by Todd Kelsey
Chapter Five
BBC News Flash, May 10th, 1940: Churchill takes helm as Germans advance
German forces have invaded Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg by air and land.
The invasion began at dawn with large numbers of aeroplanes attacking the main aerodromes and landing troops. The Dutch High Commission says more than 100 German planes were shot down by its forces.
In London, it has been announced that Winston Churchill will lead a coalition government after Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain said he was stepping aside.
The first news of the German invasion reached London at dawn. Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax received the Belgian Ambassador and Dutch Prime Minister at 0630 when they formally asked for Allied help.
The invasion had been expected for some time. In a proclamation issued to the German armies in the West, Hitler said: "The hour has come for the decisive battle for the future of the German nation."
Reports from Holland said German troops crossed the border during the night. The Dutch destroyed bridges over the Maas and Ijssel to prevent the German advance.
There were reports of fierce fighting at Rotterdam where German troops were landed by flying-boat. Other planes landed at Waalhaven aerodrome and troops quickly seized control.
This evening German forces are occupying the Maas and Bourse railway stations in Rotterdam. There are conflicting reports about whether they are still in possession of Waalhaven airport.
German reconnaissance planes have been seen flying overhead all day.
British and French troops have moved across the Belgian frontier in response to appeals for reinforcements.
Reports from Belgium say British troops have been enthusiastically received. Their guns have been festooned with flowers and the soldiers plied with refreshments.
In Washington President Franklin Roosevelt was asked at a news conference whether he thought Germany's invasion of the Low Countries would lead to US involvement in the war. He replied that it would not.
George Wallace turned off the BBC broadcast and sighed, lifting some spare change from the dish near the sink so that he could walk down to the corner and get a paper.
“I’m off to get a paper, dear” he said up the stairs.
“Aye then, be sure to get a good pair of gloves while you’re out if you still plan to go out boating at all this season. I tried to mend yours and they just didn’t take to mending” she called back. And George stared up for a moment, not sure whether Elicia truly comprehended the danger that was massed just across the English Channel, or if she was just being practical, or both. Then he remembered her going around with Mildred Bingham to all the shopkeepers they could interest, with a trove of “Business as Usual” posters that Mildred had brought from London. And he felt a bit of pride in his wife’s pugnacity.
George was pleased and then surprised to find a letter from 10 Downing Street in the post, without a name as a return. For a split second he felt a momentary panic that Eric had somehow died, but then he remembered that this kind of notification didn’t come from Downing Street, and was often in person or through a telegram at least.
But he sat down, nonetheless, feeling slightly weak. Steady, there George Wallace, you’ll need more mettle than that to make it through this war. And he realized that the weakness in his knees came not from concern about Eric, but a sense he had about whom the letter was from, and how he was about to be drawn back into the past, whether he would or no.
He took a breath and opened the letter, and knew without looking that it was from Winston Churchill.
Dear George,
I hope the Spring finds you well. I hear that your son Eric is making a name for himself in the RAF as well. I continue to be thankful for your special service in Ypres with the 6th Royal Scots Fusiliers.
George’s eyes unfocused for a moment, as he was drawn back to the 9th circle of hell in December of 1915, and the Christmas Day when Winston Churchill was presented as their new commander, and the way he had unthinkingly yanked Churchill down to avoid a sniper shot, which had come seconds after Churchill had stood on a box that no one had bothered to move, since the last person who’d stood on it had been shot, with their head peeping just inches above the line of the trench. He looked down at the letter.
So you remember Sir-Archibald, my second in command? Well I’m going to make him Secretary of the Air on May 12th, and I expect by the time you get this letter you have heard that I’ll be the new Prime Minister. So raise a glass for me, George.
I’ll get right to the point: I know that you are involved in private boating, and know fishermen and owners of pleasure craft all up and down the coast, and frankly there’s not enough time to obey the normal forms of courtesy – if you can see the writing on the wall you’ll know we may come to disaster in France. And we may wish to have private boaters who may be ready to serve their country in one way or the other, to supplement the Navy in a small but important way. I know you’ve some influence amongst these folk, so I wondered if you could float the word around, and join the conversation, and help steer it in the right direction.
