ACE

by G R Matthews

  ACE

  By

  G R MATTHEWS

  Copyright © 2017 G R Matthews

  All rights reserved

  ACE

  "Never was so much owed by so many to so few"

  Winston Churchill, August 20, 1940

  “Jimmy, get us another pint.”

  James Lock sighed. It wasn’t getting the drink that bothered him. It was the use of ‘Jimmy’. No one but his brother called him that and despite telling him a thousand times that he was too old to be called ‘Jimmy’, Eric continued to do so.

  “Don’t pull that face, little brother.” Eric sat back in the high back chair, a smile on his face. “It does you good to know that there is someone out there who can still get under your skin.”

  “And who gets under yours? That’s what I wonder,” James said as he stood from his chair.

  “The wife,” Eric admitted, the smile turning rueful. “It is a good thing to be married, Jimmy, but a pleasure best enjoyed after a lifetime of denial.”

  “Ha!” James snorted and picked up Eric’s empty glass. The Officer’s mess, a converted stately home in the North Kent countryside, had a good selection of beers. The one industry that hadn’t yet seen rationing introduced. The enlisted man behind the bar took the pint glasses and refilled them from the pumps. Vera Lyn’s sweet voice sang out from the wireless in the corner.

  “Last one for me,” Eric said, taking the pint of ale from his brother. “Leave is over tomorrow.”

  “Same here. It was good of you to come down.”

  “Barely twenty miles, Jimmy. You’re not at the end of the world.” Eric sipped from his glass.

  “Feels like it, Eric. Ever since the war started, I haven’t had a chance to go home, to see mother.”

  “It’s war, Jimmy. Mother’s fine. I called her the other day from Biggin Hill. The farm’s doing well and she says Fred will bring in a good harvest this year. Reckons he has a lead on some good hands for September.”

  “We should be there.” He heard the catch in his voice, the emotion held back.

  “Fred’ll look after mother and the farm. We belong here. Not many can do what we do, James.”

  “I know that, Eric. It’s just…” his words tailed off as the air raid siren began to wail.

  Behind the bar, the enlisted man started to ring the bell and called out, “All Officers to the shelter.”

  “Come on.” James jumped to his feet and reached for Eric’s arm, helping him out of the deep cushioned chair.

  “Right with you, Jimmy.” Eric bowed and waved an arm for his younger brother to precede him.

  “You’re not allowed to bring the drink with you.”

  “This is the last beer I’m going to get for a while. I am certainly not leaving it here for some stray bomb to blow to pieces.” Eric lifted the glass and drank a few large swallows. “There you go. Now I won’t spill as much.”

  James sighed again, and shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  “Lock,” the call came out of the office door, “come in and close the door.”

  James stood and walked into the CO’s office. He stopped two paces from the desk and snapped off a smart salute.

  Squadron Leader Logan returned the salute from his seat behind the varnished oak desk. “Close the door, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” James did as asked and turned back to the CO.

  “Sit down, James.” Logan indicated the wooden chair.

  The use of his first name set James’s heart beating. To everyone on the base he was Lock or Lieutenant. Very few used his given name, certainly not the Squadron Leader. He glanced round the room, looking for a hint or clue of the upcoming bad news. Nothing obvious. Maybe the CO had heard about the raid on the bar’s whiskey stock, carried out by a select group of Lock’s fellow pilots under the cover of night? But the use of his given name hinted at something more personal. He wasn’t going to be torn off a strip, it wasn’t that kind of opening. Something else. James’s heart stopped and he put a shaky hand on the back of the chair, he legs losing the strength to hold him upright, and sank into the seat.

  “Sir?” James prompted when the CO had not spoken or looked up from the file in front of him for a minute or two.

  “James,” Logan began, “war is a difficult thing. If the Surgeon’s photograph had not appeared in the Daily Mail back in ’34, there is a good chance it would never have happened.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, sir,” James said. Why the history lesson? This was common knowledge. For over three hundred years it had been a secret, closely guarded and hidden from all prying eyes. Then the grainy photo of Loch Ness and the world changed.

