by Lee Jackson
Jeremy landed and rolled to absorb the impact along the meaty portions of his right thigh, buttock, and the muscles on that side of his back. He lay still, eyes closed, absorbing the fact that only moments earlier, he had been in a mortal struggle high in the heavens. Now, he lay on the ground in a row of vegetables. I hope they’re not turnips. I hate turnips.
When he opened his eyes, the farmer was standing over him. “Are you all right, gov’nuh?” He held his rifle in both hands, ready but not threatening. “Say something in the king’s English, just so’s I know not to jostle you with this thing.” He slapped his weapon.
Struggling to sit up, Jeremy could not help an exhausted chuckle. “Do you know, kind sir, that you are the most beautiful sight I’ve seen today? Could you help me up?”
“Oh yes, yes, of course.” The farmer grasped Jeremy’s extended hand and turned to his workers. “Don’t just stand there. Gather up this gentleman’s parachute.”
Turning back to Jeremy, he said, “We saw the whole show, we did. The constable is on his way to take custody of the Hun. He’s over there, he is.” He pointed at the circle of people across the field. “That’s the one what you shot down, for certain. He won’t be doin’ any more flyin’ or shootin’ over my farm, he won’t. I should think not.”
While the farm hands helped remove his parachute harness and flight gear, Jeremy glanced to where the farmer pointed. When all was secure, he walked over to the circle of people. They waved as he approached, smiling at him appreciatively and calling out greetings as they parted to let him inside the circle. There, standing at its center and nursing wounded pride, the German pilot stood erect, his eyes fixed on Jeremy but showing neither anger nor hate.
Jeremy stepped to within a few feet of him. They were roughly the same age.
Sirens announced the approaching constable.
Thoughts of Fiske and other fallen comrades flashed through Jeremy’s mind with scenes of the destruction, spilled blood, and death he had witnessed. Anger coursed through his being, tightening his fists and the muscles in his neck, along his jaw, and on his forehead. He regarded the young German pilot with furious eyes. For the better part of a minute, the two studied each other without speaking.
The constable broke through and put a hand on the German’s shoulder.
The pilot shook it off. Facing Jeremy and pulling himself to attention, he said in heavily accented English, “Today, you were the better pilot.” Then, he saluted.
Jeremy breathed in deeply. “I was lucky,” he replied, and returned the salute.
As the constable took custody, he turned to Jeremy. “Is there anything we can do for you, sir?”
“What happens to him?”
“His war is over. He’ll go to a POW camp in the north of England or Scotland.”
Reading the German’s doleful expression and remembering his own low spirits as he evaded across France, Jeremy said, “Treat him well. He was a soldier doing the bidding of his country.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” the constable asked again.
Jeremy looked up at the dizzying antics of specks in the sky still drawing random patterns with their contrails. “Get me back to Tangmere. I need another aircraft.”
35
Fearing the worst, Paul turned to Joel, his eyes revealing his anxiety.
“The casualty reports are in from the earlier battle along the southern coast,” Joel said.
Paul stiffened and closed his eyes.
“Your brother’s name isn’t on it.”
Momentarily, Paul stood still, his eyes closed. When he opened them, they glistened with moisture. “Thank you,” he whispered, and let out a long breath as he turned back to the map.
“There’s more,” Joel said. “His aircraft went down, but he parachuted to safety.” He paused as a thought crossed his mind. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this now. He got another aircraft and went back up.”
Paul swung his head around sharply.
“I think he’ll be fine,” Joel said. “There’s no combat in that area at present. He’s probably back on the ground by now.”
“Let’s hope so,” Paul breathed. “You know, he was not like this growing up. He was mild-mannered. He’d go along with adventure, but he didn’t seek it out. Now he does covert work in France, flies fighters, jumps out of them, and goes back up.” He sighed. “I’m in awe of him.”
“War changes people,” Joel responded. “We all want to feel like we’re doing all we can.”
Paul stared at Joel wryly. “Don’t we just,” he muttered.
