Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Of course I’ll go,” Claire sniffed. “How could I do otherwise?”

  61

  September 15, 1941

  Epping, England

  The trip from Stony Stratford had not taken long. Jeremy had driven up the night before from RAF Middle Wallop, spent the night, and escorted Claire and Timmy to Epping, a town that Winston Churchill had served while a member of parliament, situated seventeen miles northeast of London in the county of Essex. The crowd was not large, mainly because of wartime restrictions and rationing.

  The intelligence officer for 71 Squadron, Robbie Robinson, hosted the wedding and reception, having arranged for the ceremony at a local church and a luncheon afterward at a nearby inn. He met the Littlefields and Timmy at the door and led them to their seats.

  Perhaps because time had passed since learning of Red’s passing, Claire found the prospect of attending the affair not as difficult as she had thought it would be. She expected sad moments, but she looked forward to seeing Andy and meeting his bride.

  The ceremony, held in a centuries-old chapel, was short. One of Andy’s squadron mates, Vic Bono, a pilot officer neither Jeremy nor Claire had met before, stood as best man. He comported himself well, but Claire found that she once more fought tears on seeing Vic standing where Red should have been. Unfortunately, most of the squadron were on readiness and could not attend the festivities, so most of the guests came from among Penny’s family and friends.

  Seeing the couple together, Claire was amazed at the similarities between their faces. Same cheek structures, same shape of lips, eyes, and noses, and even the same height, although with her hat, Penny appeared slightly taller. She was pretty and vivaciously feminine; he was decidedly masculine. Together, Claire thought they made a cute and happy couple.

  At the luncheon, Timmy fidgeted through the routine of toasts and speeches. Claire and Jeremy took turns bouncing him on their knees and otherwise amusing him. She noticed that Penny, while beaming as a bride would, carried an air of uncertainty and sadness which she seemed to share with Andy through exchanged glances that carried an endearing sense of intimacy. Seated at a table facing their guests, they reached for each other and held hands. For his part, Andy listened to the toasts and speeches; and then suddenly, he stood.

  As if seized by premonition, Claire gulped and turned to search Jeremy’s face for an indication of what might take place. His eyes were on Andy.

  “I’d like to say something,” Andy began, and a hush fell over the crowd as if everyone might have anticipated his intention. He held a glass of wine in his hand. “A week and a day ago,” he said, “I lost the best friend I’ve ever had, Pilot Officer Red Tobin.” His eyes turned red and his voice broke. He struggled to continue. “You know our story, so I won’t tell it again.”

  Taking a deep breath, he went on. “I want to say—”

  He took another deep breath as his lips quivered. “I want to say that he should be here.” He shook his head. “No. I mean to say that Red, you are here.” He placed his right hand over the left side of his chest and looked skyward. “In my heart, where you will always be.”

  He gazed across the crowd. “And so, I propose a toast to you, Red. Those who knew you well, loved you. You fooled the FBI. You fought the British bureaucracy and made them take us. Without you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Fighting tears and sniffles, the guests lifted their glasses and drank to Red.

  Struggling to control her emotions, Claire grabbed Jeremy’s arm with both hands and squeezed it, biting her lower lip. Finding it a losing battle, she buried her face in a kerchief and turned. Jeremy leaned over her protectively while Timmy rested his head on her knee.

  Moments later, a woman above them said, “I’m so sorry. May I help?”

  Jeremy looked up. Penny stood there. “I’ve heard so much about you, Claire. You meant a lot to our lost eagles, and you still do, to Andy—”

  Just then, a deep, throaty roar rode the air, grew in volume, and descended on the guests. Recognizing the sound, Jeremy looked skyward. Two Hurricanes, flying barely above the rooftop, zoomed over the gardens. As they cleared the reception area, they waggled their wings, lifted their noses, and climbed almost vertically in the sky. They reached their zenith and rounded their loops with their cockpits down. Then, as they screamed toward earth, they rotated upright, flew low over the reception once more, and departed, executing barrel rolls.