  “It brought us to war, James. One photograph. Now our isles are under constant attack and though they lose many, our losses cut deep. Where they can manufacture,” and the word seemed to fall from the CO’s mouth like a lump of gristle, “replacements, ours take much longer to mature. We cannot afford to lose them, James.”

  “Sir?” The single syllable quavered.

  “This telegram,” the CO passed a thin sheet of cream paper over, “arrived this morning. I’m sorry, James. Eric was shot down over Boulogne. As yet, we have no reason to believe he survived the crash.”

  The paper in his hand forgotten, he started at the CO’s face. “No.”

  “My sympathies and condolences,” Logan said in a quiet voice. “The patrol he was flying were ambushed by Bf109s over the coast. Those who returned report they saw him go down.”

  “Perhaps he was captured?” James grasped the thought. Hope. A flutter of his heart. A moment’s relief from the bile rising in this throat.

  “It is unlikely,” Logan said, shaking his head.

  “He could have recovered,” James stated, refusing to let go of the chance.

  “James, I think you have to accept it. Eric, your brother, is dead. His Spitfire took too much damage from the Bf109s and went down.” Logan looked him in the eyes. “Do you want the telegram sent on to your mother or would you like to be the one to tell her? You’ve been granted two days compassionate leave.”

  He sat still, silent for a long minute. The longest of his life. Indecision and grief battled upbringing and reality. Eric was dead. Shot down. Now, there was only him.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said.

  Logan nodded. “I thought you would. There is a train to London in an hour.”

  “If it’s all right, sir,” he said, pausing to take a breath, “I thought I could fly there. My Hurricane will be quicker and she deserves to know as soon as possible.”

  Logan closed the folder, sat back in his chair and frowned. “Hurricanes are not an RAF officers’ personal transportation.”

  “Of course, sir,” James said, “but I could be there and back more quickly.”

  “However,” the CO continued, ignoring James’s interruption, “I do have some important documents and the base crew have some personal items they would like to get to their families. I think a mail run could be permitted, in these circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Collect the mail at fourteen hundred, take off at fourteen thirty unless Jerry has different ideas.” Logan stood and reached out a hand towards James. “Please convey my condolences to your mother. Her son died a brave man. A hero.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell her. Thank you, sir.” James shook the proffered hand. Taking a deep breath, he took a step backward, bringing his heels together and delivered a crisp salute.

  “Dismissed.” Logan returned the salute.

  James turned away, holding back the pressure behind his eyes. The time to cry was later. Other things mattered now.

  ***

  The flight suit, leather on the outside, fur-lined on the inside, was making him swe
at as he carried the mail bag across the grass between the tower and the hangar. A quick check in the map room, a chat with one of the girls, a beautiful brunette with deep sympathetic eyes, had furnished him with all the location and weather details he needed. It had been an absent minded kind of conversation and he knew, on any other day, he’d have been tongue-tied and nervous. This afternoon, nerves and shyness were not a consideration.

  Hurricanes had a unique smell. One breath and you’d never mistake it for anything else. Some, James knew, couldn’t stand it. To them it reeked, stank to high heaven and back. To him, it was sweet and homely. Just the first hint of it almost broke the dam he’d built to hold back the grief. There would be time to cry when he got back. Right now, there was duty and obligation. Not to the RAF, not to the King, the Kingdom, or its people, but to family.

  Inside the hangar the scent was overpowering. Mid-afternoon sunlight penetrated the dark and revealed ground crews rushing about, readying and maintaining the Hurricanes in peak condition. A bell, a siren, the shout of ‘Scramble’ and, before the echoes had died away, they’d be ready to fly, to take the fight to the skies above England’s green and pleasant land.

