England Expects (Empires Lost)

by Jackson, Charles S.

  “Och, Ah dunno if that’s such a good idea… it’s been a long time between drinks…!”

  “Come on, Eileen…!” Davies goaded kindly, making her flinch as he mimicked the chorus of the Dexys Midnight Runners song of the same name from 1982, completely unaware that Donelson had suffered through years of teasing during her childhood because of that very song. “Why’d you bring the music with you, if you weren’t gonna sing some of it now and then?”

  “Give it a go, Ma’am,” Lloyd continued. “It’s a great idea! We’re already making fools of ourselves up here…what have you got to lose…?”

  “Whaddya say, everyone…?” Thorne called out to the audience, knowing what he was doing would either make or break the situation. “Who’d like to hear some great songs from a beautiful lady tonight?” The cheers and applause that rose throughout the mess was the first display of anything resembling enjoyment anyone had experienced so far that night, and although the reaction served to turn Eileen’s face even redder – if that was actually possible –she also couldn’t help but recognise the positive effect it was having on what’d otherwise been a sour and almost painful experience.

  “You’re gonna be great and you know it,” Thorne added softly off-mike, barely audible from that distance. “I know it…!” He shrugged and gave her a genuinely caring smile. “Like Evan says: what’ve you got to lose…?”

  “All right… all right!” The mounting pressure from all sides finally became too much for the blushing commander and she capitulated, rising to her feet as she waved both hands broadly for everyone around her to settle down and give her some quiet. “For God’s sake, anyone would think it’s a bloody karaoke night!” She paused for a moment to gather her courage before striding purposefully up to the stage to stand beside Thorne and snatch the folder of music from his hands.

  “You’ll be great…!” He assured sincerely, resting an arm lightly around her waist as she leaned in, her face near his.

  “As soon as we’re out of here tonight, Max,” she hissed acidly, consciously raising a hand to push his microphone away and keep her words private, “you are completely and utterly fucked!” The façade of a sweet smile never left her face as she spoke.

  “This really is my lucky day, then…!” He countered softly, a grin never leaving his face as he patted her lightly on the backside and handed her the microphone. “Let’s not keep the audience waiting any longer, eh?”

  He took a few paces back and took up a position behind another short mike stand, set perfectly for his own guitar. Smiling now in spite of herself, Eileen returned the mike she held to its stand and tapped it a few times, testing its operation through force of habit rather than any real need for confirmation of what she already knew. A positively expectant hush fell over the crowd, every pair of eyes in the audience now staring directly at the beautiful woman on stage. She was dressed in her preferred designer jeans and figure-hugging ‘Howard Green’ army jumper, her dark hair loose and framing her oval face in a way that accentuated her fine features and stunning blue eyes. It was entirely likely that there wasn’t a man present that night outside the Hindsight Group who’d ever seen a woman dressed so attractively in such casual clothes, and it was fair to say that not one of them would ever forget the experience yet to come.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Eileen began falteringly, her own nerves showing now as she addressed the crowd. “I’m Commander Eileen Donelson… Royal Navy…” The last part had been spoken with an intentional delay and emphasis, and it produced the desired result. Cheers and applause again rose from the audience, stronger this time than before, and although the sound almost froze her for a moment, the part of her that lived for music and singing also revelled in it. “I’ll do my best to entertain y’ all for a while tonight,” she continued as she raised her hands again for silence and the noise abated. “If you’ll all just bear with me for a moment or two, I’ll get some music ready and we’ll play some songs for you.” With a single nod of thanks at the continued calm, she immediately turned back toward the band.

  “What do you like, ma’am?” Leading Rating Simon Barnett asked from his position at the double-bass as he handed Eileen a selection of their music and she rifled through it with a discerning frown. Barnett had been the group’s unofficial bandleader for some time, and carried the best musical repertoire of all of them.

  “Aye, this’ll do,” she muttered, pulling one free. “And this one… and this… they’ll do for starters…” She handed the selection of music over for Barnett to consider.

