Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Because accountability formations were large, attendance was reported by the number of prisoners present, not by name, and thus the discrepancy might not be discovered for days. With any luck, the same would be true for the cut in the fence. Lance would lessen the chance of that discovery by clipping at the joints of intersecting wire and laying them back in place after moving through.

  He moderated his breath and scanned the part of the compound he could see through a chink in the wall at the front of the shed. The signal could come at any moment. He focused his attention on a particular barracks window. One of the glass sections had long ago been broken and repaired with white cardboard from a Red Cross package. As he watched, the cardboard disappeared.

  Lance held his breath and waited. The guards are preparing for the shift change.

  Minutes ticked by.

  The cardboard reappeared. That’s it!

  He rushed across to the front door, pushed it open barely enough to slip through, ran in blazing light to the corner of the shed, and ducked into its narrow shadow. Then he scurried to the middle of the wall, turned left sharply, hopped the no-man’s barbed wire, and darted to the base of the fence.

  He panted, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  The wire cutters tucked in his trousers pocket had been improvised from two long, narrow pieces of steel scavenged from the motor pool. Over many hours, teams of prisoners had honed the sides to a razor-sharp edge on one end of each strip and joined them near that end with a grommet. The POWs had pilfered the materials and accomplished the work in moments when their guards had been distracted.

  From around the corner, Lance heard the soft murmur of the guards in conversation. The tower cast shadows in several directions, generated by multiple floodlights.

  His breath coming in short gasps, Lance placed the bottom wire between the snips and squeezed. The cutter slipped sideways and failed to cut. He grabbed it, opened it, and tried again. Same result. Cursing under his breath, he reset it, put his knee on it, and pressed with his weight. This time, the wire gave.

  He cut in two more places using the same technique, but when he tried the next level up, he had to apply the strength of both arms pressing together. His arms shook from the exertion, waves of pain extending up through his shoulders, and sweat ran into his eyes. Just when the effort seemed impossible, the wire gave way, but he had consumed more time than he intended.

  Then he heard the clomp, clomp, clomp of the guards climbing the stairs. Within seconds, he would be in plain view.

  Pushing the wire away, he crawled under it, cleared his feet, and pressed the wire back into place. Then, instead of going straight to the second strand of wire, he ran in a crouch under the tower and kneeled below its platform, twenty feet higher.

  Almost immediately, men began shouting angrily from the center of the camp. From above him, Lance heard the guards hurrying to the side of the tower facing inside the compound. They barked sharp comments at each other and aimed their spotlight toward the yard. The metallic sound of the machine gun being armed resounded through the night.

  Lance moved swiftly to the opposite side below the platform, knelt by the wire, and cut as rapidly as his strength allowed.

  Sixty seconds later, he was through the fence and running as hard as his legs would carry him out of the floodlit area of the camp’s perimeter into a wide field. He reached darkness with the sounds of the hubbub inside the prison receding behind him. Then, maneuvering cautiously through the field, he reached the safety of the wood line, paused to catch his breath and get his bearings, and headed deeper into the forest, making for the train station.

  54

  September 17, 1940

  Rockefeller Center, New York City, USA

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Stephenson said. “How was your flight? Did you sleep?” He looked at his watch. “We’re nearing afternoon rush hour, and it’s intense here.”

  “The trip was long, but I did manage to sleep,” Paul replied. “And I wrote the addendum to my report for Menzies.” He handed it to Stephenson, who perused it.

  “Hmph,” Stephenson said after a few moments. “So, Air Vice-Marshal Park had fully committed every aircraft in 11 Group. Even his reserves?”

  “Everything, sir. I’ll never forget the moment. The status lights flashed red across all the boards in the control room. Churchill saw it happen and turned to Park, who said something to him and then shook his head. The prime minister’s eyes filled with tears.”

  “What about the other groups?”

  “They had some aircraft not yet engaged, but the question became whether or not they could be brought to bear fast enough. In my conclusions and recommendations, I stated that Air Vice-Marshal Mallory’s ‘big wing’ issue should be resolved, and I advocated against including it as doctrine. It takes too much time to mount, it wastes resources, and when employed, its results have been sparse.”

  Stephenson eyed Paul thoughtfully. “I might agree with you, but I’d advise leaving that out of your report.”

  “Why?” Paul asked, startled. “It’s germane.”

  “No dispute there, and personally, I agree with your assessment.”

  “Then why—”

  “I won’t keep anything from you, Paul. Your position is a sensitive one, and if you’re going to provide your best service in the event of my disappearance, you must know it all.” He sighed while Paul gazed at him expectantly.

  “Mallory is lobbying to have Dowding removed, and I think he might succeed.”

  Astonished, Paul blurted, “But how? If Britain is ultimately saved, Dowding is the reason why.”

  Stephenson held up a hand for patience. “Bear with me. As you’ve discerned, the relationship between Dowding and Mallory is heated. Dowding, to his credit, is brilliant and sees far into the future, but he earned his nickname, Stuffy, for a reason. He’s no politician. Mallory, on the other hand, is all politics, and he sees himself as Chief Air Marshal.”

