Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Red looked in the other direction. Well below him, he saw Shorty’s plane and chuckled. He always did that when contemplating the mighty small man. For pilot characteristics, no two pals could be more different. Red, tall with his shocking red hair; Shorty not quite five feet tall, and dark. And then there was Andy, the penniless White Russian refugee, who fit between them to even out the averages.

  Yet no friends could be closer than this trio. “We were nearly torpedoed together crossing the Atlantic,” he muttered. “We dodged panzers in France and barely got out of there before the Germans took over. We fought the British bureaucracy to let us in this Royal Air Force.” He blew out a breath of air. “And now we’re the eagles, teaching the eaglets.” He wished Donahue had stayed with them. “He’s a good man and a terrific pilot.” He chuckled. “He thinks he’s mean, but he’s really more of a poet.”

  A voice over the radio ended his ruminations. “Eagle Squadron, single aircraft at Angels 15 headed toward convoy, origin and type unknown, at zero four five degrees, ten minutes out. Not ours. Could be lost in weather. Check out and take appropriate action.”

  “Okay. Break. Blue Leader, did you copy?”

  “Good copy. Break. Blue Flight, we’re going through the soup. We’ll have to dive at full power to intercept in time. Watch your distance. Level out at Angels 20. On my command. Acknowledge.”

  Listening to the radio traffic and hearing the other pilots respond, Red tensed with anticipation and dread as adrenaline coursed through his system. “Yeeha,” he yelled into the radio. “This is Blue Four. Roger.”

  “Contain yourself,” came the expected reply that managed to be terse with a ring of amusement. “No time for bravado. Those clouds are wicked.” He paused. “Blue Flight, dive now.”

  Red dipped his nose and throttled up, set his course, and adjusted his trim. Leaning forward and checking his left and right, he saw Andy and Shorty. The newbie pilot who had come in that morning would be closest to Blue Leader. The other veteran, Pilot Officer Nat Maranz, would be below and to Shorty’s right.

  Red’s Hurricane, battered by roaring winds, creaked and groaned as it streaked down through the thick moisture. Faster it dove, accelerating as it plunged through the roiling air. For a fleeting second, Red wondered what groundspeed would have been had he been flying straight and level. A sudden vertical drop riveted his attention to his altimeter.

  “Angels 30,” Blue Leader called.

  Moments passed.

  “Twenty-five.”

  More moments.

  “Coming up on twenty. Begin to level off. Maintain airspeed.”

  Red lifted his nose, re-set his trim, and scanned out and around him. The air in his immediate vicinity was wispy with dark clouds still hanging farther out. His squadron mates appeared, all accounted for.

  “Blue Flight, this is Control. The target is two minutes out from you at Angels 15.”

  “Roger. Break. Blue Flight, follow me in fast descent to fifteen. Confirm black crosses before we engage.”

  “Blue Leader, this is Blue Six,” Maranz called. “I see him at one o’clock low. Convoy not in sight.”

  “Blue Leader, this is Blue Five,” Shorty called. “I see him, an Me110, and black crosses. He’s seen us. He’s turning.”

  “Tally-ho.”

  Immediately, Shorty and Maranz dove toward the bandit. It had executed a sharp turn to the south and sped toward more dark clouds.

  Red followed, and as he did, a rare pang of anxiety struck him. The clouds seemed to be moving toward the squadron. Now he saw the enemy fighter, nose down in an erratic, evasive flight pattern headed toward the clouds, and behind him, Shorty and Maranz in pursuit.

  The German fighter flew to the bottom of the clouds, the North Sea waters churning below him. Shorty and Maranz entered the vapor in a dive about two thousand feet above him.

  Dread seized Red. He entered a steep dive and leveled out at one thousand feet over the sea, screaming toward the last point where he had seen the Messerschmitt. The clouds ahead had descended to meet the violent waves. The target was nowhere in sight.

  “Blue Flight, check your fuel. We’re getting low.”

  In response, the nervous voice of the newbie sounded through the radio. “This is Blue Two. Getting low.”