  “I’ve Got You Under My Skin…?” He nodded approvingly over her first choice. “Good old Cole Porter tune, ma’am… should go down nicely. You want us fast or slow…?”

  “Reasonably quick… nice and bright,” she said without hesitation. “You fellas set the pace; I’ll keep with you well enough.” She scanned through the verses, reassuring herself needlessly that her faultless memory had recalled the words and music correctly. “We’ll run through it once, take an instrumental break, then back over the last verse and finish. Anyone have any trouble going up to ‘C’ instead of ‘E-flat’…?”

  “No problem at all, ma’am,” he grinned, and as she turned back to the microphone, Barnett passed an approving glance around the rest of the group, impressed that the attractive officer seemed to know her stuff. “Hear that, boys…? ‘Under My Skin’ in ‘C’…”

  All four men nodded in agreement, and the crowd remained in a silent thrall as they readied themselves and Eileen prepared to sing.

  There was a near audible release of held breath about the entire room as the song began and her rich, lustrous voice reached out through the microphone in almost perfect pitch. Although she could tell her voice was slightly out due to a lack of warm up, no one else could hear it, and once again, Eileen’s memory was a major part in her abilities. She could quite literally ‘hear’ songs in her head after just one playing, something that matched beautifully with a fine voice and perfect pitch to produce an excellent vocalist. Although not having had a chance to sing regularly for some years made her feel a little rusty, it was almost impossible for her not to sing well under the circumstances, and she found herself quickly getting back into the swing of it.

  Playing along behind her, Thorne watched her with a genuinely caring expression. Some in the crowd might’ve been dubious of her talents prior to Eileen singing that first verse, but he’d never doubted her abilities for a moment. During the relatively short time he and the commander had been a couple, many years before, she’d regularly been involved in amateur singing, and watching her perform while he’d played guitar had been a constant source of enjoyment. Their relationship hadn’t worked out for a variety of reasons, but they’d never stopped being great friends, and Max Thorne had never forgotten how much he loved hearing Eileen Donelson sing, or the warmth the sound of her voice generated.

  Years later, he and Anna had also sometimes had the opportunity to hear her sing, and those times were the only moments Thorne had ever felt any guilt whatsoever over his feelings for a woman other than his wife. Although the intensity of feeling between he and Donelson had waned and diluted into friendship many years before, he was always reminded of it by the sound of her voice. If Thorne had forgotten what it was once like to be in love – to be in love with Eileen Donelson at least, if he ever really had been – then something of that feeling always came back to him whenever he heard her sing.

  Eileen warmed up quickly, and received a huge reaction from the entire mess as she finished the song. Buoyed by the long-forgotten rush she always felt when receiving applause from an ecstatic crowd, she was absolutely glowing by the time she’d launched into five more of the band’s standards that included two Gershwin tunes and an Irving Berlin number, seamlessly mixing bright and lively compositions with strong, powerful torch songs. The applause had become outright cheers and whistles by the time she had finished the set, and she took a moment to again talk to the band, this time taking some s
heet music from her own folder and passing it around.

  “You’ve all been very kind tonight,” she said humbly, returning to the mike once more and trying to remain calm as the applause finally died down. “We’ve done some of the band’s favourites for you…” She cast a glance at the rest of her Hindsight colleagues, seated close to the stage and applauding as strongly as the rest. “…And if you’ll do me the honour of listening just a little longer, I’d like to do one of my favourites.” Clapping and whistles once more rose up in encouragement, again forcing her to raise a hand to bring the volume down. “This is a song from where I come from,” Eileen continued, and Thorne and the other Hindsight officers instinctively knew she really meant ‘when’. “I hope you all like it… it was a favourite of a good friend of mine.” She paused as she turned for just a moment to cast an emotional glance at Max Thorne, and he could clearly see the faint hint of tears welling in her eyes. “The song’s called ‘Imagine’… this song is for Nick Alpert…”

  There was no way Lyle Walters couldn’t have known the song on the sheet music she’d handed around, and he was right on time and tempo as she counted him in on the opening chords… chords as unmistakeable to each member of Hindsight as the sound of their own names, or their mother’s voices. Simple and unforgettable, those first bars sent a distinct chill through every person of the Hindsight Group. To the others who didn’t recognise the music – men born in a time when that song hadn’t even been written, nor would be for another thirty years – the sound of those deep, rich chords was no less captivating.

