by Murray Pura
“The war isn’t going to go away now that the Germans dominate Europe, Mum. Things are only going to get worse.”
“I said, that’s enough.”
Ramsay sat down, his face like a thundercloud. “Just so you know, I’m not going to make boots or uniforms in a factory in the Midlands.”
“Fine. You can carry on with your plans for university at King’s College.”
“Oh, Matt’s another one.” Caroline took a biscuit from the plate. “ ‘My dad’s flying, so I should be flying.’ That’s his song.”
Matthew had his ear to the radio set and the volume turned down low. “A few more minutes,” he said. Then he glanced over at his mother. “Well, and so I should. Dad and Uncle Ben can’t carry the load forever, can they? It’s not as if they’re young men anymore.”
Caroline lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, really? I suppose that makes me a little old lady too, does it?”
“I’m just saying they need chaps like me and Ram. Even if you and Aunt Vic think they don’t.”
There was another knock on the door.
“That’s Sean,” Matthew announced as he crossed the room. “I rang him up.” He opened the door. “Cheers.”
“Hullo.” Sean, tall and dark like Matthew and Ramsay, came into the house. “Aunt Caroline. Aunt Victoria. Cheers, Ram.”
“Cheers.”
“Hullo, Sean.” Caroline got up and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How’s your Angelika? Your Mum said she had a bad cold.”
“She’s on the mend, thanks.”
Victoria arched an eyebrow. “Have you been recruited by Matt and Ramsay into their Hurricane squadron?”
Sean gave her a smile that instantly lit up his dark features. “You’ve heard about all that, have you, Aunt Vic?”
“That’s all I’ve heard day and night since the Germans invaded France and Holland and Belgium. Your name never came up though.”
“I’m a recent convert.”
“Well, I’m terribly sorry to hear it. I thought you had my sister Catherine’s no-nonsense approach to life.”
“I did, but Da came in on the side of enlistment. He’s dead set on overthrowing the Nazis and getting Germany back under a proper democracy. Especially after what we went through over there.”
“I know. It was dreadful.” Victoria stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea. “But surely you’re not eighteen yet like Ramsay and Matthew?”
“Not quite. But I’m done with my schooling. It’s either enlist or on to university to get my doctorate in theology.” He laughed. “That’s what Da would want. At least you’d think that’s what Da would want. But he wants a Germany without the Nazis more than his son lecturing from a university podium. And his attitude is that we shouldn’t expect others to do the hard work for us.”
“Hear, hear,” said Matthew, standing and drinking tea by the radio set.
“What? Your dad is pushing you to enlist?” Ramsay put down his tea. “Just like that?”
“Not just like that. He and Mum have been going over and over the matter. She’s no more keen to see me go up in a kite than these two are to see you and Matt up among the clouds.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“I didn’t know how serious Da was about the whole thing. But with the collapse of France he’s getting quite professorial.”
Ramsay was horrified. “D’you mean to say you could be up flying a Hurricane while I’m sitting like a lump in some lecture hall?”
Sean shrugged. “ ‘God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; the clouds you so much dread are big with mercy and shall break in blessings on your head.’ ”
“Oh, shut up.” Ramsay looked at his mother. “It’s unforgivable.”
Victoria gave Sean a sharp look. “I shall have a chat with my sister. The last thing we need is you up and flying about and driving your cousins mad.”
“And their mothers.” Caroline indicated a chair. “Do take a seat, sweet nephew. No more of the lecture hall for you. You’ve given everyone quite enough to think about.” She got up. “In fact, let me serve you, if that will keep you quiet.”
Sean flopped in the chair beside Caroline’s. “Do you have chocolate covered biscuits?”
“Just a moment. There are a few left in the kitchen.” She poured him tea. “I’ll bring the cream and sugar over.”
“No need, Aunt Caroline. I like it without any added petrol.”
Victoria tapped her fingers. “Waiting on him hand and foot, are we?”
“Anything to get him away from the podium, Vic.”
“It is, perhaps, all greatly exaggerated. Someone needs to give credence to the idea Hitler may well be content with Europe and have no interest in the British Isles whatsoever.”
“You don’t believe that, Mum,” said Ramsay.
“Why not? I do believe it. I want to believe it.”
“We’ve been sinking each other’s ships and blowing up each other’s planes. There’s no going back now.”
“Ramsay, my dear, one can always go back.”
He shook his head. “Not on wickedness, Mum. Haven’t you listened to Uncle Albrecht’s story? You know what the Nazis did with the books in the universities. You’ve seen what they’re doing to the Jews.” He looked at Sean, who had his cup to his lips. “You’ve heard Sean tell what it was like to hide in attics and cellars from house to house with the Gestapo hunting them down. You were what, Sean, eleven or twelve years old?”
Victoria tapped her fingers again. “Still. Hitler need not go farther.”
“He won’t leave us here like a long thorn in Germany’s side, Mum. We’ll interfere with all his plans, won’t we? He’s got to pull us out and snap us in two.”
