Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Are these the first letters you’ve had?”

  Lance averted his face and nodded.

  “Since Dunkirk?”

  Again, Lance nodded.

  Guy stepped back into the room, where he found Pat Reid still conversing with two POWs. He tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow. “Would you please take Sergeant Littlefield to one of your hideaways where he can read his letters in private?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  Lance followed Pat numbly while scanning through the other envelopes. He recognized Claire’s handwriting, and then Paul’s and Jeremy’s and finally Stephen’s.

  “We’re going high into the attic. When you’re ready to rejoin us, just come through the false wall. I’ll show you how. Be sure to replace it, and follow the passage, going down every staircase you come to until you reach the courtyard. Anyone can tell you how to get back up to the room. Take as long as you need.”

  Alone in the small space, Lance read and re-read each letter. The wrinkled paper and holes informed him that the censors had done their jobs, although the cut-out words were easily guessed, and the full meaning of any sentence should have given no reason for concern to either Brits or Germans. All his family members were astute enough not to write about anything that could not pass scrutiny, thus the main value to Lance of each letter was not their content, but the profound message they brought just by their presence, of being loved and cared for at home. He passed his fingers over each one, feeling the bond with family that they evoked.

  Late in the evening, long after hunger set in, Lance scanned through the letters one more time before folding them and putting them in his pocket. Before emerging from his hiding place, he closed his eyes and pictured Sark Island with waves crashing on cliffs; his siblings, running with him across the green high plateau; his stepfather, climbing with him among the rocks; and his mother, headstrong and compassionate, watching over all of them. “I’ll get home, Mum,” he whispered fiercely. “I promise you. I’ll get home.”

  16

  Christmas Day

  Midafternoon of the next day, Lance gazed around the courtyard in disbelief. It was coated with a fresh layer of snow. A cold, swirling wind pierced to the bone, but what caught his attention were makeshift decorations in greens and reds that adorned doors and windows around the courtyard to celebrate Christmas Day. The ornaments were not profuse, just bits of cloth and paper with splashes of holiday colors, but they raised spirits so that even the air seemed festive. POWs called greetings to each other and even to the guards, and at one end, they pushed and pulled each other around in the snow on a piece of metal they had bent into a makeshift sled. For their part, the guards, normally implacable or severe, smiled and nodded and returned greetings in amicable acknowledgement of a shared tradition.

  Lieutenant Pat Reid walked up behind Lance. “We’re invited to a party this afternoon,” he said, clapping Lance on the shoulder. “The Poles. They know we Brits are not getting Red Cross packages yet, but their border is just over a hundred miles east of here, so their parcels get here much quicker, including those from their families. With the size of their contingent, and being Christmas, that translates to a lot of food packages. The kommandant sanctioned the gathering.”

  Lance laughed. “That’s big of him. Remind me why we’re fighting Germany.”

  Pat arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want to go into that?”

  “No, sir. Not here. Not now.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s such a shame. My mother spent time in Germany long before the war. She loves the German people. When I was first captured, the frontline soldiers treated me with courtesy, even offering me cigarettes and coffee. When I was recaptured along the French border, a guard treated me decently. He’s a conscript who had been born in America—in Kansas. He was raised there until he turned ten, and then his parents moved back to Germany.”

  He stomped his boots in the snow to warm them and his eyes took on a faraway look. “After I was captured the first time and on the forced march of prisoners across France, I witnessed a British officer gunned down at point-blank range because he dared to protect one of our soldiers who had collapsed and was being beaten by one of the guards.” He closed his eyes and shook off the memory. “I’ve seen such cruelty and such kindness from Germans, and the divide is sometimes hard to fathom.”

  “I’ve had similar thoughts. The way I see things, you can chalk up the last war, the great one, to miscalculation and the inflexibility of mobilization plans. Once one government started moving troops to its borders in 1914, the neighboring countries felt threatened and responded. None dared to stop and pull back lest they be attacked while unprepared. So, with ordinary people having little say about going to war, millions died to make the world safe for democracy. But when the Allies won, we gutted Germany’s economy, driving it into poverty. The people were punished for what their leaders did.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly while watching the POWs make merry in the snow. “So, here we are again, and this time because an ambitious corporal with a silly mustache seized power and mesmerized the population with his rhetoric.”

  “He didn’t do it alone,” Lance rejoined.

  “Sadly, that’s true. And as Herr Hitler grew stronger, European governments pandered to him, including our own. Even the US has its Nazi sympathizers to this day.”

  The two men stood silently watching the activity on the courtyard. Then Pat sighed and clapped Lance on the back. “Well, we talked about the mess despite our intent not to. It’s Christmas.” He gestured toward the theater. “The party’s begun. Let’s celebrate.”

  “What shall we celebrate, sir?”

  “Do you mean aside from the birth of Christ?” Pat rubbed his chin and looked about. “How about that we’re alive, and we’ll form friendships here to last a lifetime?” He extended his hand. “Merry Christmas, Lance Littlefield.”

  Lance found the Poles to be a jovial lot if a touch on the dark side. Wide-faced and beaming, they greeted their guests with all the enthusiasm of having found long-lost cousins. “Please, come in. Come in.”