  While the Hurricanes performed their antics, the guests cheered in amazement at the maneuvers. Spirits rose. Timmy watched the performance in wonder, at first fearful, and then jumping up and down and pointing with delight.

  “Would you like to come with me?” Penny asked Claire. “I’d love to spend some time getting to know you and introducing you to my family and friends. Bring Timmy along. They’ll love him.”

  Claire looked at Jeremy uncertainly.

  “Go on,” he said. “You’ll feel better. Andy’s coming this way. We can catch up.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Andy said. “Claire too.” He and Jeremy had retired to a quiet place on the grounds. The other guests had given them space to visit. Most were pleased to shower attention on Timmy, the little boy most of them had heard of for being saved from the shipwreck.

  Jeremy looked into the sky. “That was a terrific display those Hurricanes put on. Were they your mates from the 71st?”

  Andy nodded with a slight smile. “The two who flew over the inn were Bill Geiger and Ed Bateman. That was Bono’s idea. They couldn’t be here because it’s too far by car when they’re on readiness—which they are now—but it’s only a few minutes by air, and if they’re scrambled, their controller would divert them to where they needed to be.

  “I saw four more buzz the village. They’ll probably pay hell for that. Today is market day in Epping, and flying that low, I’m sure they scattered pigs, chickens, sheep, not to mention scaring the townspeople. The mayor’s a good man, though, and so are the villagers. They’ll forgive rambunctious young pilots who risk their lives daily for them and want to celebrate a mate’s wedding.”

  “I heard you were shot down and wounded last month. How well are you mending?”

  Andy grinned. “What you heard was probably exaggerated—and happened at Middle Wallop over a year ago before you joined us.”

  Taken aback, Jeremy chuckled. “One of your mates just told me about it a few minutes ago. You never mentioned it.”

  “It wasn’t much of a deal. My only injuries were a wounded ego and a bruised back.”

  “I heard that your Spitfire took twenty-nine hits from 20 mm canon and machine gun fire—eight through the prop, twenty through the fuselage, and one through the armor plating—a total loss.”

  “Yep, I’m surprised they let me fly again,” Andy joked. “I had to get better at evasive maneuvers.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re well and safe. And congratulations! Penny is beautiful and sweet. Her gesture to Claire just now was kind and will be remembered. And well done on your promotion to command too.”

  Andy smiled. “I’m a lucky man, Jeremy. When my parents escaped Stalin, they never saw the Battle of Britain or the blitz in my future. I came through, and now I’m married to an heiress.” He chuckled. “That boggles my mind. I think what she saw in me must be how alike we look. Anyway, who knows what will happen next?” He sighed and tossed his head. “Tell me what you’re doing now. The last time we saw each other, you were in night fighters. Since Hitler isn’t bombing us every night lately, what are you flying?”

  “Nothing now,” Jeremy lamented. “My agreement with Major Crockatt was that I’d come back to MI-9 when the air war over Britain had come to an end. He got that in writing from Air Chief Marshal Dowding. The raids have pretty much wound down, so I’m out of the skies and back to ground-pounding.”

  “Ah, I pity you. Does that mean you’re back to covert work in France? Will you get to see Amélie?”

  “Right now, I seem to be on perpetu
al waiting on account of weather, but yes, that’s the plan. Going back to MI-9 was my choice, to do covert work in France. I hope to see Amélie, but I don’t want to put her in greater jeopardy. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen her. By now, she probably doesn’t remember me, and you know what surrounds women in France—French men.”

  Andy grunted. “Those French men have as much on their plates these days as we do, and no one who saw you and Amélie together would believe she’s forgotten you.” He glanced around. “Look, here’s a piece of friendly advice from a buddy—or mate, as you would say. If I’ve learned nothing else in this war, it’s that none of us knows how much time we have. If you love that girl and if you get another chance, you’d better grab her and don’t let go.

