Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Must have been a stray release,” Paul said. “What now? I left my torch in my car.” He pursed his lips. “That’s gone.”

  “I have one,” Marguerite volunteered while fumbling in her purse.

  “I do too,” Bill said. “I still plan to get as close to the center as I can. Marguerite?”

  “I’m going with you. We still have a story to do.”

  “You’re welcome to come along,” Bill told Paul. “Sorry about your car. We’ll have to hoof it.”

  Paul heaved a grim sigh. “If by that you mean we’ll have to walk, no problem. We have no choice, and I’ll come with you for the time being. I’m sure we’ll run into rescue squads and fire teams needing volunteers. I’ll stay with them and you two can go on.” He looked about, trying to see landmarks to give him a sense of direction. “We were traveling east when we ran into the wall of flame. I suggest we go south toward the Thames and then cut along as close to the river as we can. At least that way, we might have a puddle of water to jump into if the fire gets too close again.”

  As they made their way through the streets, Paul became aware of how the war must be affecting his people. In New York, he had walked the streets with no fear. Now, with the drone of aircraft overhead, he found himself acutely attuned to other sounds around them. They occurred infrequently, the quiet being deafening aside from the distant German bombers, but they added a heightened feeling of imminent danger from any direction, and thus to his sense of hearing. He found himself reacting to any disharmony that broke the night, no matter how small.

  An hour later, he and his companions trudged past Covent Garden and then Leicester Square before turning east. Minutes later, they found the Savoy Hotel, and as they drew near, they saw to their surprise that it was open and doing business. Smudged, dirty, and reeking of smoke, they entered, hoping to quench their thirst.

  Inside, they were astonished to find life continuing as though nothing of consequence were going on. Music played. Well-heeled guests moved about in their evening finery. The concierge gave the three a disapproving look as they passed by him, and staff members went about their tasks with only passing glances in the direction of far-off explosions as they occurred.

  “Is this for real?” Bill remarked. He led them to the restaurant, where the maître d’ objected to their entry.

  Paul stepped forward. “I don’t think you want to refuse us,” he said. “You know me. I come here often with my sister, Claire Littlefield. I’m Paul. But in any case, tonight of all nights, you shouldn’t be refusing anyone.”

  The maître d’ stepped back and scrutinized him. “Ah, yes. Mr. Littlefield.” His eyes traveled the height of Paul’s body. “I didn’t recognize you. You look like you’ve been through a bit of a wringer.”

  “The city’s been through the wringer.” Paul took a breath to keep his annoyance in check. “We’re tired, we’re hungry, and we’re thirsty. Will you please show us to a table? We’ll be staying only long enough to rest a little and then we’ll be on our way.” He glanced around at the disapproving looks from patrons scattered about the foyer and the restaurant. “We have no wish to scandalize your guests,” he seethed, “so give us a table out of the way.”

  When they were seated, Paul noticed Bill and Marguerite eyeing him curiously. “Who are you?” Marguerite asked. “You’ve got influence here, and that’s not easily acquired.” Her brow furrowed. “Paul Littlefield. The name sounds familiar, but not quite. Littlefield.” She squinted as she reached back into her memory.

  “You’ve probably heard of my brother, Jeremy Littlefield. He was in the news a few months back.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Bill interjected. “He saved that kid from the shipwreck. Very heroic. And your parents are on Sark Island, right?” He stopped talking as Marguerite elbowed him. “I’m sorry. That was senseless of me. You’ve been good to us. We won’t turn this into an interview, I promise, but I’m curious about your brother. What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s a fighter pilot, but God only knows where. For all I know, he could be up there now with the night fighters going after the Luftwaffe. I’m afraid our family has been fragmented by this war and keeping up with each other is difficult.”

  “I can imagine.”

  While they waited for a menu, Paul observed his companions. Until entering the hotel, he had not been able to see them clearly. Marguerite was trim, with an oval face, dark eyes, and light brown hair. She bore a serious yet playful expression, but her demeanor left no doubt that she could be assertive if need be. She dressed professionally in a brown skirt with a matching jacket and low heels. Paul imagined that their walk across town must have been agonizing, but she made no complaint.