Yours truly,
Winston Churchill
George drew in his breath and whistled. He blinked and thought for a minute about what it might mean, to go out in a private boat on the Channel, and not to come back. But he was convinced that at this point, they were fighting for their very survival, and that everyone, everyone had to do their bit, or die trying. He breathed deeply again, and set the letter down, and picked up the change, and headed off to buy a newspaper. God only knows what it would say in the headlines.
As he walked through the streets of Hastings, he imagined himself walking once again through the village of Ploegsteert, near the Ypres salient on the Western Front, with the hundreds of thousands of soldiers buried there.
“I wonder what’s come of old Plugstreet” he hummed, using the name soldiers had given it. And he couldn’t help but wonder whether Hastings or some other town along the coast would become a town of graveyards. George looked at the relative calm around him and wondered what would become of it.
--
“Thank God it’s Saturday!” said Eric to no one in particular, as he came into the barracks to grab his gloves. Emma the mutt raised her head and then put it down again sensibly. He had been terribly frustrated by having to wait for several hours, and not being able to fly the Spitfire that was right in the barracks. Instead he had been assigned one that was to come in fresh from the factory.
He stood expectantly on the airfield, willing the plane to arrive, and eventually he heard the telltale sound, and the plane descended in a graceful arc and rolled to a loud rest in front of him, as crew came out to tend it.
Out stepped a female ferry pilot, and Eric smiled. He had heard of this phenomenon, but hadn’t expected to meet it face to face.
“How do you do.” Said Eric, to the somewhat disheveled and dashingly pretty pilot, who planted her feet confidently on the ground, and gazed up at him.
“Edith” she said, raising an eyebrow. Pilots, they’re all the same, so eager to fly into the arms of death. I guess I’m not different.
“How is the Women’s Auxiliary Force treating you?” Eric asked, not being able to keep his eyes from the plane, or Edith. Tommy and John both looked on, amused.
“Just fine, thank you. I suppose you’ll be wanting to know about your plane. Where can a girl get a drink around here?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
Eric was momentarily caught off guard, but rose to the occasion. “Well, we can certainly set you up in the officer’s mess, and I’d be glad to take you up on your offer.”
They walked off towards the officer’s mess, and John grinned. “Well that’s a sight for sore eyes. I’m sure glad there’s female ferry pilots in this war” he said.
“Well just you be careful John” Tommy said, wiping his fingers. “It takes a lot to tear a pilot away from her plane, and Edith Rose is quite a pilo
t, and so is Eric. So why they are off to have a drink I can’t tell, but we best look at this new Spitfire here while we have a chance.”
Eric felt his mind divided in several different directions as he talked with Edith in the offer’s mess. He was enamored with her for being a pilot, and enjoyed the way that the light glinted in her keen, green eyes, and bounced off her brown hair. He could tell she was tired, but she was animated when talking about the Spit.
“The engine is good and strong in this one.” she said proudly. “She’s even and consistent at full throttle.” and she frowned a bit “although just like the others, when you nose her down too much and apply negative G, the carburetor float in that Merlin engine can stop delivering fuel.” Eric nodded, and noticed another pilot quietly listening with rapt attention.
“She’s got a Merlin PV-12, right?” asked Eric, trying to think of some way he could find out where she was based, how to get in touch with her.
“That’s right, and I inspected the engine from stem to stern and didn’t see any issues. I think she’ll serve you well.” she replied, eyeing the green pilot up and down, envying him for being able to go into combat, and honoring him in the same instant, knowing she might never see him again, even if she wanted to. About the last thing she wanted right now as to get involved with an RAF pilot, but this one seemed a bit different. Something in the poetry of the way he talked, not over-confident, not scared either. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her she knew he was interested – he was an open book. But she liked that, looking at the ruffles in his hair, enjoying the smell of his aftershave, his enthusiasm for knowing the inner workings of the plane. Perhaps it was the wine, or the announcement about today’s invasion – she decided life was too short to wait for him to figure out a gallant way to give her some kind of invitation.