Movement below caught Joel’s attention. “The weather’s got them,” he exclaimed. “The two bomber formations are turning without dropping their payloads. They’ll fight their way out, but this foray is effectively ended.”
They watched as the Germans flew back through the blazing gauntlet of British fighter machine guns. Chased by Spitfires and Hurricanes, the northern formation raced out to sea. There, while Spitfires dueled with ME 109s, the bombers jettisoned their deadly cargoes and climbed higher, seeking sanctuary, and chased by Hurricanes.
Meanwhile, the group that had intended to attack Hornchurch battled their way overland, finally emerging above the Channel near Dover with another complement of British fighters dogging their way. At mid-Channel, the RAF pilots turned their kites homeward. On the control room floor, the plotters cleared the map.
Paul lingered in the gallery with Joel until dusk in case of another raid. None emerged. They sat in chairs staring into the filter room below, where now, only a skeleton crew monitored activity.
“No more attacks today?” Paul asked wearily.
Drooping with fatigue, Joel shook his head. His eyes had sunk into his face. “They haven’t done any night attacks to date,” he said, “but our entire system is still up and running. If the radar stations see something, we’ll have this place hopping within minutes.” He stared tiredly into Paul’s face. “I’m glad your brother’s all right.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
“I took a walk down to the controllers’ desk a few minutes ago,” Joel said. “They told me that Mr. Churchill sat in the gallery with Air Vice-Marshal Park in the 11 Group bunker at Uxbridge all day. He watched the entire battle, often in tears. When he left, he told Chief of General Staff Ismay not to speak with him right then—he was too overcome. Someone overheard him say something about the many owing to the few.”
“There’s certainly truth to that,” Paul said. “A debt that can never be paid.”
Joel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded paper. “The numbers are still coming in, but I have some preliminary figures encompassing the whole day.” Unfolding the paper, he scanned it. “This is what our magnificent few did today, and mind you, besides our British chaps, we had American pilots, some from the Commonwealth, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and other nations, all fighting today in our defense.”
“In defense of western democracy,” Paul interjected.
“Agreed,” Joel replied. He looked at the paper again. “They flew 403 sorties; 320 of them made contact for an eighty-percent intercept rate. The busiest unit was 43 Squadron, flying Hurricanes for sixty-three sorties. That averages out to five sorties per aircraft.”
Paul took the paper from Joel and copied the casualty numbers into his notebook. “43 Squadron,” he mused. “That was the one flying next to my brother’s.”
“Five sorties per aircraft,” he repeated in disbelief, “which probably means five sorties per pilot. They must be exhausted. The odds against them were staggering. No one could have predicted this outcome. It must be a strategic defeat for Germany. Do we have any idea of casualties?”
“I don’t have numbers on deaths, captured, wounded, or missing, but I do have estimates of downed aircraft, and that gives a sense of scale,” Joel said. “Keep in mind that all of our aircraft were single-seat fighters. When one of ours went down, it represented the potential
loss of one pilot. We shot down bombers that have five and more crewmembers in addition to fighters. So, their downed planes represent a much larger potential loss of life.
“Telling you how many planes we sent up is meaningless, because as ours ran out of fuel or ammunition, they landed, replenished, and took off again. And some pilots, like your brother, parachuted down, went and got another plane, and rejoined the fight.”
“What are the numbers?” Paul asked tiredly.
“We lost forty aircraft today.”
Paul made an additional entry in his notebook. “That’s a lot, particularly for an air force our size. And theirs?”
“This was without a doubt our hardest day to date,” Joel said, “but the Luftwaffe lost seventy.”
A few hours earlier, near mid-afternoon, Jeremy brought his second Hurricane to a stop within fifty feet of the dispersal hut. Clambering over the side of the cockpit, he all but slid off the wing, and after his feet touched ground, he stumbled around to complete his post-flight checks. Too tired to be of much assistance, he let his crewmen pull the aircraft around into its parking position and ready it for the next operation.
