England Expects (Empires Lost)
Page 98
Church of St. Michael and All Angels
Kingsnorth, Kent
Historically an area of marshes and densely woodland, there was evidence to suggest that the village of Kingsnorth, just a few kilometres south of Ashford, had been settled as long ago as 28,000 years. There’d certainly been discoveries of flint tools from the Mesolithic Period in the area (approximately 9,000 BC), and there’d also been later settlements during the Iron and Bronze Ages, and through Early Roman times. The Church of St. Michael and All Angels itself dated from the 13th Century, and boasted a fine example of stained glass of the period in a depiction of St. Michael slaying the dragon, while its sanctuary also held the marble tomb of Baronet Sir Humphrey Clarke. Constructed of Kentish Ragstone, as were many of the churches, castles and other historic buildings throughout Southern England, it was a small building with a high roof and a tall, stone belltower that stood a dozen metres or more above Church Lane to the west.
Like much of the surrounding area, Kingsnorth had been evacuated, and the place was now no better than an empty ghost town. Remnants of the 1st London Division had been reinforced overnight, and a second defensive line had been set up a thousand metres or so to the south-east, running along the Marshlink Rail Line and parallel to the B2070 between Ashford and Bromley Green to the south. The hastily-constructed diggings turned east above Kingsnorth, passed through the southern outskirts of Sevington, and eventually crossed the Hythe Road near Willesborough Lees before continuing on to the north-east through Hinxhill and beyond to Brook. For the most part, the lines were probably no more than five thousand metres north-west of Wehrmacht advanced units in that area, and the point where the defences crossed the A20 were perhaps four kilometres down the Hythe Road from where Trumbull had landed the F-35E the night before to pick up Max Thorne.
Richard Kransky could see the line of troops and guns through his powerful scope sight as he looked out across the roof of the church, from a small arched window near the top of the tall belltower. They were only a kilometre away from his position at their nearest point, and from his vantage point he could see much further across the seemingly endless run of hedgerows, fields and woods that covered the eastern horizon. He’d moved quickly the evening before, once he’d left Thorne and Ritter, and had managed to make it as far as that abandoned church before deciding to rest for the night.
St. Michaels made for an excellent observation or shooting position. Church towers and spires were often the tallest structures to be found in most villages, and as such they generally stood high above the surrounding buildings and trees, and provided clear views of the surrounding area for many miles. Any enemy advance would therefore be visible at quite a distance, and Kransky was in possession of several boxes of powerful armour-piercing rounds for the M82A1 Barrett's rifle with which he could penetrate the top armour of any vehicle the Wehrmacht used, save for the P-4A Panther tank. Even if he couldn’t damage the Panther itself, a well-aimed shot could still break a track, which would be enough to cause significant delays.
With an effective range of up to a mile or more against vehicle-sized targets, the Barrett allowed him to reach perhaps five hundred metres beyond the British defenders at their closest – enough range to cause any assaulting troops some real difficulty. He suspected it would be only be a matter of time until the lines collapsed once more, but any delay they could provide allowed more time for the establishment of far better defences and fortifications closer to London, and Kransky was prepared to make every effort he could to assist the men in the newly-dug trenches before him. All the same, the abandoned Triumph Tiger T100 motorcycle he’d found in a nearby shed was now waiting for him outside the church when the time came to leave. For all his determination, Kransky wasn’t feeling the slightest bit suicidal, and he intended to keep a viable escape route available.
He stared out once more across the fields beyond the defences, raising the rifle and squinting through the telescopic sight. There was still no sign of enemy troops or armoured vehicles, but it was only a matter of time before the advance began again in earnest. Dawn had broken a few minutes ago, and the sun was already bright and streaming through broken cloud spread across the eastern horizon… in truth, Kransky as surprised an attack hadn’t come already, although he was more than happy for the unexpected period of grace to continue.
In the tense silence of that first morning light, as an entire world waited for the terrible roar of battle to commence once more, Richard Kransky heard a soft rumbling that reached his ears from somewhere far overhead. It took a moment or two for him to work out what direction the sound was coming from, and after realising it came from the west, he placed his rifle on the floor of the belltower and moved quickly across to the window on the opposite side. With some difficulty, he managed to crane his head out through the opening and scan the cloudy skies above.