  They had laid out a table buffet-style with food received in parcels from their homeland that included bits of pork, chicken, and beef with bread and sausages, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, and sour cream laced with marjoram and other spices. On another table, they had spread out plum cake; kolaches with poppy seeds; nuts, jams, and other fruit mixtures; apricot-raisin rugelach; and an assortment of angelwing and thumb cookies.

  Lance stared, mesmerized, and his mouth watered. Pat constrained him with a patient grin. “Let’s say hello to our hosts first, shall we.”

  Polish Senior Officers Rear-Admiral Unrug and Lieutenant-General Pishkor stood together at the center of the room with Guy. Pat exchanged greetings with them, and then introduced Lance. “This is our newest addition.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Pishkor said. “We saw you come in yesterday.” He shot a sly glance at Guy. “Word reached us that Sergeant Littlefield is dedicated to the craft of escaping and with some success. With your approval, I’ll introduce him to our best and they can compare notes and generate ideas.”

  “Brilliant,” Guy rejoined. “Lance, does that suit you?”

  “I couldn’t ask for more.”

  The chairs, normally set in rows for a theater audience facing the stage, had been rearranged so that the POWs could gather in groups for conversation while they shared their meals. Despite the circumstances, the room filled with laughter and storytelling. Then, the men pulled the emptied tables aside and re-set the chairs in their normal positions. German guards stood around the periphery and circulated through the gathering occasionally, but they remained less obtrusive than normal.

  The Poles had written and rehearsed a hilarious rendition of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The man General Pishkor introduced to Lance, Miloš, was to be in the starring role. He and Lance sat together with a mixed group of Br
its and Poles.

  “We’ll talk later, more seriously,” he told Lance in broken English as he left the group after he had finished his meal. “Time for dress-up. I must put on my tutu and makeup.” He guffawed. “Enjoy the show.”

  Lance observed the details of the room while enjoying his new comrades. It had obviously not been intended as a theater, the stage having been built at a later time. The foyer led to the main entrance, and through a window that overlooked the courtyard from three stories up, Lance observed the clock tower at the opposite end with the German quarters on the other side of the chapel. That means the partition behind the stage should be the outside wall.

  While the chairs were being re-set, he edged close to the stage, and at one point he backed against it, running his boot into it. Plywood. It’s hollow under there.

  Maneuvering unobtrusively, he checked out both sides of the stage. They abutted against the wall with no doors leading anywhere.

  Struck suddenly with the strange sensation of being watched, he glanced around the room. From the other side, Pat observed him. The two lifted their glasses to each other and smiled. A short while later Pat sidled up to him.

  “You don’t rest on your laurels, do you, Sergeant?”

  “Not if I can help it, sir. I’d like to look under that stage.”

  Pat smiled. “It’s been checked out. That’s the outer wall. On the other side of that plaster is solid stone. Even if you could get through it, you’re facing that one-hundred-foot drop after you get down the three stories of this building.”

  Lance contemplated that. “I’d still like to see for myself.”

  “All right. I’ll get some of the blokes to join me on stage at the end of the performance to congratulate the Poles for a job well done. Behind the curtain is a cutout in the floor. The Germans haven’t discovered it. I’ll show you where it is. You’ve got half an hour at most. After that, the party will be considered over, and the guards will usher us out. If you’re caught, you’ll spend time in the cooler.”

  “Then I mustn’t get caught.”

  17

  December 29, 1940

  Stony Stratford, England

  “Having you here for these days has been so good,” Claire told Ryan as the two women strolled down the garden path to the car parked in the driveway where Paul stood waiting. She gripped Ryan’s arm, squeezed it, and whispered, “I wish you could stay longer, but it’s wonderful to see Paul being so interested in you. I believe you’re the first girl he’s seriously cared for. He’s chosen well.”

  “I’m flattered,” Ryan replied, laughing lightly in embarrassment. “We’ll see where it leads.”

  “If we survive this war,” Claire said, chuckling, “anyone who sees you together can see where it’s likely to lead. Apparently, Mr. Churchill had a hint. Paul told me how he took steps to keep the two of you in contact with each other.” She elbowed Ryan playfully. “Timmy could use a playmate in the family.”

  Ryan blushed a deep red. “Oh, stop it. I need to keep my head on straight.” She glanced furtively at Paul. “I worry about him. I have no idea where he’s going when he leaves here, or what he does, but I know it must be terribly important.”

  “This war keeps people separated with their secrets,” Claire observed. “It’s a strange, strange situation.”

  “I envy you,” Ryan said, casting a glance about the garden and then back at Claire. “I’m proud of what I do—”

  “Which is another secret,” Claire interrupted. “Paul warned me not to ask.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that. As I was saying, what I do is crucial and I’m happy to be doing it, but I see the carnage from a distance, and it saddens me. And of course, we’re all living through this blitz. You’re so lucky to be able to be on this estate and just take care of Timmy.”

  Claire smiled wryly. “I know,” she said softly. “I should be doing more.”

  “Oh no,” Ryan cried, concerned. “I didn’t mean my comment that way. Our children must be cared for, and you gave Timmy a home. It’s just— Well, I see things I wish I didn’t.”