“Well you can always find me at this station if you have any questions,” and she handed him her card, which she had gone specially to have printed up, proud as a peach.
Edith Rose, WAF Ferry Pilot. Spitfires, Hurricanes.
“Well it’s been nice, Eric.” She stood up and reached out her hand, and Eric took it, to the envy of ten pairs of eyes throughout the room that followed her movements.
A flash of inspiration by God!
“Well, do you have a way to get back to . . . Vickers?” asked Eric, hoping for an opening.
She smiled, and decided not to mention that she had a motorcycle there at the airfield that another WAF had left for her.
“I was expecting to hitch a ride, but if you’re free . . .” she asked, and Eric bowed a slightly. Tommy elbowed John in the corner, and whispered “Now don’t you laugh Johnny, their time may be short enough on the earth,” and Tommy followed the pair out of the Officer’s Mess.
“Master Eric” asked Tommy, catching up to them. “I just fueled up the Silver Ghost, and wondered if you might like to borrow her?” and Eric turned to look, asking, “The Black Ghost?”
And Tommy said, “You know, that special job I’ve been customizing with one of my crazy experiments” and he winked at Eric.
“Ah yes, the Black Ghost” and Eric gestured to the barn, “Just over here.” and when they opened the barn door, Tommy pulled the canvas off a glinting Rolls Royce Phantom III, which he jokingly called the “Colossus of the Roads” after the Greek status Colossus of Rhodes. It lay there gleaming in the half-light and Edith was drawn to it, and she frowned, noticing that something wasn’t quite normal about the car. She turned back.
“Has it been banged up in a wreck or something” and Tommy could barely contain a smile and put his finger on his mouth to shush Eric. She walked up to the car, reached over to the switch for the electric light, and non-chalantly opened the oversized, very oversized engine compartment, and she noticed the tires bulging a bit more than was normal. She leaned in closer to the engine, and gasped.
“Well I’ll be buried in a biscuit!” she exclaimed, and she turned. “You didn’t.” and Tommy nodded. “I confess” and he raised his hand.
Edith gazed at the monstrous 12 cylinder Merlin engine, that more rightly belonged in a plane, and had been shoehorned into a car, taking the Phantom III’s displacement from 7 liters to 27 liters!
“Is it safe to drive?” she asked. “Is it legal?” she asked in a fainter voice.
“Plenty legal, maam” said Tommy, and Eric gazed at him, always amazed at the surprises Tommy would bring – the fact that he was nobility and chose to be a mechanic, the way he liked working with engines more that hunting fox on his parent’s estate, the friends he had at the Vickers/Supermarine plant.
“And never you mind, it wouldn’t quite do in an actual Spitfire” he said, patting the Black Ghost affectionately. “The engine had some issues that were beyond risk for a Spit, so I gladly took hold of her and have re-bored and re-fitted her with some features that make her more car-friendly, including a governor on the engine so that no one gets themselves killed unnecessarily.”
And Eric opened the door for her. “It’s best we be off, if I’m to be back later to fly the Spitfire,” and Tommy gave Eric the keys, and waved them off into the Spring day, like a proud uncle. “There goes the future of the country” he said to himself. “May they ever prosper”
The trees flew by, and it was all Eric could do not to press down further on the accelerator, as the engine purred them along the countryside, probably wishing it was in a plane, like a proud racehorse, wanting to be put through its paces.
They enjoyed the sunlight and the beginning of the day, forgetting the war, forgetting the warplanes, and savoring the few moments of adventure. Edith caught covert glances at Eric from time, who seemed lost in thought, but always with a half smile on his face, as they made their way towards the train station.
She stood there on the platform, enjoying the handsome look that Eric wore naturally, with his light coat, and attentive eyes. Always the eyes dearie, you’re a sucker for the eyes.