  “Hell, make the chance if you have to. You’re tenacious enough. She might look small and harmless, but those of us who know how she’s handled all the crap in France know that she’s one rare, tough cookie, worth fighting for to keep in your life.” He paused. “Not to mention that she’s beautiful.” He clapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “Anyway, that’s my advice.”

  Jeremy smiled. “We think alike.” He glanced into the sky, contemplating. “You know, of the seven ‘eagles’ on the roster of The Few, only you, Donahue, and a chap named Haviland are left.”

  Andy clapped him on the shoulder. “I try not to think about that too much.”

  “Sorry. My point is that you all sacrificed a great deal to fight for Great Britain, and you’re still here. We’ll never forget what you’ve done, I promise you. Our nation is grateful.”

  Andy nodded acknowledgment. “When Red and I first talked about crossing the pond, we intended to join the Finns against the Soviet Union. Shorty had the same idea, but we left Canada too late. The Finns were beaten. So then, we were going to fight for France. We watched that defeat up close and had to skedaddle across the Channel to the white cliffs. This whole escapade started as a lark for us, an adventure. We knew we could be killed. None of us thought we would be, but—” He shrugged and remained silent a moment. “We learned about courage and endurance from you, your family, and your country. We stayed because it’s the right fight. You reminded me of what my parents went through, escaping Stalin to get to freedom.” He chuckled. “Basically, the same struggle the United States went through to get our liberty.”

  Jeremy laughed. “That’s a bit of a strained analogy. Regardless, it seems the colonies have made a go of it on their own after all.”

  “And on that note, let’s rejoin the party, shall we?”

  “Yes, but just one more question. When do you take command of your flight at 133 Eagle Squadron?”

  “In three days.”

  September 22, 1941

  The Downs Near Petworth, UK

  “I’m not optimistic about the weather,” Bunny told Jeremy. The team had been driven back to the Bertrams’ house that morning. “I give us no chance of getting out today and little tomorrow. We’re getting too late in the year. The cross-Channel weather is terrible, and we’re not like the bombers and fighters—we can’t fly above it. We have to go in low, sometimes only fifty feet above the ground, and of course, always at night.”

  He glanced somberly at Jeremy. “I heard about your friend, Red Tobin. I’m sorry.”

  “It happens,” Jeremy said, keeping his emotion buried. “So now we sit.”

  “As we’ve done for much of the war, around the dispersal huts,” Bunny responded. “This isn’t much different.” He looked around at the well-appointed warmth of the Bertrams’ living room. “Except that it’s more comfortable here.”

  “That it is,” Jeremy said, picking up a magazine and sinking into one of the overstuffed chairs while looking out the window at the rolling countryside. “That it is.”

  62

  October 8, 1941

  RAF Sealand, Wales, UK

  Andy lowered the landing gear on his Hurricane, tail number Z3781. He flared, settled onto the runway, and taxied to a refueling station, waved in by ground crew. The six fighters from his 133 Eagle Squadron’s Blue Flight followed him. Nearby the kites belonging to Red Flight and the four spare aircraft followed suit at another station. The trip from RAF Fowlmere had been uneventful.

  Several days prior, the pilots of the entire squadron had grumbled while being briefed regarding their next posting to RAF Eglington in Northern Ireland. Squadron Leader George Brown had raised a hand for quiet. “Fighter Command decided that we need more flight training,” he told them.

  “It’s called the island of never-ending rain,” someone had called out. “How will we train when the weather is always meant for ducks?”

  “I understand, gentlemen, but ours is not to pick and choose—”

  “Ours is but to do and die—in foul weather. Pun intended.”

  The room had erupted in scornful laughter.

  Once more, Brown called for quiet. “Let’s be serious a moment, shall we? You’re all good pilots, but you’re not yet accomplished combat pilots. On your first day at Fowlmere, you watched the class before yours celebrate their graduation with a station fly-past. No one needs reminding of the catastrophe when one of the instructors flew into and sawed off the tail of another instructor, who was a hero of the Battle of Britain. And only twelve days ago, two of your squadron mates, Walt Soares and Charlie Barrell, collided on final approach. You all attended their funerals.

