Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  “I don’t know how many, but well over two hundred.”

  The supervisor took a deep breath, headed toward the department store, and disappeared inside. Several minutes passed. Amélie watched the front entrance.

  The supervisor appeared in the door. A small group emerged. He pointed them toward Amélie. They ran to her. More people appeared, and then a stream of them.

  When the first ones reached her, terror was reflected in their eyes. Some carried children. Others supported elderly people or struggled with injury and pain.

  Claire appeared, along with two men carrying the boy with the gash in his head. He was unconscious. Amélie called to the medics and pointed them out. Moments later, they laid the boy inside the ambulance and went to help more injured.

  “Where are you taking all these people?” Claire asked, looking back at the long line of terrified people outlined against the flames. When Amélie pointed, Claire looked doubtfully at the corner of the stone building. There, a lone fireman sprayed water against the stone wall. When she turned back, Amélie had formed the front row, with more still streaming toward them. She started forward, and Claire joined her.

  As they approached, they saw that the street between the buildings was illuminated by the firestorm. The firemen had formed a line in the narrow passage and aimed their hoses at the stone wall. The heavy spray pounded onto it and bounced off, creating a tunnel of droplets that doused any flames coming near.

  Amélie quickened her pace as she understood the plan for the watery passage. There, she stood aside, joined by Claire. “Don’t stop,” she urged the people. “Keep moving or you’ll block the ones coming behind. Wardens at the other end will take you to another shelter.”

  They hurried past, casting fearful glances at flames darting within feet of them. Amélie watched them, surprised that the crowd was much larger than she had reckoned. Then, toward the end, she saw little Claire’s mother still clutching her limp daughter. A group of people supported and comforted her as she passed by. On seeing the child, Amélie started to go limp and her mind numbed.

  “Steady there,” Claire said, holding her up. “We have to get out too.”

  When the last people had gone by, the supervisor stood staring at Amélie.

  “I want to help,” she said, her voice weak. “Tell me what to do.”

  “You saved many lives tonight,” he said gently. “Hurry on. I need those men and their hoses, and they can’t leave until you’re on the other side. We don’t need two more casualties.” Then, he left hastily for his next crisis.

  Amazingly, when Amélie and Claire reached the far end of the firemen’s watery tunnel, a bus whooshed by. It came to a halt a few meters past them at its regular stop. The two women looked at each other in disbelief and ran to board it.

  “You’re still operating?” Claire asked. Aside from themselves, the bus was empty.

  “Keep calm and carry on, isn’t it?” the driver said. “Those Huns aren’t going to steal our country and change our lives. I’ve got a schedule to meet, and most of my mates feel the same way, don’t we? Yes, I think we do.”

  The women sank into a seat and leaned their heads against its back. “We’re catching the train to Stony Stratford,” Claire called to the driver. “Do you go by the London Euston station?”

  “I do, and I’ll be happy to drop you right in front,” he replied.

  As they drove away, they looked back to where they had been. An otherworldly orange glow hung over the city.

  Neither spoke on the way to the station and very little on the train to Stony Stratford, each alone with her thoughts and struggling with her feelings. As they neared the town, Claire turned to Amélie. “You were amazing tonight.”

  Amélie took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She tossed her head back and forth vigorously against horrors re-visited, her eyes pressed closed. “I was terrified.”

  “All the first aid you gave. Getting the help so quickly. I’m in awe. And I saw what you did to that warden. Where did you learn how to do that?”

  Amélie’s voice was tired, weak. “Major Crockatt’s training. It’s good.”

  They descended into silence again for a time, and then Claire murmured, “Why didn’t we know this was coming?”

  “How could we have known?” Then Amélie thought of Jeannie Rousseau at the German planning headquarters in Dinard. The bombing must have been part of invasion planning. Why didn’t we hear of it? She glanced at Claire. I can’t say anything.