  John Lennon’s powerful lyrics fell over the crowd like a spell, Eileen’s strong, alto voice clear and crisp as she worked through the first verse. Lloyd and Thorne coached the rest of the band with when to come in, and the bass and drums joined at the end of that first verse, joining the melody with a basic rhythm that somehow worked perfectly.

  Thorne caught sight of Eileen’s face once more as she turned to one side of the audience, and as she started the third verse, he could clearly see the tears streaming down her cheeks. John Lennon and the Beatles had been Nick Alpert’s one great musical passion, and among the prized possessions he’d brought with him from the future had been the entire collection of the music of Lennon and McCartney. None of those who’d known the man could’ve imagined a better tribute to Nick's memory than the signature song of a slain musical genius whose life had also been cut prematurely short.

  Although still crying as the song came to an end, she was also smiling as the old feelings of joy for the music and lyrics of her own life and childhood flooded through her. There was the sensation of weight lifting from Eileen’s shoulders, and Thorne and the others could all see that radiance shine around her – a radiance that eclipsed mere physical beauty. Lloyd and Walters played the last few chords to a close, and a stunned silence reigned for a moment over the room full of military men. Still nervous, but now also exhilarated, she could see how completely she’d captured the audience, and as always that feeling was better than any drug. Cheers and wild applause erupted as she sheepishly gave a single bow and stepped back from the microphone once more, collecting her music and returning it to the folder before leaving the stage and heading for the relative safety of her table. It was only as she sat down that she realised Thorne had been right behind her, and was again sitting at her side.

  “There y’are,” he beamed, as pleased for her as he was with the reasonable performance he’d also managed. “I knew you’d be a big hit!”

  “Don’t think for a minute that all that applause has gotten you off the hook, mister!” She laughed loudly, the unconvincing threat more for show than anything else. “I’m far from finished with you!” But Thorne caught the look in her eyes as she spoke, and he knew he was a long way from being in any trouble.

  “A toast, gentlemen…!” Trumbull burst out, raising his glass of beer as they all turned their eyes in his direction. “This is the last drink we’re ever likely to have here, and I think some kind of toast is definitely in order.”

  “Why not, indeed,” Thorne nodded, although he cast a lightning-quick, almost guilty glance at Eileen before assuming a serious expression and accepting an offered glass of whisky. He then realised that everyone at the table was looking to him expectantly to conduct the toast itself. “Oh… okay then, let’s see...” He continued, thinking deeply, and the appropriate subjects came easily as he raised his glass.

  “To Brigadier Nicholas Thomas Alpert… his intelligence, presence and friendship will be too greatly missed to ever replace…” To which there were nods of agreement all round. “…To Oberstleutnant Carl Werner Ritter… may luck stay with him on his mission to save us all…” Nods again, and he smiled brightly as he continued. “…To Alec Trumbull… may he one day come to terms with our ‘new-fangled’ technology and learn to fly that bloody jet properly...” They all laughed softly at that, Trumbull included. “...And to Richard Kransky, and those others who remain here to fight on… however long that may be...”

  “Aye…!” Donelson added softly as Thorne took a short breath.

  “Most of all,” he continued with renewed solemnity, rising to his feet as he spoke and projecting his words to the whole mess, gaining everyone’s attention as he raised his glass high. “Here’s to those who’ve already given their lives for their country and for freedom. Here’s to Sir John Tovey… to the Home Fleet… and to Henry Harwood, the men of the Nelson, and all the others! Like them, may we all do our duty, regardless of the cost…!” He raised his glass higher still with a final cry of: “To victory…!”

  “To victory…!” The depth and volume of that returned toast included the voices of every person in the room, and was accompanied by the sound of chairs moving back in unison as all present stood as one, holding their own glasses aloft as the toast was made.

