by Murray Pura
Lord Preston nodded. “It meant our liberty.”
“Have you heard that song the American chap wrote?”
“Hm?”
“The one about the white cliffs of Dover.”
“ ‘Bluebirds over the cliffs’? Is that the one?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“There are no bluebirds here, Tavy.”
“Still, m’lord, you have the lyrics. ‘There’ll be love and laughter and peace ever after, tomorrow, when the world is free.’ That must tug at your heartstrings.”
“There are no bluebirds, Tavy.”
“ ‘I’ll never forget, the people I met braving those angry skies.’ ”
“Does it say that?”
“Yes, my lord. ‘I remember well as the shadows fell, the light of hope in their eyes.’ ”
“Hm. The Yanks would do well to get in the fight rather than write sentimental songs about it.”
“I believe we will see them come in soon, Lord Preston.”
“You do? What makes you think that?”
“I sense it.”
“Well, ’tis news to me and likely news to them. We shall see if history proves you a prophet, Tavy.”
“Oh, no, my lord, I’m just a simple butler.”
“Ha. You are much more than that to our family. Much, much more. I do not forget how you saved young Cecilia’s life.”
“Oh, my lord, anyone would have done that.”
“Indeed? Run down a street with bombs falling to get a girl to a shelter when you could have run faster on your own?”
“My lord. I could never have abandoned her.”
“As I say, you are much more than our butler.” Lord Preston began to hum the tune to “The White Cliffs of Dover” as he flicked the reins. “Elizabeth likes the song, and anything that cheers her heart after the loss of so many in the family I thank God for.”
They emerged from the ash grove and drove by the manor. The children were on the far side of a wide meadow and pointing at the sky. A Spitfire was circling Ashton Park. Finally it began to descend. Todd Turpin and Harrison made sure the boys and girls in their charge stayed well back. The Spitfire bounced once and rolled over the grass, prop spinning.
“A safe flight, my lord.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt it will be.”
Lord Preston strode across the runway to the plane. It was at a standstill with both the prop and the Rolls Royce engine still turning over. Kipp reached down from the front cockpit and shook his father’s hand.
“Hullo, Dad. Do you need help getting into the rear cockpit then?”
“I do not.”
“All the gear you need is under your seat—jacket and pants and helmet.”
“Capital.”
“We rigged this kite up at Pickering Green so we could train the recruits better. They were coming to us so raw. A few hours with a good instructor and their survival rate tripled.”
“Excellent.” Lord Preston clambered on top of the wing, slipped into the cockpit, and began pulling on the pants and Irvin flight jacket. “Your mother made a great deal of fuss about this flight. Thank goodness she is with Emma and Jeremy in London today.”
Kipp waved at the children. “How’s she getting along?”
“How are we all getting along with a war rumbling about the world? One day at a time and by the grace of God.”
“Right.”
“I’ve got everything on now.”
“The R/T switch is just there by your hand so we can talk.”
“There’s a gun button!”
“Only for practice. The real one’s up here with me.”
“Is this plane loaded with ammunition?”
“Of course it’s loaded, Dad. Suppose a mob of Me 109s came over the Channel?”
“They don’t do that anymore.”
“My goodness, Dad, we can’t take the chance.”
“Your mother would be tossing me out of the plane on my ear if she heard you say that. A combat pilot in my seventies! I trust the affair between you and von Zeltner is no longer ongoing.”
“You know the prime minster stopped the fighter sweeps into France just the other day? We lost over two hundred pilots this summer.”
“I do know Winston was concerned about that, yes.”
Kipp was quiet a few moments. There was only the sound of the engine and the swish of the prop swirling.
“Von Zeltner was shot down last week, Dad. Not by me. A chap in Ben’s squadron at King’s Cross. He crashed near the base. Ben and Matt and a few others pulled him free and got him to the infirmary. But he only lived another hour.”
“I see.”
“He was able to talk. Ben spent some time with him. Von Zeltner repeated what he has maintained all along, that he didn’t shoot down the twins. Ben believed him. It tied in with what he’d heard from other German POWs. And I have to admit, it ties in with what I’ve heard but didn’t want to hear, especially about the lies Lord Tanner liked to work with. Ben prayed with von Zeltner just before he died. They buried him with full military honors in the graveyard at King’s Cross chapel.”
Kipp was leaning his head out of the cockpit to talk with his father. Lord Preston studied his son’s face and eyes and listened to his words.
“And do you believe von Zeltner?” Lord Preston asked.
“I do. That part of my war is over.”
Kipp faced forward. The Spitfire began to taxi out and turn into the wind. Kipp slammed his canopy shut, and Lord Preston followed suit. The howl of the engine increased, and the plane sped down the runway and lifted into the air. Lord Preston glanced at Ashton Park and could see his grandchildren waving their arms as wildly as they could. He doubted they could see what he was doing but he raised one of his hands and saluted them.
“What is the great surprise you have in store for me?” Lord Preston asked over the R/T. “It’s not my birthday, and Christmas is a month away.”
“Didn’t you name me Kipp Andrew Danforth?”
“So we did.”
“Today is November thirtieth.”
“Jog my memory.”
“St. Andrew’s Day. My day, you always used to say when I was a boy.”
“Ha ha. So I did. Is that what this is all about?”