“What a cheerful lad you are.”
“Here we go. Quiet everyone.” Matthew turned up the volume on the radio. “I hope it’s a good enough broadcast to settle all the differences of opinion in this room.”
“Not likely,” responded Victoria, pouring herself another cup of tea.
They all listened to the speech attentively—even Victoria, who was afraid Churchill would fuel her son’s ardor to fly and fight. It went on for some time, and as the minutes went by, Victoria felt relieved that Churchill had not come out with any particularly eloquent turns of phrase or fiery expressions that might ignite Ramsay’s spirit.
“He’s just done,” she announced, setting her cup in its small plate with a loud click of china on china.
“Shh, Mum,” said Ramsay, annoyed. “The speech isn’t over yet.”
“There’s nothing more to say, is there?”
“Shh! Mum!”
The radio crackled, and Churchill’s voice was distorted and indistinct. Matthew jumped up and twisted one of the knobs left and right. Half a minute of this and the sound was restored, much clearer and sharper than before.
…the French people. If we are now called upon to endure what they have been suffering, we shall emulate their courage, and if final victory rewards our toils they shall share the gains, aye, and freedom shall be restored to all. We abate nothing of our just demands; not one jot or tittle do we recede. Czechs, Poles, Norwegians, Dutch, Belgians have joined their causes to our own. All these shall be restored.
What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.
Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age
made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.”
Ramsay was on his feet.
“You can’t deny me this, mother.” He wasn’t looking at her. “You can’t deny me my place.”
Victoria had closed her eyes. “We shall talk about it when your father is home.”
“I must do something besides take notes in class or sew buttons on greatcoats.”
“When your father is home, Ramsay. Which hopefully will be very soon.”
“Isn’t that right, Matt?” Ramsay looked to his friends. “Isn’t it, Sean?”
Matthew nodded, still standing by the radio as the BBC announcer came on. Sean finished a biscuit and wiped the crumbs from his shirt. “I can’t stand the thought of those bounders messing up Grandmum’s roses at Dover Sky and Ashton Park.” Sean looked up. His eyes were dark. “I think of her and how she loves all that and how good she’s been to me, and I can’t bear the thought of those houses and rose bushes being flattened by bombs and trampled by their rotten jackboots. I won’t let them kill her.” He got to his feet. “That settles it for me then. I’m off to the recruiting station with my mum and da’s blessing. Thanks for the tea, Aunt Caroline.” He glanced at Matthew and Ramsay and nodded. “I’ll talk to you later and let you know how it goes.”
“But you’re still seventeen,” protested Victoria.
He smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Aunt Vic.”
France fell four days later, on June 22. Kipp and Ben touched down in the south of England with their squadron on June 23. Within twenty-four hours they were on their way by rail to London after ringing up their wives to announce they were on leave. Kensington Gate became the location for another family gathering, where the two pilots held young men like Peter and James and Ramsay and Matthew spellbound with stories of the air war over France. Sean could not be at the celebration because he was in flight training with the RAF. Robbie was also absent due to his involvement in Home Defense exercises with his regiment.
“Ben.” Victoria grasped one of her husband’s arms in both of hers and smiled at his audience in the backyard. “I wonder if I might steal you away for a few moments?”
“I was just at Dunkerque.”
“My brother can surely speak for both of you.”
“Easily done.” Kipp lifted his glass of orange squash. “I’ll claim some of your victories.”
Victoria walked with Ben out of a green and sunny backyard spilling over with people, and into the house.
“What’s all this about?” he asked her.
“War isn’t a game, Flying Officer Whitecross.”
“Did I say it was?”
“When you’re out there talking with the boys you act like it is.”
She led him to her father’s private study and locked the door behind them.
“Now you really have me wondering what’s up, Vic.”
“Do I? Well, I won’t hold you in suspense any longer. Have a seat.”
“If I’m going to be shot I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
The blinds were drawn against the sunlight outside, and the room was dark.
Victoria leaned her back against one of her father’s tall bookshelves with her hands behind her gripping the edge of a shelf.
“I see what’s coming,” she said. “It’s nineteen fourteen to nineteen eighteen all over again. Only worse. It’s bad enough having you up there one day after another. I’m not having Ramsay up there with you.”
“Vic, he—”
“I know he feels he needs to be a pilot like his father. That he needs to defend his country and Western civilization—Churchill has him all stirred up. But we’ve lost one child already, Ben. I’m not prepared to lose two.”
“What child?”
“The child who’d be almost twenty years old now. The child I’ve given a name and whose birthday I honor every year in the privacy of my heart. The child I’ve always loved and who I’ll love forever.”
Ben stared as tears stabbed at her cheeks. “It was a miscarriage, Vic,” he finally said.