  Next to her, Claire chastised herself for musing out loud. Her thoughts went to Bletchley. We have an intelligence gap. She reached for Amélie’s hand and squeezed it. “I can see why my brother is so taken with you.” But I can’t tell you what I know.

  Claire stumbled into her kitchen to the aroma of fresh coffee at mid-morning the next day and was surprised to find Amélie there conversing with the nanny. Timmy sat astride Amélie’s knee.

  “I see I don’t need to make introductions,” Claire said, chuckling. Moving was painful, her muscles sore, her emotions still in turmoil. She reached for Timmy, but he shook his head and flopped against Amélie, hugging her.

  “You’ve made a friend,” Claire said with subdued laughter. “You’re good with children. How are you feeling?”

  “Groggy. Still in shock.” Amélie pulled Timmy close. “This little man lifts the spirits.” She sniffed and said mournfully, “He takes my mind off of that little girl.” In spite of herself, her voice broke and faded. “She was still wearing her pink bonnet.”

  Claire teared up. “I know.” She tousled Timmy’s hair. “We’re lucky to have him. He reminds us about what makes life worthwhile and the reasons we fight.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, and they sat staring.

  After a time, Claire said, “I called Major Crockatt and told him where we were last night. I told him what you did. He said you should take another day off and to let him know if you need more time.”

  “Ah, that sounds good. I won’t stay more than another day, though. If I get too accustomed to this beautiful house and garden, I might never leave.” She closed her eyes and inhaled. “It’s so peaceful here. What happened last night was surreal, even after Dunkirk.” She sipped her coffee and sighed. “Why do people make war on others?”

  Sensing that he had ceased being the center of Amélie’s attention, Timmy slid down from her knee and ran to Claire. “Evil exists,” Claire said, picking him up and holding him close. “Some people crave power. I don’t know why. They never seem happy, even when they get it.”

  She sipped her coffee and stood. “If you’d like to join me, I’m going into the living room to listen to the news on BBC. I want to hear what’s being said about last night.”

  The journalist was delivering his report when they tuned in the wireless.

  “Hitler declared war on our population,” he said. “He picked a strategic time to conduct a war of terror against ordinary citizens, when the tide was out and the water in the River Thames was at its lowest, inhibiting our firefighters. He first dropped incendiary bombs, and the fires served as beacons for his second run, which dropped high explosives.

  “The level of surprise is manifest in the number of people who watched in wonder and disbelief as the bombers approached, not seeking shelter until he dropped his wicked payload on an unsuspecting population. Survivability became a function of how soon people recognized and sought shelter from the droning objects in our skies that were lethal threats intending to kill us.

  “The inferno covered two hundred and fifty acres. In the heavily populated areas along the river on the east end, the incendiary bombs of the first attack set fire to vast tracts at the docks, setting aflame commercial facilities, shops, warehouses, lumber yards, and homes.

  “Within forty-five minutes, smoke obscured the sky, but windows burned bright with flames leaping and consuming anything that was combustible; or melting, bending, or blackening anything that was not. And still the menacing drone of hundreds of a
ircraft rumbled through our skies, and the bombs fell, and the night turned orange over the city through nine long, horrifying hours.

  “London’s firemen fought valiantly to contain more than forty separate blazes. Firefighters from Brighton, Manchester, and from as far away as Bristol reinforced them. Exhausted men relieved exhausted men as the hellacious night wore on, handing over hoses and nozzles under forty to sixty pounds of pressure that, if let go, would writhe like serpents, delivering crushing blows to anyone unfortunate enough to be in their way. The largest fire occurred at the Surrey Docks and required three hundred pumps to contain it. The worst loss of life occurred at a shelter under the Columbia Road Market where over forty lives were lost, including an entire family of eight.

  “Amazingly, taxis, buses, and trains continued to operate, and as the target of the attack became recognized as localized to the docks at the Isle of Dogs, people in other areas emerged from their shelters to make their way home or to other destinations. Most of London, however, spent the night in the tube and in other underground shelters, emerging after the all-clear was sounded at four o’clock this morning.