  Bill was tall with a muscular build, broad shoulders, a strong chin, studious eyes, and full, dark hair. He wore a business suit, although he had loosened his tie. Both he and Marguerite appeared around Paul’s age, and they interacted with each other as though from long and friendly association. “Let’s eat and be on our way,” he said, signaling to a passing waiter.

  20

  “Blazer Two Six, this is Starlight. We have fresh formations crossing the Channel. I’m going to vector you south and bring you around behind them, but first go to Angels 35 and orbit until I call you.”

  “Okay, on my way.” Jeremy switched to intercom. “Sergeant, are you seeing anything?”

  “Negative,” he replied, clipping the word with an irritated tone.

  Surprised, Jeremy called back to him, “Is something wrong?” When Farlan did not immediately respond, he repeated the question.

  “You’re the pilot, sir, and I follow orders. But must you get that close to pull the trigger? A few more seconds in that last attack, and you’d have rammed that big boy. I’m here to kill the Hun, not offer up a sacrifice.”

  Stung, Jeremy took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Sergeant Pirie, I appreciate your experience and skill, and that you’re up here risking your life. What you’re not seeing is what I’m seeing, and that’s precious little in this blackness. Below us, the capital of the country we cherish is on fire. We’re told that the target is St. Paul’s Cathedral. I don’t know if that means anything to you, but to Anglicans worldwide, and particularly those living in Great Britain, it’s a symbol. If it falls, the result could be a catastrophic blow to our countrymen and others who hold it dear.

  “Further, to hit the target, I must see it. I can’t just think I see it or guess that it must be in front of me or pull my triggers on a hope and a prayer. When I flew in the Battle of Britain, the most successful fighter pilots were the Poles. They accounted for better than fifteen percent of German hits but made up less than three percent of the total number of pilots. Their secret was that they pushed to within two hundred and fifty feet of the target while our doctrine had us firing from six hundred and fifty feet. And do you know why they were so daring? They learned it in Poland, fighting to save their country. And now, we’re fighting to save ours, and our doctrine has changed.

  “I’ll make just one more point, and then you can say whatever you like. When we approach a target, I must and do rely on you. I don’t question your skill or your judgment. Those were affirmed when you were recruited.

  “If you had told me to keep flying at full speed in the direction we were headed, I’d have done it without question. Now we’re getting ready to go around again and engage another big boy. If you’re not up to the task, tell me now, because as we get closer to the target, I don’t want a single doubt in my mind that you’re giving your best to our mission.”

  Silence.

  “Sergeant Pirie?”

  “You’re right, sir,” Farlan muttered. “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. We all have our moments.”

  “Blazer Two Six, Starlight here. We have your target.”

  Paul and his companions, having refreshed and rested, walked out from the main entrance of the Savoy. There, to their amazement, they found taxis providing service,
even as the distant explosions gave notice that the raid was still ongoing. They approached one and asked to be taken closer to St. Paul’s.

  “Like hell I will,” the driver said. “The fire between here and there is a furnace. You’re bonkers, the lot of you.”

  The second driver they queried expressed a similar sentiment albeit in more base terms. However, the third was exuberant. After they presented their credentials, he declared, “Of course I’ll take you. There’s a route open by the river, and they keep a street open going north from there for emergency vehicles. I’ll take you as far as I can, but the coppers will probably stop me before we get all the way in.”

  “Do you know anything about how the church is faring?” Paul asked as they made their way through the dark, smoke-filled streets. He sat in the front passenger’s seat.

  “It’s a strange thing,” the driver replied. “Almost all the neighborhoods and commercial centers around it are in flames, but so far, the cathedral seems untouched. I haven’t been allowed close enough to see for myself, but I can tell you that over a hundred parishioners refused to be turned away and showed up at the front door. They told the dean that they needed the comfort of the church and wanted to pray for its safety.” He laughed. “The dean couldn’t very well say that he doubted the power of their prayers, now could he? I should think not.”