  “But surely, Churchill wouldn’t—”

  “I’m afraid he might. You probably don’t know that while we were still fighting in France, just before the evacuation, the French president called Churchill begging for more air support. Churchill promised to send more squadrons.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Paul cut in. “How could I have missed it?”

  “The episode was hush-hush beyond the norm. Sir Dowding wrote an official letter to Churchill stating that, if the squadrons were sent, he could not guarantee the safety and viability of Great Britain. As a result, Churchill was forced to renege on his promise. He was personally embarrassed.”

  Paul was astounded. “But the man just saved Britain,” he said in exasperation. “If he had complied, we might be dead as a country.”

  Stephenson nodded. “Paul, this is going to be a long war. You will see and hear things that seem senseless, but you must bear in mind that in someone else’s mind, the actions that seem insane to you are perfectly reasonable to that person, who is probably a decision-maker. We have armies, technology, air forces, spies, saboteurs—all manner of fighting this war. Unfortunately, that also means dealing with the politics of it. If we are going to win, then we must, as the poster says, keep calm and carry on.

  “Fortunately, the Battle of Britain appears over. Word through Bletchley is that Hitler’s given up on destroying the RAF and his Operation Sea Lion invasion, at least for this year. That’s not to say that we won’t see more dogfights over Britain, but they’ve fallen off substantially since Hitler started his terror bombing.

  “Time will tell if it continues. The silver lining is that he gave the RAF the gift of time to repair, rest up, and replenish. But that’s neither here nor there for us now. Our job is to deal with events as they are, not how we would like them to be.”

  He started reading Paul’s report again. When he had finished, he looked up. “Hitler will never know how close he came to success. Even a few more hours of attacks on Fighter Command might have turned
events in his favor.”

  “Exactly my point,” Paul said, still angered over what he had just learned.

  Stephenson chuckled. “Your judgment and loyalty are admirable, my lad, as well as your control of your emotions. Take comfort in the knowledge that history will likely treat Sir Dowding kindly. I’m not so sure it will do the same for Mallory. Now we must move on. We have a meeting here in a few minutes, and then we’ll go to dinner. What do you think of New York so far?”

  Quelling his anger, Paul leaned back on his heels and arched his eyebrows. “It’s big. I’ve never seen a place with such tall buildings, and so many of them. I’m astounded that President Roosevelt will allow us to operate right here in Manhattan—in Rockefeller Center, no less.”

  “We’re here ostensibly under the auspices of the British passport control office. What we’re doing is in America’s interest. Roosevelt sees that, and the need for secrecy.”

  “To the exclusion of his state department? That’s difficult to understand.”

  “Especially from his state department. The word is that including it in these goings-on would be like telling Hitler himself. The US ambassador to Britain, Joseph Kennedy, is a potential opponent in the next election and a German sympathizer. He’s made speeches stating that Great Britain is likely to lose the war. He argues that, as a result, we should be more supportive of Germany.”

  “I had heard that about the ambassador. I had not thought about the political implications.”

  “Another example of having to deal with things as they are.” Stephenson reached into his jacket pocket and removed an envelope. “I almost forgot to give this to you. It came in today’s diplomatic pouch—probably on the same plane you did.”

  Just as he handed it to Paul, they heard a knock on the door. An athletic man in a US Army uniform entered. He wore a single star on each shoulder.

  “Ah, Bill. Please come in. I’d like to introduce you to Captain Paul Littlefield.”

  Still holding the envelope in his left hand, Paul stood at attention.

  “Bill Donovan,” the brigadier general said, approaching Paul and shaking his hand. “Relax, or carry on, or whatever it is that you Brits say.”

  “The president calls him ‘Big Bill,’” Stephenson told Paul. “He calls me ‘Little Bill,’ though I’m not sure why.” He chuckled. “Everyone else calls the general ‘Wild Bill.’”

  “He’s told me about you and your family,” Donovan said, after introductions were completed. They moved to a seating area. “I’m in awe.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, sir.” Paul was still reeling from the combined effects of his flight, the vastness of New York City, the revelations concerning Sirs Dowding and Mallory, the elevated need for secrecy, and now the presence of this American general who had somehow earned the moniker ‘Wild Bill.’ He stuffed the envelope Stephenson had given him into his jacket pocket.

  “This meeting will be short and sweet,” Stephenson said. “I mainly wanted to introduce the two of you.” He directed his attention to Paul. “Bill and I met with the president two days ago to work out a reporting arrangement.”

  Paul had to steel himself against the urge to close his eyes and shake his head in further disbelief. Instead, he gazed wide-eyed as Stephenson spoke.

  “Wild Bill is now officially the coordinator of information for the president. Obviously, I can’t go traipsing into the White House repeatedly without being noticed. Bill’s task regarding this office is to communicate between us and the president. And of course, mine is to do the same between his office and the prime minister. Is that clear?”

  His mind all but blank for the moment, Paul could think of nothing intelligent to say, so he just nodded while alternating his attention between the two men. “Yes, sir.”