  His Hurricane was a hunter, built for the skies. Power contained, controlled and straining to be released. It was always this way, first the smell, then the feeling of power and finally the sight. Their eyes met and it roared.

  The great beast towered over him. A long serpentine neck connected the blunt-nosed head, a maw full of sharp teeth, with the bulk of its thick, muscled body. Strong wings stretched out, over the stalls and the claws of the dragon’s four legs bit deep into the soil. Behind its body, a thin tail whipped back and forth.

  “Beval,” James said, “we fly.”

  The Hurricane Dragon opened its mouth, pointed teeth parting, and a forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. “It is good, James Lock. We are not meant to be in the dark.”

  “I know.” He stepped forward and rested a hand against one of Beval’s front legs. The scales were warm to the touch. More than that, the power contained within the beast reached out to him. He held it back a moment, twisting his mind into the proper forms and channels, directing the flood of energy into the staff he carried in his right hand.

  It was intoxicating. Deeper in flavour than red wine, more sour than an over-ripe lemon, sweeter than honey and more bitter than Christmas sprouts. The temptation to dive into that power, into the heart of the dragon, to swim and let yourself drown in it was strong. He knew it for what it was. All the training in flight school and before, when he had been chosen, had prepared him for this and he closed off the channel.

  “We fly, James Lock. We battle.” The dragon, Beval, roared again.

  James placed a foot on its leg, letting the beast lift him to its wing. He stepped, staying on the bone and muscle, avoiding the membrane of its wing, up to the saddle and strapped himself in.

  “We fly, Beval,” he said and his hand tightened around the staff, “and we battle.”

  Beval stepped forward, a gait not made for the land, and James was jolted in the saddle. As the dragon cleared the hangar entrance, it picked up speed, from a careful walk to lumbering run and the wings began to beat. Great gusts of wind kicked up the summer’s dust from the field and Beval was no longer running, but jumping and gliding down the runway.

  James felt the magic well up from the dragon, a warmth that grew with each stroke of the wings, the scent of a summer storm, the promise of rain. It was all that and more. The true source of a dragon’s flight, its magic. The reason they’d been hunted almost to extinction. Fear of the unknown. Uneducated peasants of a different age driving the great beasts into hiding. Cromwell signing the agreement and concealing them. A duty handed down through the ages and Parliament. A monarch’s duty to inform each new Prime Minister and bind them with magic. The dragons were forgotten, becoming myth and legend.

  And the world moved on to the evil of machines, steam engines and the rise of coal and oil. Cars, tanks and planes. A modern age that looked to the future but dreamed of times past and held to a legend in which a dragon’s blood could cure any ill. Where the scales of the beast were an impenetrable armour. Its eyes the purest diamonds. Its flesh the most delicate flavour and its magic which could fuel any machine, power a city, do the impossible. And a dragon’s knowledge, its wisdom of the centuries. A dragon knew the secrets of life, the answer to every question. That’s what the old books said. It is what some people believed. It wasn’t all true. It didn’t matter. It meant war.

  If that photograph hadn’t come out, even the fraud it was, there would have been no rekindling of interest in the legends and stories of old. There would be peace and Eric might still be alive.

  “Your brood brother is dead?” Beval sent. Speech was impossible during flight and unnecessary.

  “That’s what the telegram said,” James sent back.

  “He died in battle. A worthy death.”

  “His Spitfire died too,” James answered. The dragon continued to climb and gain speed. The small port town of Gravesend was fading into the farmland that surrounded it, the River Thames marking the northern border of Kent. Already the summer air was cooling and chilling his skin. Twisting his mind, he channelled a little of the magic stored in the staff and created a shield around his body. It would keep him warm, make the air breathable and, if needed, it could be strengthened to provide protection from attack.

  “Their spirits will be missed,” the dragon sent and emitted a great battle roar.