  ‘S-day’ + 1

  Thursday,

  September 12, 1940

  The Hindsight Unit stayed in billets at HMS Proserpine that night, happy for the opportunity for one last good sleep in comfortable beds. They were awoken before dawn that next morning, and boarded the destroyer HMS Esk as a group soon after. They were all provided with breakfast and shower facilities during their return to Eday, and all were in relatively good spirits as they made the final journey back to the Alternate airstrip in the rear of several Bedford trucks. Thorne, who’d landed the F-35E at Lyness the night before, had flown the aircraft back to Alternate directly, using the extra time following his arrival to allow two large, external fuel tanks to be fitted beneath the wings, along with the reattachment of the 25mm gun pod and the loading of a single pair of AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles. He was waiting at the southern end of the runway as the trucks arrived with the rest of his unit.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind flying the Lightning?” Thorne asked Davies as the Texan dismounted the first truck and the pair walked together toward the parked aircraft.

  “Nahh…” Davies shook his head dismissively. “Hell, I’ve got more hours in that thing than you’ve had hot dinners.” He shrugged. “I’m a fighter jock anyway: who the hell’d wanna be cooped up in one of those Goddamn barges for two damn days?” He changed the subject as they walked on. “Good to hear Trumbull’s family got away…”

  “Yeah,” Thorne agreed with a nod. “Both his parents and the younger brother headed out last night with the Royal Family aboard King George V. They’ll meet up with Force H off Gibraltar, and head on into the Mediterranean and through the Suez Canal from there. They won’t reach Australia as quickly as we will, but they’re on their way. Alec was over the moon when he found out.”

  “The King’s staying though… for the moment at least…?”

  “For as long as he can,” Thorne shrugged, not sure whether the idea was good or bad. “It’ll mean a lot for morale, knowing he’s still in England, but whether they’ll be able to get him out as things get worse will be difficult to call. We all know his brother can take over if he has to, but I’d much rat
her Edward be gotten away to safety too, all things considered.”

  “And Sir Winston…?”

  “Well…” Thorne gave a thin smile. “…From what I can gather, he’s also staying put for the moment. I got the distinct feeling he’s of the opinion a martyr is worth more than a Prime Minister in exile.”

  “The man’s got moxie, I’ll give him that!”

  “‘Moxie’…?” Thorne was more than a little amused at Davies unexpected use of 1940s vernacular. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…! We really gotta get you ‘back to the future’…!”

  “One of those Deloreans would be a nice start!”

  “You wish…!” Thorne laughed in return.

  Out on the tarmac thirty minutes later, flight crew were warming the howling engines of the KC-10A Extender and C-5M Galaxy as the sun lit the horizon over the southern reaches of Sanday, four kilometres east across the Bay of London. The F-35E was also winding up for take off nearby as Davies strapped himself in, the pair of tanks hanging from the inboard pylons beneath his wings refilled with fuel. He was glad of the gun pod and the missiles, but he doubted he’d need them: although they’d all be flying through some potentially hostile airspace during the initial leg of their journey, they’d be travelling too fast and too high for any interception to be possible.

  With clearance from the transports, Davies took the Lightning into a short, rolling take off and leapt skyward on a trail of exhaust, climbing quickly and circling while he awaited his slower colleagues. The tanker began to rumble along the tarmac seconds later, its speed increasing quickly as throttles were pushed forward. The aircraft finally clawed its way desperately skyward, its three turbofan engines howling as if in defiance of the skewed world it was leaving behind as it banked to port and its undercarriage folded upward. The Galaxy began its own take-off run soon after, it too powering along the concrete strip with a rate of acceleration that seemed impossibly fast for such a behemoth. Within moments, it was struggling into the air after the others, its main banks of landing wheels neatly stowed in the bulges along its fuselage sides. As the transports continued to climb through a light, patchy cloud cover, the F-35E fell in behind and above them, active systems scanning for any threat, and the flight turned south for the run down the length of the British Isles: the first leg of a far longer journey to come.