She felt her heart wanting to open a little on the one hand, and a voice trying to crowd in that she may yet not ever see this pilot again. Still, she thought, there’s nothing wrong with hope. Edith Rose, this lad looks to be a good one, as good as any other, and maybe a bit better, judging by how warm under the collar you got, prating on about the Spitfire, preening like a schoolgirl at the officer’s mess. Best give him a chance. It’s the 20th century girl, take his hand by God!
Edith took his hand, thinking about the impending battles, feeling the texture of his skin, as she sometimes touched the interior of the Spitfire, wondering what would become of them as they passed through her hands.
“Do take care” she said, and gave a gentle salute.
“Will do, my lady” Eric said, and squeezed her hand, thinking how quickly a day could change, like passing clouds, from one shade of light to another, from dark to light and light to dark. He waved her off as the train departed, and thanked his lucky start that he had met at least one girl before he went to face unfriendly skies.
--
Eric held his breath as he sat in the new Spitfire, ready to fly it for the first time. He went through the startup sequence carefully, searched his perimeter, gave the thumbs up to Johnny and Tommy, and watched Douglas Bader just cresting up into takeoff, who had come back from Duxford to visit Tommy and also to give Eric some pointers on his first flight.
Eric felt a surge of excitement as he started rolling for takeoff, and eased the throttle to give the engine more power, scanning his gauges and the outside in a regular pattern. The fields started rushing by, the plane surged, and eased up into the air with a grace that Eric felt with every fiber.
The flight with Bader was glorious, as they practiced various maneuvers, and gained elevation to practice some dogfighting tactics. From the ground they looked like hawks, chasing each other in the air. Every minute, every moment, Eric was alert, and felt at home in the sky. The Spitfire was a marvelous flying machine, and he was proud to have made it through all the various stages of training.
He was not eager to inflict pain or destruction, or to be the target of bullets, but he was eager to do his bit, and it seemed the fit was right. He wondered how he would match up against pilots who had been flying Messerchmitt bf109’s since 1938 in the Spanish Civil War.
When they were back on the ground, Douglas seemed to read his mind.
“That was a good flight, Eric” he said, knowing the thoughtful distance that penetrated Eric’s excitement. “Remember, when they come for us, we’ve got the advantage of fighting to defend our homes and the ones we love. There’s a fierceness in that.” Eric remained silent, searching his mind. “And remember that we’ll come up against it ourselves when we have to invade the Continent, and Germany” Douglas looked in Eric’s eyes, saw the strength there, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in Duxford” and walked off, bringing out his pipe, and walking off to the officer’s mess.
Eric was still lost in thought when an aide came up to him. “Eric, the commander has an urgent request for you. Come on” and they were off to the Commander’s office, who received them with a stern look. “Eric, sit down” he said, and Eric sat down, still glowing from the flight.
“Eric it seems that things are not likely to go well in France, and what I’m about to say is a top secret matter.” He paused and survey Eric, who nodded.
“Of course, Commander.”
“It seems that within two weeks, we expect the British Expeditionary Force to be overwhelmed, no matter what we do – or we at least need to plan for that eventuality, so the RAF would like to pull some pilots for Channel Duty.” he said.
“Channel duty, sir?” asked Eric, not understanding, and the commander sighed, imagining what kind of chaos might envelop the Channel in two week’s time, if the fears were true.
“Yes, it seems that if we try to save a portion of the Expeditionary Force, then we need to try and throw all we can afford in air cover to protect them as they try to get back across the Channel” he said, and Eric’s mind fixed on the phrase “a portion,” and realized that things were going a lot worse than anyone thought, and they had only just started the invasion today.
But he didn’t say another word, and stood up, and saluted.
“Sir.”
“Moxley will give you your flying orders. Grab your kit, leave the rest to us, and be off in your Spitfire. After a few weeks of Channel Patrol we’ll send you on to Duxford”
“Thank you sir” and Eric went out into the night, wondering what the rest of the month of May would bring, for himself, for his plane, for his country.