“It was a baby! My baby! A boy! Quentin Paul Whitecross!” She made no attempt to lower her voice or clear the tears from her eyes and face. “All these years I couldn’t talk about him, could I? Stiff upper lip and all that. Noble family. Mansions in Lancashire and Kent. Father an MP. Brother an MP. Husband a winner of the Victoria Cross. Show the world what you’re made of, Victoria Anne. Show them that the death of your baby doesn’t faze you. You’re made of sterner stuff.”
“I thought—I thought you were over it.”
“Over it? In two weeks? Two months? Two years? I’ve never been over it, Ben Whitecross. I’ve never been over losing your son and mine.”
“You were so happy when Ramsay was born.”
“Of course I was happy. I was ecstatic. I gave birth to a son. I adore him. But he wasn’t my first son. He was my second. And I still grieve for my first. Yes, I still grieve for him.”
She collapsed into his arms, and he held her as close as he ever had. Her body shook with her weeping. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, slick with tears, and her eyes.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “I understand now. Forgive me. Of course he’s our firstborn. Of course he’s our first son. I love the name you’ve given him. You don’t need to have his birthdays in private anymore. I’ll celebrate them with you.”
“Do you mean it?” She could barely get the words out.
“I mean it. It was a day in April, wasn’t it? Early April?”
“April ninth, nineteen twenty-one.”
“Right. So he just turned nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, bless him, bless his soul. I love you, Vic, and I love him.”
She was crying so hard she began to hiccup and struggled for breath.
“Look. I may have missed it first time around, but I’m here for you on the second flypast,” he told her. “Don’t keep it in anymore. Not with me. When you remember him and it hurts, tell me. Let me hold you. When the fact he isn’t out in the yard with Ramsay and Tim breaks your heart, let me know. When the ache won’t go away, I’ll hold you until it’s not so sharp. I’ll hold you all day and all night if I have to.”
“Ben—”
“Look. I love to fly. It’s exciting. And it’s exciting to fly in combat—terrifying, but exciting. But I’m no stranger to death, Vic. We lost good men in France. Sure, we all try to brush it off and keep flying. We can’t let what happened to our mates paralyze us. Kipp and I and the others were trying to defend hundreds of thousands of people, so we had to put them first, not what we felt. I can tell you this though. No pilot loses another pilot in his squadron without losing a part of himself. Big part, small part—he’s never going to be complete again. I want to fly, Vic. And I want to defend the millions of people who live in Britain because before God, and you know this to be true, there is no way on earth they are capable of defending themselves against the Nazi army and air force and navy. I have to do it in my Hurricane or they die. Edward and Terry have to do it in their ships. Robbie has to do it with his regiment. We do it or they die. We do it or the Jews in Britain are done for as well. Charlotte and her sons, Owen and Colm, are finished.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Ben. I understand all that.”
He gently tilted her chin upward with his hand. “You don’t want to lose Ramsay or Tim the way you lost Quentin. You don’t want to lose me. But someone has to defend Charlotte, don’t they? And someone has to defend you. The Nazis rained bombs on Spain, Vic. They rained them on Belgium and Poland and Holland and France. They killed without mercy. We can’t let them do that here too. And we can’t let them enslave us.”
“If he doesn’t have to go up, Ben, I want
Ramsay to stay here with both feet on the ground.”
“That’s a big if. Who’s going to decide?”
“I want to. I need to.”
He kissed her forehead. “All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him that.”
“He won’t take it well.”
“I’ll explain about Quentin. We’ve never talked about the first baby. That will help him understand.”
“He’ll resent me, won’t he?”
“If he carried a child inside him for nine months he would know why you’re afraid.” Ben patted her on the back. “Ramsay will grasp more than you think. He’s not just a wild eighteen-year-old who wants to fly a fighter plane.”
“He seems that way to me most of the time.”
“He takes protecting the innocent and defenseless to heart. He really does see himself as a knight of the air.”
“I don’t want him going up, Ben. Not unless our situation in Britain is desperate.”
Ben said nothing, only touching his lips to her auburn hair once again. “I’ll be posted to another squadron soon.”
“How soon?”
“It’s only a matter of weeks.”
July 7, 1940
Dear Vic,
I’m writing you from the new air base I’ve been assigned to in the south—King’s Cross. The paint on the huts is still wet. If I had that yacht of your father’s and sailed straight across the Channel, the locals tell me I’d wind up in Dieppe.
There is a lovely old church here. Not Methodist, mind you, but it couldn’t be, really, since it was built about eight hundred years before John Wesley was born. I gather it has two sister churches and one of them is Jeremy’s. The other is St. Simon of Cyrene’s Cross in Wiltshire. In any case, I sat in King’s Cross church today and prayed about all the young lads in the squadron I’ll start leading tomorrow morning. Some of them were probably seventeen only a few months ago. I’d like to pray that I won’t lose any, but that’s not realistic. I suppose I can pray that I’ll only lose a few. But that may not be realistic either depending on what Jerry throws at us.
I think I’ll start the briefing tomorrow with a quick prayer and a quick reading from the Bible. Then they’ll probably start calling me Ben ‘Preacher’ Whitecross.