Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  TO: NAVAIR

  FROM: TFYAN

  REG: TANK INQUIRY

  Dear sir,

  I received a request from the commander of the British army regarding US Army and Marine armor designs, plans, or projects. He indicated that if we had a tank that could stand up to the German tanks, he was authorized to purchase five thousand of them. I told him I would look into it. Do you have any knowledge of such a project? If so, could you arrange to have a project officer brief the British?”

  V/R

  HUNT

  She puts the message into her outbox for Cooper. And picks up the pile of after-action reports. She reads for a few minutes, then stops. She pulls out a map, studies it, then grabs a fresh sheet and writes:

  FROM: TFYAN

  TO: BATDIV-5

  REG: DEPLOYMENT

  Commodore,

  Move your unit to within sixty miles of the mouth of the Thames. At no time approach closer than twenty-five miles to occupied France. Be prepared to provide naval gun fire support.

  HUNT

  Cooper knocks on her door and walks in. Sam hands him the messages. “Please, send these out immediately. Inform the watch officer of the movement.”

  Cooper, “Yes, Spike. Group Captain Holmes to see you. Also, the Russians have arrived. Are you going to meet with their leader?”

  She gives him a quizzical look, “Send the group captain in. We’ll need tea, and I’ll get back to you on the Russians.”

  Cooper smiles and ushers Group Captain Howard Holmes of the Royal Australian Airforce into her office. He salutes, “Commodore, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  She stands, returns the salute, and smiles, “Good to see you, as well. How is Australia?” She shakes his hand and offers him a seat.

  “Still plucking along.”

  “How is Abigail?”

  He breaks eye contact, looking down, “Well, unfortunately she is, in part, the reason I stopped by. I’m quite afraid that we are no longer together. We are divorcing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was all that talk of flying. I understand that you have done quite well, but an officer’s wife…It’s so unseemly.”

  “As you might expect, I disagree, sir.” She pauses, observing him, “Could you explain how this has led you to me?”

  An aid comes in with tea, and they wait as it is served.

  “Well, it’s the matter of that young flyer who came with you to our home. A Lieutenant Jackson, I believe.”

  Sam goes still, schooling her face, “Lieutenant Commander Jackson.”

  “Well, I’ve the notion that she may contact him. He did make quite an impression. I would like you to prohibit him from replying to any possible letter from her.”

  “I see.” She takes a sip of tea, “I will need her current name and address. Also, her phone number, if she has one.”

  “Really?”

  “With that information, I can notify the censures and prevent any letter from reaching him.”

  “Oh yes! Quite clever.” He quickly writes the information down on the proffered paper and gives it to Sam. “She chose to revert to her maiden name, Case.”

  “I see.”

  “Thank you for your discretion in this matter.”

  “Your welcome.”

  “The tea is quite good.”

  “My yeoman is a gem.”

  “Might I inquire after that red-headed young lady?”

  “She’s doing well. She’s flying a CAP right now. She’s quite taken. You know the way of it, all the British flyers around.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  BRIEFING ROOM, RAF KENLEY

  1430, 3 October, 1942

  Thud has just finished his lesson on air combat maneuvering for a group of British and American flyers. As they file out, he gathers up his notes and sees Sam walk into the room, grinning. “Hey, Boss. Class went well.”

  Her smile gets bigger and there’s joy in her voice, “Good. I’ve got something for you.”

  Thud tilts his head, “What, Spike?”

  “Here’s the address and phone number of Abigail Holmes. But her last name is Case, now. They’re getting a divorce.”

  He looks at her, stunned, “Really?”

  “Really. Thud, call her. I think you need to talk.”

  “Thank you. Um…How did you…?”

  “A girl has to have some secrets, Frank.”

  GERMAN OCCUPIED RAF OUSTON

  1622, 3 October, 1942

  General Weber, face red, sets down the mic, and turns to his aid, “Send the following message to Colonel Stegman, ‘You failed to arrive in ambush as directed. Your failure cost eight aircraft and crew. Do not fail me again.’ Clean it up and send it.”