  In the back, Marguerite leaned against her seat. “I think we’re going to the same destination, Paul. That’s where we’ll get our story, and that’s probably where your volunteer service might be very useful. I’m not questioning prayer, but I’m betting there’s at least an earthly reason why that cathedral still stands.”

  21

  Starlight called to Jeremy, “Blazer Two Six, you should be seeing your bandits at any moment.”

  “We have contact,” Farlan called from the rear.

  “Roger, Sergeant. Break.” Jeremy flipped his switch from intercom to radio. “Starlight, Blazer Two Six. We have firm contact. I’ll call back when it’s over.”

  “Roger. Starlight out.”

  “Guide me in,” Jeremy called back to Farlan.

  “He’s a thousand feet ahead of us. Nudge to starboard and raise the nose a tad. Maintain speed.”

  Jeremy complied, his heart beating rapidly and his hands already becoming clammy. His confrontation with Farlan came to mind, and he set it aside. No time to think about that now. But the essence of the sergeant’s concern persisted. Had Jeremy flown too close on the earlier engagement?

  “Eight hundred,” Farlan called.

  “Okay.” Slight frustration settled on Jeremy. He had seen the previous target from five hundred feet out. That was four hundred and fifty feet closer than doctrine had been before changing it, and plenty of bandits had gone down at that range. With only six night fighters in the sky against the hundreds of bombers flying over London carrying thousands of tons of incendiaries and highly explosive munitions, every shot had to meet its mark. The Germans had to be shown that the RAF had weapons to punish them at night, that they could no longer attack Great Britain with impunity. What was it his father had told him about the battle at Bunker Hill during the American Revolution? Then he remembered. William Prescott, an American officer holding out against an overwhelming British assault force and knowing that every lead musket ball must count, ordered his men, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”

  Same situation. Going against overwhelming forces. Every shot must count.

  “Four hundred.”

  “I see him. Closing in from below, straight ahead. I see the engine glow.”

  “Three hundred.”

  Once again, Jeremy pressed his triggers, and once again the Beaufort trembled and shook as it sprayed canon and machine gun rounds into the dark shape of the enemy bomber.

  Once again, fire erupted on the bandit, but this time it neither exploded nor fell out of control. Its nose dipped, and it began a slow descent to its left. Obviously, Jeremy had disabled the aircraft, but he had not put it completely out of commission. The pilot still had a modicum of control.

  “He’s down but not out,” Jeremy called back to Farlan. “Keep tracking him. I’m going around to get behind him again. He’s flaming enough that I can keep a visual on him. Break.” Jeremy flipped to his radio. “Starlight, we wounded the big boy, but he’s still flying. How’s the air around me? I’m going after him. Looks like he’s still headed to London.”

  “Okay. You have plenty of room and the air is clear at your altitude and for ten thousand feet above and below. Remain south of the Thames. If you don’t have him by then, let him go, or you’ll fly into our own anti-aircraft barrage.”

  Jeremy acknowledged and pulled his stick back and to his left while stomping on his pedal. The fighter responded, screaming into a tight turn while Jeremy searched the sky for the burning bomber. “Do you still have him on your tube?” he called to Farlan.

  “Affirmative. Hold your turn a bit longer. I’ll advise when to straighten out, and when you do, drop your nose. He’s descended a ways. We’ll come down on him from above.”

  As Jeremy executed the maneuvers, he contemplated the sergeant. The way that Farlan had addressed his concern about how close Jeremy came to the first target before shooting had been in bad form. Then again, with no control over the aircraft, and that being Farlan’s only complaint in a terrifying situation, Jeremy had to appreciate the tenacity to speak his mind to his superior officer while staying within the bounds of respect. Not an easy task under the circumstances. And he corrected immediately.

  “Roll out now on a northerly heading,” Farlan said. “I’ll feed you corrections.”