  “This is Blue Three,” Andy called. “Coming up against the margins.”

  “This is Blue Four,” Red said. “I can make it home, but I might have to walk a ways.”

  “This is Blue Leader. Cut the chatter. Blue Five?”

  Silence.

  “Blue Five, come in. How’s your fuel?”

  No response.

  “Blue Six, is Blue Five with you?”

  “We dove into a cloud. I don’t see him. My fuel is low.”

  “Blue Five, Blue Five, this is Blue Leader. Come in.”

  Red’s pang of anxiety formed into a pit in his stomach. He raced over the waves toward the base of the black cloud bank.

  “Blue Four, this is Blue Leader. Desist pursuit. Break. Blue Flight, reform. Break. Red One, this is Blue Leader. One lost. Inform Coast Guard that we have a probable man down in vicinity southwest of convoy. Break. Blue Flight, head for home.”

  Red and Andy trudged from their kites to the dispersal hut at Kirton Lindsey. The ground crew and the other pilots moved out of their way as they made their way to the tiny building, eyes fixed. Their story with Shorty was well known.

  For the rest of the day, the two sat and watched the runway, straining their eyes and ears whenever a hint of another aircraft passed by. Longer shadows marked the passage of the day into early evening with no news of Shorty. They sat together in the door of the hut as the end of their watch came and the other pilots departed.

  Sitting at the back of the hut, the squadron leader had watched them. As twilight marked the slight interim between day and night, he approached the pair. “Let’s go, chaps. If we get news, I’ll bring it to you personally.”

  He offered a lift in his car, but they declined and tramped the distance to their sleeping quarters. Neither slept that night, and when they arrived at the dispersal hut early looking for news, they learned that as yet, there was none.

  The day passed with no scrambles, news, or other events. Red and Andy passed it as they had so often in other airfields, dozing, sitting around, finding things to occupy their minds. On this day, however, nothing they did eased a shared growing anguish. The other pilots kept their distance.

  “What an irony,” Andy said at one point. “I’m hoping he was captured. At least he’d be alive.”

  Red nodded but said nothing.

  Early in the afternoon of the next day, an official sedan belonging to the Coast Guard stopped by the dispersal hut. An officer emerged and asked to see the squadron leader. He carried a bundle.

  Resting on two cots at the outside corner of the hut, Red and Andy saw him arrive and trail behind another pilot through the door. They exchanged anxious glances, climbed to their feet, and followed.

  “…this was all we found,” the officer was saying to the squadron leader. On the desk between them was a pair of very small, wet RAF boots. They could belong to only one person. Shorty.

  40

  February 20, 1941

  Stony Stratford, England

  Red met Jeremy and Claire at the door of The Bull. When they entered, Claire fought back tears, her eyes appearing hollow.

  On seeing Red, Claire threw her arms around him and sobbed on his shoulder. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she whispered, her words escaping through broken gasps.

  Jeremy put his arms around them both, and for moments, the three held each other, oblivious to the comings and goings of other patrons. The manager quietly guided people around them, and when the trio broke apart, he cleared the way ahead of them to a table where Andy waited for them. His eyes were red, and the signs of strain on his face equaled those of the others. Claire sat next to him while Jeremy and Red took seats across from them.

&nb
sp; “Please accept our condolences,” the manager said in a low voice. “We remember your friend well.”

  After he had left and the group was seated, Andy said, “Thanks for coming. This is where Shorty—" He tried to say something else, but he choked, dropped his eyes, and became silent, staring down into his hands.

  “We had some good times here,” Claire managed in a broken voice. “I shall never forget our sweet, wonderful friend.”

  “I was going to say,” Andy tried again, “that Shorty loved it here. He loved being with us at this pub.” His voice broke again. “As painful as it is, this is the best place to remember him.”

  Across the table, Red had scrunched his long body into his seat with his legs curled under the table and his chest leaning over its surface. He sat with an elbow resting on the arm of his chair while holding his face in one hand, hiding his eyes. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “We came over together, the three of us—me, Andy, Shorty. We—” His voice broke off.