  “So, don’t tell me that you’re ready for battle without more practice. I understand that you came over from America to fight, but we must give you the utmost chance of surviving the battles unscathed, and part of that is through training.”

  Then the disgruntled mood in the room changed to ringing cheers when Brown announced, “And by the way, while at Eglinton, you’ll be trading your Hurricane MK 11Bs for Supermarine Spitfire IIAs.”

  In the interim to their departure, the grumbling did not entirely cease. However, by the time the day had come and pre-checks had been completed, the squadron had accepted their lot. They had lifted into the air this morning with only the normal back-and-forth joshing, characteristic of military everywhere.

  They had landed for fuel at Sealand an hour after takeoff, and each pilot had his fighter serviced. While they waited, Andy and Brown stood together studying the sky over the sea, visible beyond the runway toward Ireland.

  “Those clouds don’t look good,” Andy said.

  “Agreed. The next stop is Andreas Airfield on the Isle of Man. That’s a little shorter than the distance we just flew. Unless a storm blows up, we should be all right.”

  “I hope. The last leg is a little farther than the first one.”

  “Let’s brief the men. If we get into sticky weather, they’ll have to make individual judgment calls about turning back to Sealand or continuing on to Andreas.”

  Apprehension seized Andy as he led his flight back into the skies heading out over the Irish Sea. The sky had grown darker, and winds buffeted his Hurricane. Scanning the fighters under his charge, he saw them being tossed about just as he was.

  “Blue Flight,” he called, “increase your interval. Pay attention to your instruments. This will be a rough ride.”

  As he listened for each pilot to acknowledge, his mind went to Penny. “Pretty Penny,” he had started calling her.

  “That’s so gauche,” she had responded, but she liked it.

  He could hardly believe his luck when they first met, and she had showed him particular attention. Before then, whenever he, Red, and Shorty went out together, Red had always been the one the girls sought out—well, before Red had suddenly quieted down and become withdrawn. That had puzzled Andy. What happened to him?

  Andy was known for being audacious in his own right, but until the time that Red had collapsed, he could never seem to escape the tall pilot’s shadow. Did his collapse have something to do with the way he withdrew from everyone?

  In any event, lively, friendly, partyer Penny had shown no interest in anyone else from the moment they met, and
he was thrilled to be with her. She had been upset at the news that the 133rd would transfer to Northern Ireland. “That’s so far away,” she had cried. “I won’t get to see you.”

  “I’ll be back somewhere in England in three months,” he had assured her, “and I’ll spend every moment with you that I’m not flying.”

  Early this morning, before leaving their house, she had wept. “I can’t be left alone.”

  He tried to comfort her. “Darling, you have lots of friends to keep you company.”

  She had shaken her head miserably. “I have lots of people who like to be around me because I have lots of money.” She had kissed him and held him passionately. “You didn’t know I was rich when we met, and I didn’t bring it up.”

  “I learned that tidbit from Claire last Christmas. I was in shock.”

  “I remember.” She laughed through her tears. “I thought you were going to break up with me because you thought you couldn’t measure up.” She threw her arms around Andy’s neck and whispered, “I wouldn’t have anyone else. I love you.”

  A sense of misgiving overtook Andy. The last thing Penny told me was, I love you. Did I respond?

  For a fleeting moment, knowing the answer to that question overrode everything else. Then a strong gust thrust Andy high. The clouds had grown darker and thicker. He checked his instruments, in particular his lateral pitch. Step on the ball.

  A stout headwind burned up his fuel. Darkness closed around him. Peering through it, he saw none of his flight-mates.

  His radio crackled. “Blue Leader, this is Blue Five. I’m feeling the onset of vertigo. Heading back.”

  “Blue Leader, this is Blue Six. Ditto.”