  “It’s all right,” Claire said. They reached the end of the garden path. “I admire you, and I’m happy for Paul that he found you.”

  “I think I just insulted your sister,” Ryan told Paul as they drove off. “I didn’t mean to.” She told him of the exchange between her and Claire. “I didn’t intend to make light of what she does. The home is what we fight for, and she’s at the heart of it. That’s what I meant to say.”

  “Don’t worry,” Paul assured her as he turned onto the main road. “She wouldn’t feel slighted in the least, but I’ll pass along your concern when I get back this evening.” He started to say something, then stopped himself and added, “I can tell you only this about Claire: she’s active in the war in ways she can’t talk about, even to me.”

  Ryan stared at him in disbelief. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets.” She shook her head. “Just dealing with what you can and can’t say to whom is difficult enough, and then there are the secrets themselves, sometimes too awful to contemplate that they’re real.” She sighed. “When will I see you again?”

  Paul exhaled. “I don’t know. I’ll fly out within the next few days, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Ryan leaned her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes. “So, we’re back to sending notes to each other via diplomatic pouch and I can’t know where mine go?”

  Paul nodded. “I’m afraid that is the case.”

  “Then I want to say something to you, Paul Littlefield. I want to give my heart to you, but I won’t, not now. If even your destination is so secret, then your assignment must be very dangerous, and you might not come back.” She wiped her eyes as tears formed. “I won’t be able to stop thinking of you, and I’ll worry about you, and I’ll be ever so glad to see you when you come home, but if the worst occurs, I might not even be informed, and I’ll go a lifetime wondering what happened. I’ll need to move on.”

  Dusk approached. Paul glanced at the skies. “I expect that the Luftwaffe will begin dropping its incendiaries for the night soon. We need to get you to your flat before that starts up.”

  Then he glanced at Ryan, seeing startled anguish on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive. You’re pouring your heart out to me, and I’m talking about bombs.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not good at this. Obviously, I have strong feelings for you. If times were different, I might already be on one knee in front of you, holding a little box, and hoping against hope—” He stopped talking, seemingly amazed at the implications of what he had just said. “I mean I understand what you’re saying and wouldn’t ask you to put your life on hold for me.”

  Ryan scooted closer to him, leaned her head on his shoulder, and draped her arm across his chest. “Shh,” she murmured. “Say no more. I think we understand each other.”

  Paul reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “Just one more thing I’ll say. To borrow my sister’s favorite line, things will work out for the best. You’ll see.”

  RAF Middle Wallop

  Jeremy punched the starter button on his fighter’s dashboard and listened to the mammoth engine on his right sputter as the propeller began a slow rotation, gained speed, and settled into a roaring whir. He repeated the sequence with the left engine.

  “Are you settled in?” he called back to Farlan.

  “Our magic box is humming,” Farlan replied. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Jeremy completed his pre-flight checklist and contacted the tower. Moments later, his Beaufighter lifted from the end of the runway as the rim of the sun sank over the horizon. He cleared the airfield at Middle Wallop and established radio contact with his combat controller at RAF Sopley, call-signed “Starlight.” Then he told Farlan over the intercom, “Our daytime fighters have already engaged Nazi bombers along the eastern coast. The Germans are heading for London.

  “We’re the third figh
ter in flight from our squadron. The pilots in the three coming up behind us are inexperienced at night fighting. This is their first patrol with us, so keep a close eye out for anything that strays into our vicinity that we’re not specifically pursuing. Let me know about it and be ready for immediate evasive action. I’m sure Starlight will keep us well apart, but extra caution won’t hurt.”

  “Blimey,” Farlan said, a trace of irony in his tone, “I think I can handle that.”

  “A bit touchy tonight, are we?” Jeremy shot back, grinning. “Listen,” he said, setting banter aside, “Starlight informed me that the incoming formation is very large. Its aircraft are spread out, so sighting them will be difficult. They appear headed for London. Starlight said that the leading elements are dropping their incendiaries on the historic district around St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

  Darkness settled in rapidly, and from his high vantage at fifteen thousand feet, he saw from an orange glow visible out this distance that the Luftwaffe had already reached London and dropped tons of incendiaries.

  “The bombers that follow will use those fires as beacons to drop their heavy munitions,” Farlan muttered over the intercom. “Bollocks! Can’t they be satisfied with slaughter? They’ve got to take down our national symbols too?”

  “St. Paul’s is an easy target,” Jeremy replied. “I’m surprised they didn’t go for it sooner. If the goose-steppers have in mind to destroy our will by destroying our symbols and culture, that target is an obvious choice.”

  “And we’ll stop them,” Farlan replied grimly.

  Jeremy orbited, awaiting instruction from Starlight. Far to the northeast, mid-air bursts originating from anti-aircraft guns outlined the coast and marked a corridor parallel to the Thames as German heavy bombers flew inland. Sporadically, machine gun tracers and canon fire marked an engagement between the last British daytime fighters and either bombers or German fighters still engaging before braving a dark sprint back to the coast and across the Channel to their airfields in France.