  “I see him now, down about ten degrees,” Jeremy replied.

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s burning brighter now. He’ll jettison his cargo soon if he can. How far to the Thames?”

  “About two minutes.”

  “Feed me proximity numbers. We’ve got to take him down. He’s heading straight for the dark spot within the ground fires. I’m guessing that’s where the cathedral is.”

  “We’re out two thousand feet from him now.”

  Jeremy rolled out of his turn and set his nose to center on the flaming bomber, clearly visible against the dark sky. Well beyond it, past the docks lining the Thames, he saw plainly the fires raging in London’s historic district; and at their center in a straight line, he saw the dark area where St. Paul’s must be.

  He thrust the throttle open wide and the fighter responded, ripping through the sky at maximum speed. The distance closed, but not fast enough, and the Thames grew closer and closer.

  “I’m going to try something,” Jeremy yelled back to Farlan. “Hang on, this is going to get rough. Keep that target in your tube.” He dropped the nose into a forty-five-degree dive and checked his throttle to be sure it was full open. Air speed accelerated, and he closed the horizontal distance rapidly, but at the point that he pulled his stick back to climb, the vertical distance was considerable, and the g-forces immense. He remembered to push his chest forward against his knees to control his breathing.

  “You still have him?” Jeremy yelled to Farlan. “Lock me in on him.”

  “Come to your right five degrees and lift your nose a tiny bit. That’s it. A bit more. There. You’ll have a straight shot. He’s still fifteen hundred feet out.”

  “We won’t reach him in time,” Jeremy called. “I still have my rockets, but the canons are empty, and my machine gun ammo is low. I’ll empty my magazines on him before he crosses the Thames, but they will be long shots. Maybe they’ll jam his bomb bay doors.”

  Thirty seconds later, short of the river, Jeremy leaned forward in the cockpit, gritted his teeth, and pressed his triggers in two-second bursts, doing his best to correct onto the target between successive shots. The Beaufort bucked through the sky as rockets and machine gun bullets streamed forward.

  Whether or not he hit anything was difficult to see from this distance. Some rockets f
lew past their target as, undoubtedly, so did some machine gun fire. Small flashes of high explosives hit the plane’s belly, but whether they caused damage, Jeremy could not tell.

  The bomber’s nose fell as it flew on, and its descent accelerated. Jeremy followed, but then, short of crossing the Thames, he rolled into a turn away from the river in such a way that he could still see the bomber through the top of his cockpit.

  “He’s dropped incendiaries. The fire outlines them,” he called back to Farlan, “but I’m not seeing any bombs.” As he continued to watch, the bomber flew past the dark area within the fire and then plunged into its outside perimeter nearly a mile further on. There, flames from multiple explosions reached high into the night sky.

  Later, as they walked together into the dispersal hut at RAF Middle Wallop while waiting to be refueled and re-supplied with ammunition, Farlan kept glancing at Jeremy with a worried look on his face. Jeremy noticed out of the corner of his eye.

  “Sir,” Farlan began haltingly, “I was out of line—”

  Jeremy interrupted him by clapping his shoulder. “You did brilliantly, Sergeant. Let’s get some coffee, shall we, or would you prefer tea?”

  22

  An hour before Jeremy’s engagement on the south side of the Thames near St. Paul’s, and despite their frenetic flight from fire and the hike through the smoke-filled streets to the Savoy, Paul, Marguerite, and Bill were aghast at the sight that greeted them as they began their one-mile taxi ride to the cathedral. The cab took a circuitous route owing to blocked-off streets, but a quick glance provided the reason for the detour: visible several blocks away, orange flames licked tall edifices, danced on the rooftops of low buildings, and leaped across streets to the fodder of yet more structures that fed the fiery, blistering beast. Even at this distance, they heard and felt the wind created by oxygen rushing in to replace that already consumed and heard the groans and shrieks of bending and collapsing frames as dwellings, factories, and storefronts cascaded in on themselves amid thick, black smoke.