  “I loved him,” Jeremy said. “He knew his life expectancy as a fighter pilot, but he—” His voice trailed off and he bit his lower lip.

  Claire dropped her head forward, pulling both hands back over her hair. “You all know that you probably won’t live long,” she cried. “This war is insane.” She looked up at each one of them. “How many of you will we lose before this is done.”

  Another figure appeared at the end of the table. Jeremy looked up to see Pilot Officer Arthur Donahue standing there, his face lined with sadness.

  “I heard,” he said. “May I join you?”

  The three men stood. “Of course,” Jeremy replied. “Thank you for coming.”

  The manager fetched another chair and seated Donahue at the end of the table. Then he remained as if he would like to speak but thought better of it and left.

  The group sat in silence for a while, and the manager returned. “May I say something?” He brought a calming presence, and the friends appreciated how he had always welcomed them. They nodded and directed their eyes toward him. “Our patrons don’t wish to intrude, but they remember all of you well—the American eagles who came to fight for us. They send their condolences and their gratitude for the sacrifices you make and for the pain you suffer. When and if you salute your lost friend this evening, they would like to join you in remembering him.”

  Claire sobbed quietly into a handkerchief. Red stood, wiped his eyes, and thanked the manager. Jeremy also stood. “We’ve lost loved ones,” he said. “Not just airmen, although this is the third close friend I’ve lost who flew with me in combat, not to mention those I was barely acquainted with when they went down; and there are many more of those. This war is chewing up our people and losing them is never easy.

  “When we lost Billy Fiske—” He fought for control and wiped an eye. “He was my mentor on fighter tactics. He didn’t die immediately. We, our squadron mates, waited for news of him, but he lingered, and so we went to his favorite pub and drank to him. Two days later, we lost Sandy, another dear friend, and we did the same thing. If they can look down and see us, I believe they would love to find us celebrating their lives in the places they most loved to be with us.”

  Struggling with emotion, he told the manager, “So, kind sir, we’ll take you up on your offer. If you’ll fill the mugs, we’ll put an end to this sadness and remember the lively, funny, biggest little pilot who was our mate.” He turned to Red, Andy, and Donahue. “We honor him best by getting back in the fight, at first light.”

  Mugs of ale were quickly passed out or refilled. Red toasted first. “Shorty, you were one hell of a pilot.” He lifted his mug. “We’ll fly the skies together again in the next life. I promise you. Happy landings in your new hunting grounds.”

  Andy followed. “He knew the risks. He believed in the fight.” He lifted his mug. “To Shorty.”

  The evening drifted, customers lingered and gradually gathered around to befriend, comfort, and thank the bereaved. Eventually, someone struck a chord on a piano in the corner, and the patrons broke into singing “We’ll Meet Again,” followed with rounds of “Roll Out The Barrel.” Late in the evening, when everyone stood and joined the Americans to sing “God Bless America” in honor of Shorty, not a dry eye remained.

  Later, at Claire’s house, Jeremy stopped into Timmy’s room. The other pilots had driven back to their airfields. Jeremy lifted the sleeping child into his arms, snuggled him against his chest, and pressed the warm, soft head against his cheek. Swaying gently, he stayed there for several minutes. Claire stood at the door looking on.

  After settling the little boy back in bed, Jeremy joined her in the living room. “Are you staying the night?” she asked.

  “I thought I might. I can spend time with Timmy in the morning.”

  Claire sat back and regarded him questioningly. “I’m naturally thrilled, but I thought you had to be ready at first light.”

  “Of course, we’re always in the fight,” Jeremy said. “At first light, I’ll go anywhere that I’m called, but as it happens, I don’t need to be back until early in the afternoon.”

  Puzzled, Claire continued to study him until Jeremy noticed. “What is it?”

  “You couldn’t have taken the day off or you wouldn’t need to be back until late tomorrow night.”

  “So?” Jeremy avoided her eyes and fidgeted with his fingers.