On entering the dispersal hut, many pairs of eyes met his, among them Brody’s. He breathed a sigh, and then noticed that their expressions bespoke somberness beyond fatigue.
Brody shot him a chastising glance. “I warned you about that other bandit on your tail.”
“I know.” He clapped Brody’s shoulder. “Without you, I wouldn’t be here. I’ll never forget. I couldn’t let that other one go, though. He’d just shot at one of ours, and he was in my sights.”
“I understand.” His eyes met Jeremy’s, a hollowness about them.
Jeremy glanced at the other pilots in the room. Heaviness hung in the air. “What’s happened?” he asked.
No one spoke. Gesturing with his jaw, Brody indicated the bulletin board.
“How many?” Jeremy asked.
“We lost Sandy,” Brody said. “The fighter you shot down had just shot him down.”
Jeremy stopped where he stood. His head fell backward, his shoulders drooped, and his jaw slid open. He took a deep breath.
“We were worried about you for a while,” Brody said. “I saw you go down, but I couldn’t see where your parachute landed.”
Jeremy shifted his tired eyes to Brody and only nodded.
“You got that kill,” Brody said.
Jeremy plodded over and took a seat. “I met the pilot.” He buried his face in his hands. “Some consolation for getting shot down and losing Sandy.”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and described his encounter with the German pilot. “I felt sorry for him. I could see that he felt ashamed, despaired, yet he was still respectful. Not a bad sort. Under other circumstances, we might have been friends.”
They lounged around the hut with the other pilots for the remainder of the afternoon, playing board games, reading, dozing, and generally passing time until their readiness shift ended.
Near dusk, Squadron Leader Hope appeared in the door. “We mourn the loss of another brother,” he said, and called for a moment of silence. He ended it with a determined glitter in his bloodshot eyes. “Now we keep fighting.”
Then, with a forced brighter expression, he said, “We must continue to celebrate our victories.” He looked at Jeremy. “Please stand.”
“No, sir. Please.”
“We don’t have time for false modesty. Stand up. That’s an order.”
Reluctantly, Jeremy did as he was told.
“I learned something today about Flight Lieutenant Littlefield that I had not known before, something that we have in common.” He faced Jeremy with residual grief. “We were at Dunkirk at the same time.” He looked across the pilots who shared his anguish. “I’d heard your story from the press, but I didn’t make the connection about you. We’re proud to have you among us.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jeremy said quietly. “Thousands went through what I did.”
Hope continued somberly. “Earlier today, we worried that you might not have made it safely to earth. Then we learned that you had and that you pestered the ground crew into releasing another Hurricane to get back in the fight.”
He grasped Jeremy’s shoulder. “You did a marvelous job as tail-end Charlie. More of us might not be here now but for your diligence, quick thinking, and tenacity. I promise we won’t ask you to do it again. It’s hellacious to ask you to watch our backs while no one is watching yours.”
“It’s not a problem, sir. I’ll do my part, whatever it is.”
“In any event, you not only survived—”
“I survived because Brody saved my ass,” Jeremy muttered gruffly.
Subdued laughter rippled through the hut, alleviating the mood.
“We look out for each other,” Hope said, and gave a beleaguered smile. “Good job all around. But, returning to young Jeremy, you took down one of theirs. I think that brings your tally to three.”
Jeremy’s expression dropped. He stared at the ground. “I didn’t save Sandy.”
“Which is why we’re having this talk,” Hope said. “You didn’t kill Sandy. The German did. You did your best, you saved some of us, and you lived to fight another day. No one could ask more of you.”
He looked across the room of tired, somber pilots. “We’ve had terrible days this week. We lost Billy two days ago, and Sandy tonight. Today was the worst day we’ve seen so far in the battle, all across Britain. But we’re still in the fight, and I believe we’ll win this thing.” He chuckled as if having an afterthought. “And with that and tuppence, you can buy a bad pint of ale.”