  CHAPTER 22

  COMMODORE’S CONFERENCE ROOM, RAF KENLEY

  1700, 3 October, 1942

  Lt. Colonel Andrews ushers Majors Nadezhda Popova and Alexander Pokryshkin in and introduces them to Spike. She stands and shakes their hands, “Welcome to RAF Kenley. I hope your flight was uneventful. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  Pokryshkin, in accented English, “You are taller than I thought.” He takes her hand, “Tea, I think.”

  Spike smiles, “You’re not the first to say that.” She nods to the steward, who serves tea and cookies.

  Popova, a female pilot, sips her tea and looks up surprised, “This is good. In America, the tea is horrible.”

  Spike laughs, “You’re right. I love English tea.”

  Popova, “So, why was it important for us to travel through England on our trip home?”

  Spike, “I wanted to take the measure of you, and discuss coordination and deconfliction procedures should your nation reenter the conflict.”

  Pokryshkin, “So, I saw your jet. So many kills. What is it you do, that others do not?”

  “You’ve been trained by LT. Walker, yes?”

  “We have.”

  “He was my wingman. Any insight I have, he has no doubt shared.”

  “Yes, but he does not have near as many kills.”

  She sits silent, then, “The most important thing is to understand your opponent and the capabilities of your aircraft. Deny the enemy his fight and stick with tactics that give you the advantage.”

  Popova, “You are the most effective flyer America has. Why is it you do not receive the recognition that is your due?”

  “I have been recognized.”

  “Yes, but no more than many lesser pilots. I’ve heard American flyers discuss it. In Russia, you would be showered with recognition, appreciation, and love.”

  Spike looks at Popova, “As you train more pilots, is it your intent to teach them all English so they may communicate with our forces?”

  Pokryshkin, “It is our intent. Popova is correct, in Russia, you would be praised and elevated.”

  Spike smiles at them, “Would you please excuse me for a moment?” She walks out, breathing deeply, and walk into Swede’s office, “Swede, could you give me a hand with the Russians? They’re getting a little difficult. I need them on task.”

  “Why don’t you just have me handle it?”

  “Do not go in there alone, that was my mistake.”

  They walk to Thud’s office. Swede, “Hey, Thud.”

  Thud is on the phone. He looks up startled, “My love, I need to go.” He hangs up, “What’s up?”

  “We need to interview the Russians and we need our poker faces on.”

  Thud sees Spike face and nods, “Right.”

  Swede, “Who were you talking to?”

  Thud turns red and shakes his head, “Later.”

  Swede, “Roger that. We got it, Boss.”

  Spike, “Thanks, guys.”

  TROLLOP AND MOUSE’S QUARTERS, RAF KENLEY

  1910, 3 October, 1942

  LT Pauline ‘Trollop’ Cash is sitting on her bunk when ENS Julie ‘Mouse’ Mulligan leads ENS Margaret Alcott into their room. They’ve decorated it with posters of the Go-Go�
��s, Marilyn Monroe, Chuck Yeager, and a Tomcat in flight. The top bunk has a rose patterned comforter with a handful of stuffed animals. The bottom bunk has a blue hand-made quilt with matching pillow cases and an extra pillow. Alcott is drawn to the posters, “Who’s he?”

  Trollop, “Chuck Yeager. He’s the first man to break the sound barrier in our time. He’s a fighter pilot for the Army Air Corps now.”

  Alcott stops in front of the poster of Marilyn Monroe, “And her?”

  Mouse, “Norma Jean Mortenson. Her film name was Marilyn Monroe. She had an amazing, but tragic life. She’s like fifteen or sixteen now. She died of a supposed drug overdose in 1962.”

  Why do you have her picture up?”

  “Because, she was beautiful and tragic. Elton John wrote an amazing song memorializing her.”

  Alcott, “She’s captivating.”

  Mouse, “Yeah.”

  Alcott points at the Go-Go’s, “Is that how people dressed?”

  Trollop laughs, “No, that’s their stage outfits. That’s a rock band called the Go-Go’s.”

  Alcott turns to her, “Is that why you invited me up?”

  Mouse, “It’s about Boyington. He’s a guy with a history. A good pilot and a good leader, but also a drunk, a gambler, and a womanizer.”

  Margaret nods, “We had that conversation. I told him I would rather fuck a goat.”