  “Despite his barbaric and cruel actions, Adolf Hitler failed to daunt the British fighting spirit at Dunkirk. He failed again when he sought to destroy our lifeline to food supplies by bombing our ships and ports. He tried to finish off our Royal Air Force by razing our manufacturing capability, destroying our airfields, and challenging our fighters in the skies over our own heads; and again, he failed. Now, he seems to believe that he will bend us to our knees by bringing the war into our homes and villages, and into our living rooms; by killing our sons and daughters, our grandparents, and all those dear to us where they sleep.

  “Last night, he killed over four hundred of our friends and relatives, and that number will likely go higher, but we took down ninety-nine of his aircraft. Our prime minister, Mr. Churchill, told the world that we will fight to the end. And I add this message to Chancellor Hitler: you will rue the day that you first bombed London.”

  41

  September 8, 1940

  RAF Tangmere, Southern England

  When Jeremy entered the dispersal hut, Squadron Leader Hope was there, alone and staring at the bulletin board. He swung round on hearing Jeremy. “The figures are up,” he grunted, an uncharacteristically angry tone in his voice. “Nine hours of bombing. Over six hundred and fifty people killed—a hundred and thirty of them children.” He turned back to the bulletin board and stared at it, stone-faced.

  “Hitler said he would burn London to the ground in retaliation,” he went on. “He bloody well tried last night.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out, and then turned to Jeremy. “You asked for a chat?”

  Jeremy hesitated. “I hope you won’t be offended. I’ve put a lot of thought into what I am about to request and ask that you hear me out.”

  “This sounds serious.”

  “You’ve been marvelous, and so have the other pilots,” Jeremy said. “They could not have welcomed me more warmly.”

  “Ahh. You want a transfer.”

  “To 609 Squadron.”

  Hope took his eyes from the board and wandered over to take a seat at one of the tables. “You like the designation 609 better than 601, and that one has Spitfires—” He tried to grin, but the grimness of the moment prevented it.

  Jeremy shook his head. “They do have Spitfires now, but that’s not the reason. May I explain?”

  “You’re a good man and a great pilot, Jeremy. I won’t let you go easily. As of this moment, I have no reason to grant your request.”

  “I was given no choice when I came here.”

  “And you objected?”

  Jeremy hesitated to respond, and then nodded. “For one reason only.” He took a deep breath. “Three chums I trained with at Hawarden are in 609 Squadron at RAF Middle Wallop. They’re American, and to get here, they had to fight the FBI and the Canadian, French, and British bureaucracies. They were nearly sunk by a German torpedo and almost captured by Germans outside of Lourdes. They escaped to the south of France and got on the last boat to sail to Britain, and then our government wanted to deport them. They’re great pilots, but they’ve received no respect. They put their American citizenship at risk, and our government even had a daft notion to charge them income tax on the meager salary we pay them. They’ve taken all the difficulties with humor and goodwill and are still here to do one thing—fight for Great Britain.”

  “How is your transfer there going to help them?”

  “Maybe it won’t. Did you know that I am half-American?”

  “I do know.”

  “You do? How?”

  “We’ll get to that.” Hope stood and crossed the hut to see if the teapot was hot. It was not. He returned to his seat. “How does your being half-American bear on this.”

  “By my last count, there were seven full Americans here to fight in our Battle of Britain. There was Fiske—” He paused as his voice caught and his jaw quivered with a flash of fresh sorrow, then he continued. “There’s the three of them in 609 Squadron, a chap by the name of Donahue—”

  “I’ve met Donahue. A good man.” Hope wrinkled his brow. “I think he was with the 609 for a short time and elected to transfer. He went to 64 Squadron.”

  “You are correct. He’s a good chap, but he perceived my friends the way most others do: as cowboys, too independent to be melded into a team. That’s the reason he left. But they are excellent pilots. Each of them has far more flying time than the recruits we rush through training and throw into combat.”

