engines in her hands. She opened the throttles. The Mosquito accelerated. They were airborne in less than a minute. She retracted the undercarriage and headed north and west into the blackness of a wartime sky where no lights shone up from the ground. There was only the ghostly glow of the instruments and engine exhausts.
When she had the aircraft trimmed for level flight, she turned to Linda, who continued to fiddle with the radar set. Sharon tapped her friend on the shoulder, smiled, and waggled her finger. Linda smiled back.
Sharon took them north and around the western side of London. Michael put his hand on her shoulder. She turned to him and he nodded.
Less than an hour later, they flew past Manchester. Sharon began a gradual descent for Church Fenton. She saw the runway lights up ahead and began to plan her approach. She reached for the microphone. “Romeo Sierra joining downwind.”
“Romeo Sierra,” said the controller. “You are number two.”
Sharon felt a tap on her elbow. She saw that Linda was pointing at the radar screen and holding up three fingers. Sharon looked ahead to see if she could spot the other aircraft in the circuit. She pressed the microphone. “This is Romeo Sierra. Confirm we are number two.”
“Confirmed,” came the reply. “You are number two.”
Sharon looked at Linda, who shook her head and held up three fingers.
“Romeo Sierra here. My radar operator has two aircraft ahead of us in the circuit.” Sharon looked for the arming switch and flicked it to the on position.
“Romeo Sierra, the second aircraft is a bandit! You are cleared to engage.”
Sharon was already on the throttles. The Merlins thrummed as they went to full power.
Linda used her hand to signal that the bandit was directly ahead.
Sharon felt the throttle in one hand, the control stick in the other, and her feet on the pedals. She looked ahead into the black and searched for any hint of the enemy night fighter. Her mind cleared itself of all distractions. Her index finger hovered over the button that would fire the four cannons under her feet.
Michael touched her shoulder and pointed. Sharon spotted the subtle glow of a pair of engine exhausts just ahead and slightly above. She closed on the fighter until they were within what she estimated to be one hundred yards.
She coordinated ailerons and rudder until the gun sight was aligned on one of the glowing exhausts. She pressed the trigger. The pounding of the cannons was telegraphed though the soles of her flying boots. Cannon shells exploded along the wing and nacelle of the enemy fighter. The engine exploded into flame.
In the light of the flash, she recognized the silhouette as a Junkers 88. She lined up the nose of the Mosquito on the Junker’s other engine and fired.
She missed as the Nazi fighter turned left.
Sharon turned with the Junkers, led the enemy fighter, and fired. Her cannon shells exploded along the opposite wing and the second engine began to trail flames. She saw the Nazi pilot drop his wheels.
He has no choice but to land at Church Fenton. She throttled back to stay on his tail just in case.
She followed him and watched him touch down at the end of the runway. Sharon peeled off to the right, turned speed into altitude, and began her landing checks. She touched the microphone button. “Romeo Sierra cleared to land?”
“Romeo Sierra number one in the circuit. Orbit at angels one thousand so that we can get Jerry off the runway and check for debris. By the way, that was quite a display.”
Sharon and Linda kept their eyes open in case the Junkers was not alone. After receiving clearance, she landed beyond where the Junkers had rolled to a stop. A few minutes later, she parked the Mosquito in front of a hangar and shut the engines down.
Linda was the first to climb through the hatch. Michael followed and waited under the nose of the night fighter for Sharon. The three of them stood under the Mosquito as a group of mechanics gathered around t
he nose of the aircraft where it was parked just outside the hangar door. They looked across the field at the Junkers. A fire crew finished extinguishing the flames. One mechanic asked, “Anyone see what happened?”
A pair of airmen came around the side of the hangar. Both were wearing flight suits. One was still wearing his helmet while the blonde one carried his gear in his hand. The blonde looked at Michael. “You shot that Junkers right off our tail! Mind if we treat you to a pint?”
Michael turned to Sharon and winked. “Will you throw in a ride to the mess and a cup of coffee?”
The five of them crammed into an ancient Austin. It backfired most of the way to the mess, where a dozen other pilots raised their glasses when Michael greeted them.
Michael was led to a table where he sat down with Sharon and Linda. Cups of coffee appeared before them. Sharon lifted her cup to her nose. She caught the sweet scent of rum mixed in with the coffee, then took a sip.
The door to the mess opened. All attention turned toward the new arrivals. A German Luftwaffe pilot, wearing a blue peaked cap, black leather jacket, and blue pants stepped into the room. His hands were handcuffed in front of him. Another Luftwaffe airman wearing a leather flying helmet and a tan flight suit followed him. This man looked around the room before he raised his handcuffed hands to remove his flying helmet. A red-capped military policeman followed the pair.
Sharon looked at Linda, who watched the German airmen. Linda turned to Sharon. “They killed your father and mine. Why didn’t you kill them?”
Sharon opened her mouth to answer, but stopped. I’m tired of the killing.
A deep voice said, “Raise your glasses to the man who saved our arses!” Sharon recognized the speaker as the blonde pilot of the Mosquito who had been number one in the circuit and was within seconds of being killed. She watched Michael stand. He pulled his chair back and stood on it.
“Cheers!” the blonde pilot said.
Michael raised his cup with his right hand, then held up his open left hand for quiet. The room grew silent.
“Raise your glasses to Sharon the pilot and Linda the radar operator who shot down the 88. I was only a passenger!” He pointed at his wife and sister and bowed.