“To a point. You’ll understand once we’ve reached Kent. Do you mind if I push it a bit?”
“Go ahead, my boy.”
Lord Preston felt the sudden thrust force him back against his seat. Wisps of cloud streamed past. Soon enough London was on their port wing, and then the green farmlands of southern England.
“There’s Dover Sky, Father.”
Lord Preston glanced down at the white manor glistening in the sharp November light. “I see it. She looks splendid.”
A few minutes later the R/T crackled again. “Pickering Green.”
Lord Preston saw the airfield and its hangars and huts spread out below him. “The famous base. But where are the aircraft?”
Kipp didn’t reply right away. “There’s a chap flying with the Royal Canadian Air Force, a Yank who was keen to get in the fight even though America wasn’t in it. Four-twelve Squadron. Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee. He wrote a bit of a poem. A friend of his is a friend of mine, and a copy of it wound up in my hands. I quite like it. Indeed all the lads like it, including Sean here at Pickering Green; Ben, Matt, and Ramsay at King’s Cross; and Billy at Hunters Down. Would you like to hear some of it?”
“Of course, but where are we going now?”
“West Sussex. Hampshire.”
“Whatever for?”
But Kipp had begun to recite the poem.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring
there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Planes began to appear to the left and right, Hurricanes and Spitfires.
“What’s this?” asked Lord Preston, startled. “There are dozens of fighters.”
“Scores actually. Since the prime minister cancelled the fighter sweeps, some of the airfields decided to get the squadrons up in a big wing at least once a week to keep the boys’ skills sharp. You remember we used a big wing a few times in nineteen-forty? I thought you’d like to see one.”
Lord Preston’s eyes widened. “It’s extraordinary. Who do we have here?”
“Billy and his squadron are up. D’you see him there? He just waggled his wings at us. Ben’s up with his squadron. Sean’s just tucked in behind us. We’re surrounded by laughter-silvered wings.”
Lord Preston laughed. “What a blessing. But I don’t understand why you took the trouble of flying me here to see it.”
“You prayed for us, didn’t you, Dad? You and Mom and the rest of the family? Prayed for our soldiers and our sailors and our airmen? Backed Mr. Churchill when others had no use for him? Well, here’s some of the few and a few others to say thanks. I couldn’t stuff everyone in my two-seater. But you’ll do handsomely.”
“Thank you, my boy, it’s a marvel.”
The blue sky seemed filled to the heights with British fighter planes.
“ ‘There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not,’ ” murmured Lord Preston as they flew wingtip to wingtip with the other aircraft. “ ‘The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.’ An eagle in the air. ‘The words of Agur the son of Jakeh, even the prophecy…Who hath ascended up into heaven, or descended? Who hath gathered the wind in his fists? Who hath bound the waters in a garment? Who hath established all the ends of the earth? What is his name, and what is his son’s name, if thou canst tell?’ ”
Their Spitfire banked when the wing commander and the squadron leaders banked, and fifty aircraft followed suit. There was the Channel blazing like a bonfire. There was the shore. There were the green fields over which the planes of one nation had fought the planes of another nation until freedom had been wrested from the smoke-torn skies.
“Ah, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I wish you were with me. You would never come, but I wish you were in the cockpit at my side. A price was paid for freedom by our family. Just as God paid a price, just as His Son paid a price, for a greater freedom. Lives were not lost, no, they were not lost forever. Not lost forever and not in vain, never in vain, my dear. The Lord grant you peace in your deepest heart. The Lord grant us peace and an incomprehensible joy in the midst of the titanic struggle of these years, indeed, the struggle of our lives.”
The R/T hummed. “You all right back there, Dad?”
“Never better. Thank you again for bringing me up here to see all the squadrons together. It truly is astonishing.” Lord Preston gazed out at the mixture of blue sky, flashing wings, and dazzling light. “You were going to recite the rest of the poem.”
“What’s that?”
“The poem you started. You were going to finish it.”
“Finish it for yourself, Father. You’ll find it in your jacket pocket.”
Lord Preston dug around and came up with a small piece of paper. “This isn’t your handwriting, Kipp.”
“Caroline’s actually. Apparently mine wasn’t quite up to snuff.”
Lord Preston held the note as steadily as he could and read it. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat.
“Praise You,” he whispered.
“What say, Dad?”
“I say, let’s fly, my boy. Fly. Go higher and go farther and don’t stop, never stop, never dream of stopping.”
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue,
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew—
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
—Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
ABOUT MURRAY PURA
Murray Pura earned his Master of Divinity degree from Acadia University in Wolfville, Nova Scotia, and his ThM degree in theology and interdisciplinary studies from Regent College in Vancouver, British Columbia. For more than twenty-five years, in addition to writing, he has pastored churches in Nova Scotia, British Columbia, and Alberta. Murray’s writings have been short-listed for the Dartmouth Book Award, the John Spencer Hill Literary Award, the Paraclete Fiction Award, and Toronto’s Kobzar Literary Award. In 2012 he won the Word Award of Toronto for Best Historial Novel. Murray pastors and writes in southern Alberta near the Rocky Mountains. He and his wife, Linda, have a son and a daughter.
Visit Murray’s website at www.murraypura.com.
About the Publisher
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To learn more about Harvest House books and to read sample chapters, visit our website:
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
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