  “No need to worry your head too much now,” Stephenson said while rising to his feet. “I wanted to put you in the picture as soon as possible, and this is not something we can talk about in restaurants. Let’s be off, then.”

  The general also stood and adjusted his jacket, and Paul followed suit.

  “You might want to read that message,” Stephenson remarked. “It could be important.”

  “Oh, yes,” Paul said. He had all but forgotten it. He retrieved it from his pocket and read:

  Dear Paul,

  I’m perplexed. I received a note this morning from the prime minister, no less. It came via a courier who informed me that, if I’d like to respond, he’d wait. I hardly know what to say.

  The message stated that you’d like to stay in touch with me, and that if I’d like to continue “a discourse” (that was the word the PM used), then I should reply, and this letter would be forwarded.

  Of course, I like you, and we shared what was a traumatic day among many such days for our whole country. I don’t quite grasp your role in all of this, and apparently that won’t be divulged to me anytime soon. That said, I will rely on the sense that I developed over the course of that day, which is that I’d like to get to know you better.

  If you feel the same way, please feel free to reach me by whatever means the prime minister ordains.

  Yours truly,

  Ryan

  Paul felt the blood rush to his face. When he had finished reading, he looked up to see both Stephenson and Donovan observing him.

  “Anything wrong?” Stephenson asked.

  “Just a letter from home,” Paul said. As the two men turned to exit the office suite, Paul followed with a schoolboy’s grin plastered on his face.

  55

  September 18, 1940

  Andover, UK

  “Wake up, Jeremy. You’ve got visitors.”

  Beyond the soothing voice, Jeremy’s first sensation as he reached for consciousness was a stabbing pain in his right shoulder that reduced to a dull but intense throb. He tried opening his eyes, but the lids barely separated before blinding him, and he quickly shut them.

  “Come on, Jeremy,” Claire cooed. “You’re almost back among the living. The nurse said you’ve slept long enough. She’ll give you something for the pain.”

  Jeremy groaned and tried again to open his eyes, but all he could see was a very blurred vision of a human head. He moaned again, pressed his eyes shut, and tried to sink back into the pillows.

  “Nope, little brother,” Claire persisted, “doctor’s orders are that you wake up.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  A nurse standing opposite Claire checked his pulse. “He’s doing fine,” she said. “He took some shrapnel through his shoulder and it fractured his clavicle, so he’ll be in a lot of pain, but he should have a full recovery. He’d lost a lot of blood by the time anyone got to him and administered first aid, so he was a mite fatigued when he arrived here.”

  The conversation began to sink in as Jeremy opened his eyes again. This time, he held them open, staring at the human head with the familiar voice until gradually Claire came into focus. “Where am I?” he rasped.

  He tried to remember his last conscious thought, but all that came to mind were two German pilots saluting while flying past him. Even in his drugged state that seemed outlandish.

  “You’re in hospital in Andover,” Claire said, “and these good people have been taking excellent care of you.” She pushed a few strands of hair from his forehead.

  Jeremy reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, holding it there as if he would never let go. Claire squeezed his hand and kissed his forehead again. “There’s someone else here to see you,” she said in a childlike, singsong voice.

  Then Jeremy heard the voice of a small boy and his chest filled with emotion.

  “Jermy,” Timmy called, and made unintelligible sounds that two-year-olds conjure when trying to converse.

  Claire lifted him to stand on a chair. He stared at Jeremy with big round eyes.

  “I’ll scare him,” Jeremy gasped.

  “You don’t look so bad. The nurses cleaned you up before we awakened you. He’s been asking about you.�
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  Jeremy reached over to touch Timmy’s hand. At first, the little boy pulled away and clung to Claire. “It’s all right,” she urged. She took Jeremy’s hand again, squeezed it, and kissed his cheek. “This is Jeremy. You’ve been asking about Jeremy.”

  With that, Timmy touched Jeremy’s index finger while staring at it. He looked up into Jeremy’s eyes. Jeremy smiled. “It’s me, Timmy. It’s me. Jeremy.”

  “Jermy,” Timmy called with all the delight that only a child can muster. Then he leaned over and placed his head in the crook of Jeremy’s good shoulder.

  The nurse helped Jeremy into a wheelchair and escorted him with Claire and Timmy to an empty seating area in a huge day room where airmen in various stages of recovery were visiting with friends and family members.

  “I’ll leave you here, but not for too long. He needs his rest.”

  While they conversed, they watched Timmy play with some toys Claire had brought. “I got the call late last night that you were here,” Claire said after the nurse had left. “I would have come then, but I was sure you’d want me to bring Timmy along and I didn’t want to drive through the blackout with him in the car.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Too dangerous.”

  “You’ll be having other visitors later—”

  “What do you mean later?” a voice behind them boomed. “We’re here now.”

  Jeremy lifted his head, and Claire turned around. Behind them, grinning, were Red, Shorty, and Andy.

  “Who do you think you’re foolin’?” Red said. “We’ve spent two days repairing our airfield, fillin’ in holes, and fixin’ our kites, and you’re over here lyin’ around, lookin’ all worn out, and gettin’ sympathy.”