The pilots, still wearing serious expressions, allowed themselves to enjoy the humor. Hope spoke once more. “Now, we’re going to the pub together, all of us. The first drink is on me, and we’ll toast Sandy. Then I’ll see you here, as well rested as possible, at first light.”
Later that night, after Jeremy had returned to his billet, he flopped on his bunk, spent but unable to sleep, staring into the night. How different things could have turned out if those first bullets that struck my wing had been angled a mite differently. Or if Brody had not guided me while the Messerschmitt was on my tail. Just a few centimeters over, and the pilot who downed me would have killed me. But here I am, a theoretical hero.
“I don’t feel heroic,” he muttered. “I should have been able to warn Sandy the way Brody warned me. I was unfairly lucky.” He shook his head. “And in two days, we bury Billy.” He lay flat, with his head deep in his pillow. Deliberately, he turned his careworn thoughts to Amélie, holding onto an image of her face, her auburn hair, honey-colored eyes, and mischievous smile. “I miss you.”
36
August 20, 1940
Boxgrove, Chichester, UK
The Central Band of the Royal Air Force was in position when Jeremy, Brody, and six fellow pilots assembled to be pallbearers. The band led off, followed by the pilots from the full wing. Then came a simple, flat, horse-drawn cart bedecked with flowers and carrying the casket. Behind them, the group of pallbearers brought up the rear.
News of Fiske’s death reached the farthest corners of the globe overnight. Hundreds of thousands of people grieved for him and sent condolences. In this tiny community, the circumstances were far more private. The villagers who had celebrated that he was their neighbor lined the streets to pay their last respects, some saluting as the casket passed by. They fell in behind the procession as it wound its way through the narrow streets of this village Billy Fiske had come to love.
His longtime friends told Jeremy that they had never seen Billy happier than the time he had spent with 601 Squadron and the Royal Air Force. One said, “He found the calling that satisfied his long search for his own right mix of purpose and adventure.”
They moved past an area where Squadron Leader Hope escorted Rose and Lady Brand, who held themselves well and stoic, as the occasion required. An air of bewilderment encircled the mother as she
tried to fathom that she had buried two husbands, one lost to war, and now she was with her daughter, a fresh bride and herself a war widow.
Just behind Rose’s eyes, her own haunting anguish lingered.
The casket was closed. Carrying a favorite son of two nations, it was draped in the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack, and after the short service, Jeremy and his fellow fighter pilots raised it to their shoulders and carried Billy Fiske to his final resting place in the weathered and solemn twelfth-century churchyard of St. Mary’s and St. Blaise, overlooking RAF Tangmere.
37
House of Commons, Parliament, London, England
The low hum of voices fell silent as Winston Churchill entered and unceremoniously took his seat. The man who had been a giant in British officialdom for so many decades waited patiently to be announced. Then he rose to the dais.
He looked across at the members of parliament, so many of whom had loathed, snubbed, derided, and feared him, and others who had quietly listened to his many speeches and supported his almost singular and stubborn fight to prepare Britain for a war with Hitler that he knew was coming while others considered it impossible. His audience waited expectantly, reverentially, to hear from the man now lionized among the public as the leader who would save Britain, Europe, and western democracy.
“Almost a year has passed since the war began,” he said, “and it is natural for us, I think, to pause on our journey at this milestone and survey the dark, wide field. It is also useful to compare the first year of this second war against German aggression with its forerunner a quarter of a century ago. Although this war is in fact only a continuation of the last, very great differences in its character are apparent. In the last war millions of men fought by hurling enormous masses of steel at one another. ‘Men and shells,’ was the cry, and prodigious slaughter was the consequence. In this war nothing of this kind has yet appeared. It is a conflict of strategy, of organization, of technical apparatus, of science, mechanics, and morale. The British casualties in the first twelve months of the Great War amounted to three hundred and sixty-five thousand. In this war, I am thankful to say, British killed, wounded, prisoners, and missing, including civilians, do not exceed ninety-two thousand, and of these, a large proportion are alive as prisoners of war.”