  Their eyes open wide, and they look at her silently, then they both bust out laughing. Mouse looks at her pilot, “Generally, relations between air crew are a very bad thing. It can screw up the respect dynamic.”

  Alcott, “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  Trollop, “Where are you from?”

  “Boston. My family pursues property, ship building, and social status. I’m such a failure in their eyes. You two?”

  Trollop, “I’m from a Podunk town in Arkansas. My dad worked as a truck mechanic and my mom, well, she’s a historian of sorts.”

  “What got you into flying?”

  “I went flying with one of my uncle’s friends when I was fourteen. It was a Stearman 75, but I was hooked. At seventeen I had my pilot’s license, and I had four hundred hours by the time I graduated college.”

  “I learned on one of those. They’re so fun. College?”

  “Scholarship to Tennessee, architecture. You?”

  “Radcliffe, math.” Alcott turns to Mouse, “You?”

  “I’m from a tiny town east of Portland, Oregon. I started out enlisted. I have an associates in electronics, which made me an AE. That landed me the RIO gig and a commission. I’ve only been flying a couple of months. I do love it, and would love to learn to fly. Radcliffe? Wow!”

  Trollop, “So, you’re okay behind the Major?”

  “Yeah, he wants to get kills more than he wants to get laid. We actually work pretty well together.”

  NEW YORK NAVAL YARD, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  1500, 3 October, 1942 (2000 GMT)

  Vice Admiral Klindt sits on the dais on the pier next to a new battleship. He listens to the chaplain open the ceremony. Clyde L. Herring, the junior senator from Iowa speaks, then George A. Wilson, the governor of Iowa makes his remarks. Finally, Klindt stands and walks to the podium, “Ladies and Gentlemen, crew of the battleship Iowa. Today is an auspicious day. This is the birthday of a new class of battleship, the state of the art in naval technology.

  “I have extreme confidence in her and, in you. We need you in the fleet because never before have we faced threats such as we do today. The Battle of Whitley Bay show us the truth of it. Because we did not have missile defenses, we lost the cruisers Omaha, Tuscaloosa, and Brooklyn. We also lost seven destroyers. Our allies lost much of their home fleet. These ships were crewed by brave and able men, but a brave heart does not stop a missile attack. Never again can we be so unprepared for such an attack.

  “The Iowa is our answer to that disaster in the cold waters of the North Sea. This is singularly the finest battleship ever made, with the finest crew we could assemble. When you put to sea, our enemies will tremble. Thank you.”

  The Iowa’s new captain, Captain John L. McCrea speaks to his crew and Admiral Klindt gives him his orders. Captain McCrea orders the commissioning pennant raised and says, “Crew, man your ship.” The one thousand eight hundred and eighty-five sailors run on board. Captain McCrea turns to the commissioning party, “May I invite you on board, sirs?”

  USS CARL VINSON, 300 MILES SOUTH WEST OF HAWAII

  1315, 3 October, 1942 (2315 GMT)

  CDR Norman ‘Oyster’ Osterman, CO of the Tomcatters, VF-31, climbs in behind LT Christine ‘Lipstick’ Collins of the Redcocks. They get strapped in and hooked up, then go through the checklist, and Oyster says, “Okay, Lipstick, this is your first launch and recovery in the Tomcat. I’m going to just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  Lipstick, “You’re going to handle the radio, right?”

  “Yep. I’ll be your RIO. I expect you to handle the bird without my help. If you do need me, I’ll be here.”

  “Yes, sir. They’re signaling engines.”

  NORTH OF HALTWHISTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND, UK

  0600, 4 October, 1942

  LT Gus Grant stands next to Ian McCloud concealed in a copse of trees and studying Haltwhistle, “I see a Panzer in a hole north of town by that stone farm house with the red roof.”

  McCloud, “I see it. There are half-tracks on each side of town with just their machine guns showing.”

  “Yep. We can use the burn and the stone fences to get close.”

  McCloud, “How many tanks do you count?”

  “Three; this one, one east of town and one west. They’re all Panzer 4s. Maybe four half-tracks. I haven’t seen any air defense. An armored platoon with about a company of troops. I can call in a strike on the tanks.”

  McCloud grins, “I have another idea.”