  “You’re not telling me something. I know you’ve left 609 Squadron because I called down there one day to see how you were doing. The person I spoke with said you’d transferred out but couldn’t tell me where you’d gone.”

  “I just moved across the airfield to the 604th. I’m still at Middle Wallop.”

  “The 604th,” Claire repeated. “The 604th. I’ve heard reference to that squadron somewhere.” She suddenly leaped to her feet, crossed to a table by the front window, and seized a newspaper sitting on its surface. Scanning past several headlines, she selected an article and started reading. Then she whirled around, her eyes big and round with anger and hurt. She advanced on Jeremy.

  “Oh, little brother,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, “don’t I have enough to weep over. Night fighting is the most dangerous flying there is. We’ve lost pilots left and right defending against the nighttime bomber raids.” Her eyes grew wide, and her breath came in short gasps. “You must have flown on that awful night on December 29 against St. Paul’s Cathedral, the longest bombing raid to date.”

  Jeremy climbed slowly to his feet. “I did, but it’s not like you think—”

  Claire suddenly rushed at him and pounded his shoulders with balled-up fists. “I’m going to lose you, aren’t I?” She sobbed into his chest. “Shorty’s gone, and we’re going to have little celebrations of life at the favorite pubs for each of you in a row.”

  Jeremy wrapped her in his arms and held her until she calmed down. Then he pressed a finger against the underside of her chin and raised her face to look into his eyes. “Look at me,” he said. “Night fighting is not like you think it is, not the type I do.”

  “It’s in the dark and it’s dangerous,” she insisted.

  “Look at that article again. I’m flying with Cat’s Eyes.”

  “You mean John Cunningham. He’s all anyone talks about all over London. That, and the rubbish about eating carrots.”

  To her surprise, Jeremy suddenly let go of her and bent over in fits of laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said as he fought to catch his breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, that’s what they’re saying in the papers, that the RAF selects pilots for exceptional vision, particularly at night. It fits night fighters with special glasses and feeds you a lot of carrots to maintain your vision. They even say that bowls of carrots are kept on your dining tables to make sure you get plenty of them.”

  Jeremy howled in fits of mirth. “Stop,” he begged. “You’re killing me.”

  “Would you please get control of yourself and tell me what is going on,�
�� Claire demanded. She crossed her arms and glared at him, with one foot tapping.

  Jeremy caught his breath and straightened up. “Read the article again. They call John ‘Cat’s Eyes’ because he’s shot down a lot more bombers at night than anyone. Everyone in the squadron’s shot down some. But notice our casualties.”

  “I didn’t see anything about your casualties,” Claire responded stubbornly. “I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  “None were mentioned because we had none. We did at first, but we’ve improved our tactics.”

  Claire wiped her eyes and threw Jeremy a searching look. “Explain.”

  Jeremy started toward her and once again fell into a fit of laughter. Catching himself, he said, “There are some things I can’t tell you. You understand that—” He took a deep breath to stave off yet more guffaws. “You know things from your work that you can’t tell me, and I don’t ask. Can I leave it that we want to keep our tactics a secret from the Germans for as long as possible?”

  Claire stared at him in disbelief. “So, you feed a line that our night fighter pilots are eating lots of carrots so they can see the enemy better?” Suddenly, she shook with a spontaneous peal of laughter.

  “Yes,” Jeremy said, thrown yet again into uncontrollable mirth. “And now every mother in England is feeding her children carrots to improve their vision.”

  Claire joined him. “And every little boy is snacking on them for better eyesight,” she cried, trying without success to hold back more laughter. “Stop,” she begged, fanning her face. “I can’t breathe.”

  “One more thing. You can’t tell anyone that it’s not true,” Jeremy roared, gasping for breath, his face red. “That’s classified.”

  Claire sank into the sofa and rolled, trying to recover control. “You’re serious?” she said at last while wiping her eyes.

  Jeremy sat on the floor with his back against the wall, took a deep breath, and nodded. “You’ve deduced more than you should. I know you’ll hold your tongue.”