  “I don’t believe it.” James shifted in his seat, the harness and belts jangled. “Eric was too good, too strong to die like they describe. His Spitfire was powerful and they’d flown together so many times. A few Bf109s should not have been a problem.”

  “And yet they did, James Lock. Grief often overrides fact.”

  “I need to be sure, Beval. If he’s gone, there is only my mother and I left.”

  “You should have many children, James Lock. We dragons know the pain of a line becoming extinct. We are a long-lived species. Our young take many decades to grow to maturity and have children of their own. You are shorter-lived and have spread across the world so quickly in the last hundred years. Let him go, James Lock. Honour his memory and look to your future.” The dragon banked a lazy turn above the estuary. “Where is it we are flying today?”

  “Boulogne,” James sent, his lips compressing into a thin line of determination.

  “What do you intend, James Lock?” Beval swung his head around, catching his eye. A dragon’s face, armoured and scaled, could show little emotion, but the eyes revealed the soul and mind behind them. Beval looked worried.

  “I need to be sure, Beval,” James sent, projecting confidence as much as a plea for understanding. “We’ll go in low and head to the crash site. I got the location from a girl in the map room. There’s a small village not far it. They might have survived. No one saw them hit the ground. They might have found their way to the resistance.”

  “And if we encounter any of the Bf109s or other planes the enemy have? What then, James Lock?”

  “We destroy those we can, or we flee, Beval. Believe me, I have no wish to die, but I need to know the truth. My mother deserves the truth.”

  From this altitude the sprawling mass of London, its churches, spires and domes, was visible to the west. North, over the river, the small towns of Essex and to the south, the countryside of Kent. Eastwards flowed the Thames, carrying water from the shire counties out into the cold North Sea. Beval flew a few more circles, gaining height. A cloudless summer’s day. The world beneath them and the future ahead.

  “We fly, James Lock, and we battle. Let us discover the certainty of your brood brother’s death. A parent deserves that comfort, cold as it may be.” Beval dipped a wing, rolling his great body, setting a course for the sea and the coast of occupied France.

  The journey was swift as only a dragon’s can be. The entire way, James scanned the sky, searching for e
nemy planes. The bright blue strained his eyes and he was forced to wipe away the tears. Tinted glasses would help, but magic relied upon a clear, unobstructed view. Even a slight change, a minor falsehood granted by glass could cause a spell to go awry. Magic was delicate, more art than science. The schools, small establishments set in the countryside, in old stately homes, under the cover of public schools for rich children, taught the skills necessary. Not the most expensive or famous schools, not an Eton, a Harrow or a Winchester, but even more exclusive. You were chosen to attend and the gift tended to run in families.

  As the white cliffs of Dover faded into a barely visible smudge on the horizon, the coast of France came into focus. A green verdant land that stretched far to the north and south. A meandering line of cliffs and bays, a mirror of the limestone cliffs of home. Calais, Wimereux, and Boulogne, were faint smears of grey amongst the green and there, against the blue-green of the sea, a plane rising to meet them. Over the rush of air from Beval’s wings, he could hear the engine and propeller that drove the mechanical flying machine through the air.

  “James Lock,” Beval sent, “an enemy challenges us.”

  “I see him,” James replied. “He’ll be radioing our position.”

  “Not for long.” The dragon pulled his large wings in close and plummeted towards the plane.

  James screamed in surprise, grabbed the saddle and tightened his grip around the staff. The plane, a few moments ago only a speck against the sea, grew rapidly in size and definition. Compared to the dragon it was tiny, but even wasps have a painful sting. Lines of tracer fire erupted from the plane towards James and Beval. The first volley fell short, losing energy rapidly as they fought gravity and lost.

  He tried to breathe, to clear his mind for the spell he needed, but the speed was too dizzying, too great. Behind the plane, the sea could only be a few feet away. Small ripples became great waves, white foam spraying from those that crashed and slumped over one another. Sea birds took wing, clearing the surface, spying the dragon and calling out their terror and warning.