  “No one’s trying to remove them.”

  “And no one’s looking out for them either. They’ve had to make their own way every step.”

  “What do you expect to do to make their situation better?”

  “Be there. Be a chum. My benefit is that my American side gets to be around the part of my background that I’ve known so little.”

  Hope’s face had turned expressionless, but he listened. “What about the other two Americans?”

  “I haven’t met them, but I imagine I will. There’s a high-level move afoot to bring all the Yanks into one squadron the way they’ve done with the Canadians and Poles. They’d call it the Eagle Squadron. If that happens, I want to fight with them.”

  Hope heaved a sigh but said nothing.

  “You’ve been involved with this squadron for years,” Jeremy cut in, sensing an opening. “The pilots here are your friends. You feel comfortable around each other.”

  “So?”

  “These three Americans—Red, Andy, and Shorty—they’re my friends. They met my sister and brother. Red even met Timmy.” Jeremy took another breath and chose his words carefully. “You know that none of them would have been considered for this squadron because they’re not—”

  “Aristocracy,” Hope interrupted. “I know. But you are. I looked your mother up in the Almanac de Gotha.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “So that’s how you learned about my father. I suppose you’re right, technically. There are some significant personages in our ancestry. Our family lives well on Sark Island, and to some, we might be considered wealthy, but we’re closer to the earth than you might think, and certainly not in the league of—”

  Feeling awkward about the direction his comments were taking, Jeremy stopped talking. Hope finished the sentence for him. “The 601 Squadron pilots?”

  Jeremy grinned. “They don’t call it the ‘Millionaire Squadron’ for nothing.” He added soberly, “They’ve treated me well. They’re all volunteers. There’s no law compelling them to face the Hun. Yet they wake up every morning to do just that, knowing this day could be their last. I have nothing but the highest respect for them.”

  Hope grunted. “Regardless, if this war keeps up, the aristocratic nature of this squadron will go by the wayside, and rightfully so.” He sighed. “They’ll appreciate your high esteem, but I’ll tell you: they admire you too. They know that you’re a better fighter p
ilot than any of them.” He chuckled. “In a dogfight, you’d beat everyone except me.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but I’m not sure I believe you,” Jeremy replied with a note of skepticism. Then he regained his intensity. “Sir, I care about my American friends. In combat, I want them at my back or to be at theirs. If we lose one, I want to be there to grieve and console those remaining. If one is wounded, I want to support him in recovery.” He paused, and then delivered his final thought. “I will fight anywhere that I’m ordered in any aircraft, but I request respectfully that I be allowed to be with my comrades, where I belong.”

  Hope sat in silence for several minutes, eyeing Jeremy. When he spoke, he began slowly. “I admire the care you have for your friends, but there’s another aspect you should consider.” He drew a breath. “Pilots are being lost every day. Our life expectancy in this battle is two weeks. Veteran pilots who’ve lost many mates have stopped getting close to new ones for the sake of their emotional stability. It’s hard.” He leaned his elbows on the table while turning his head to hide his quivering mouth. “I had known Sandy and Billy Fiske for many years.” He sniffed and took a breath. “Think of how you’ll feel if you lose any of those three friends of yours.”

  “I’ve thought of that, a lot. I suppose I’ll feel the same as I did when we lost Billy, or how I would if I received the news remotely, or if we lost you. I don’t think the distance between us would matter.”

  Hope chuckled through a taut voice. “You can’t lose me.” He rubbed his eyes. “And you still want to go?”

  “I do.”

  Hope scraped his feet on the floor and stood. “You are a remarkable man, Jeremy Littlefield. Your loyalty is rare, and your chums are fortunate to have it. I am personally proud and honored to be your friend.” He stood and started for the exit. “I’ll forward your request up the chain with my recommendation for approval, but I’ll be sorely disappointed to lose you.”