  PANZER 4, NORTH SIDE OF HALTWHISTLE, UK

  Sergeant Weller rocks back and forth in the command hatch. He’s been listening to the guys talk about the sex they’re getting. “Fuck, it’s cold and wet. Why do you suppose we want this place?”

  His gunner grins, “Because the women are warm.”

  “We shouldn’t rape them. When we rule here it will make it harder.”

  His gunner laughs, “Let me fetch you some vestments, Father Weller.”

  HALTWHISTLE BURN

  Cuddles squats on the bank of the burn twenty feet from a Panzer 4. Thirty Highlanders, crouch around him. For the Germans, the town is too large and their force too small to build and defend trenches, so instead, they spread out and fortified strong points.

  Peter McDougal whispers, “Lieutenant, stay here.”

  Cuddles shakes his head no, and points at himself, then the tank. Peter nods, and Cuddles draws his dirk. Cuddles works his way closer to the tank. They used a tractor to build a defensive berm around it. He sees a tanker standing in a raised hatch with a mounted machine gun.

  Cuddles sets his feet and sprints up the berm, jumping onto the tank. Leading with his knife, he sinks it into the German’s chest. His feet muddy, Cuddles slips with the force of the blow. The German tries to remove the knife, coughing up blood and gurgling. Cuddles pulls the bleeding man out of the hatch and jumps into it.

  The tanks gunner pulls a Luger and fires a hasty shot. The bullet burns Cuddles across the ribs and deafens him. He grabs the gun out of the man’s hand and turns it on the loader, who’s struggling with his own weapon. He shoots the loader in the throat, then turns and points it back at the gunner. The others have shot or captured the driver and hull gunner. The tank is covered in blood, but they hold it

  Cuddles, “Get the bodies out and let’s get this thing started.” He pulls his dirk out of the German, cleans it on his Tartan, and sheaths it. To himself, “Thank you, Patsy, dear.”

  The tank reeks of blood and urine, but they have it. He’s getting the machine gun into position, when an enemy machine guns opens up. The Scots on his side of the berm fire back, and
Cuddles gets his gun turned around and fires a long burst as rounds bounce off the turret.

  The incoming fire ceases and the tank engine starts up. The one highlander with tank experience gets into the gunner’s seat. His granddaughter, her brown hair braided and wrapped around her head, gets into the loader’s spot and the gunner gives her instructions. The gunner tugs at Cuddles shirt and passes up a crew communication head set.

  Peter climbs up on the tank and hangs the Scot’s flag, the St. Andrew’s Cross, off the aerial. “We got the half-track, sir. West then east?”

  “Yes, instead of following me, take the road further north and support McCloud. We’ll handle the tanks.” They can hear the bagpipes sounding. They’ll rush soon. Peter jumps off and heads to the half-track.

  Cuddles directs his tank down Comb Hill Road, shooting any German he sees. Several run out of houses struggling with their pants. They have their rifles, so Cuddles mows them down. When they see the western tank, it’s out of its revetment and turning toward them. His gunner, “We’re ready.”

  Cuddles, “Driver, stop,” and they lurch to stop. “Aim and fire.”

  Their round hits the Panzer 4 in the hull right at the turret. The 75mm high velocity gun penetrates and pops the turret from the tank in a fireball. Cuddles, “Spin around.” The reversing tracks tear up the road, and they turn toward the eastern tank.

  As they get moving, another machine gun opens up on them, “Gunner, machine gun, 10 o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “To the left.” Cuddles fires tracer rounds to mark the area.”

  “Got it.” The gunner fires the main gun and the machine gun and the building it’s in comes down.

  Cuddles, “Do you have a machine gun?”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s on the loader’s side of the tank.”

  “Okay.”

  They turn onto the east road out of town and a tank round shrieks by them. The third tank is about a half mile away. Cuddles, “Turn left. Gun it.” They crash through brush and small trees, fighting up a hillside. Then, they break into a yard with an alley ahead. “Stop. Spin around.”

  The gunner asks, “What are we doing?”

  “They saw what did, where we’re going, so he’s going to move to get in front of us. Let’s get behind him.” The driver floors it and they crash back down onto the street and head east. They turn north on Lany’s Lonnen and run up a hill. Cuddles yells, “Stop. I can see the road crossing sign. Sight on it.”