Fooled by the direction of the noise, he spent some time searching in the wrong area before finally discovering the source. He knew what he was looking at the moment he’d spotted it: three thin streaks of silver tracking south across the reddened morning sky that could only be the contrails of high-flying aircraft. It was the unmistakeable sound of jet engines that made Kransky certain he wasn’t just staring at conventional heavy bombers, and with a sigh of released breath, he allowed himself the luxury of a smile for the first time since he’d left the others the evening before.
He’d heard the F-35E overhead as he’d run on that night, and had caught sight of its afterburner from a distance as the Lightning had launched skyward from the A20 soon after, carrying Thorne out of harm’s way… the sight of those three jets overhead now was incontrovertible proof that his new and very dear friends were finally headed somewhere safe where they’d be able to carry on the fight, albeit from a far greater distance. He allowed himself a moment of sentimentality as he pulled his head back inside the belltower, and as he glanced up and beyond the wooden beams of the roof toward that particular patch of sky, he silently blew a kiss to one of the passengers on that flight as it continued its journey, already far away to the south. Another moment, and Kransky had cleared any remaining pleasant thoughts from his mind. He picked up the rifle once more and settled down before the eastern window, returning his full attention to the front lines, and the war that was about to continue around him.
Hindsight Phoenix Flight
Bay of Biscay, North Atlantic
Ten thousand metres above the Bay of Biscay, the three jets flew on unseen and unchallenged. There was a quiet, calm acceptance among the Hindsight crew as a whole: while the current journey was physically longer, it could certainly be no greater than the one they’d already made months before, and they all knew that their mission was a long way from being over… in real terms, it hadn’t yet even begun. On the passenger deck of the Galaxy, Michael Kowalski and Bob Green chatted animatedly about some ridiculously academic historical point, while Evan Lloyd listened to a small Walkman through headphones, and Trumbull sat alone, silent and completely immersed in a well-thumbed Tom Clancy novel Green had given him. Hal Markowicz snoozed in his own chair, oblivious to everything around him, and many of the Marines, Rangers and SAS troopers took the professor’s lead regarding catching up on their sleep: in armed forces the world over, spare time for sleep was always at a premium, and was never taken for granted.
Thorne stared out through one of the windows on the Galaxy’s flight deck, Eileen seated beside him as they cruised on above the scattered cloud cover, the rising sun off their port wing.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she asked softly, and he turned his head to look at her.
“I’d be ripping you off,” he replied with a shrug, smiling in return. “I was just thinking it’s a little ironic that the first time I’ll be back in Australia in more than ten years will be fifty years before I’ve even left! Of all the times I thought of ‘going home’, this certainly wasn’t how I’d imagined it.”
“Never been to Australia,” Eileen mused thoughtfull
y, knowing Thorne was already well aware of that fact. “Heard you and others go on about how great it was so many times, but I never got the chance to see for myself.”
“It’s a great place, all right,” Thorne said with feeling. “Always has been.” He shook his head slowly, almost seeming sad for a moment. “It’s hard to understand why I stayed away so long, now I’m on my way back... although I’m not really sure what I’m coming back to...” He fell silent for a moment, the anticipation clear in his tone and expression as he turned his eyes back to the window. He chuckled softly as a thought occurred to him.
“What is it…?”
“I was just thinking; it’ll be nice to be back in an Australia where cricket is still more popular than basketball!”
“Stupid bloody game, if you ask me!” Eileen grinned at his return to an old joke between them. “There’s not a Scot born who can understand it, or wants to!”
“Blasphemer…!” Thorne chuckled, knowing she was referring to the game of cricket and watching the clouds below the plane as he made a grand show of ‘crossing himself’.
“I’m glad you’re still here with us,” Eileen added with honest feeling a moment later, her hand resting gently over his and giving it a light squeeze. “…Here with me…”
“Me too,” he replied with an equally genuine smile, staring into her eyes and realising that he meant the words for reasons other than those that were simple and obvious.
Two hundred metres off to port, Davies cruised slowly past in the Lightning, waggling his wings slightly and giving a wave, before disappearing once more as he banked away to carry out another radar sweep, happy to be in his element as a fighter pilot.
‘England expects every man will do his duty’... Not for the first time, Thorne considered what Eileen had told him of the naval battle the day before… of the broadcast Henry Harwood had made as he’d taken Nelson in to the fray for her last hurrah. Thorne smiled thinly as he thought of Ritter, of Richard Kransky, and of the eager young RAF squadron leader they were bringing with them to the ‘New World’.
Not only England expects... He thought to himself as he laid his head back in his seat and stared for a moment at the ceiling overhead. Thorne closed his eyes, happy to be going home.