On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  By 4:30 A.M., Lieutenant Colonel Krause hoisted the American flag on the pole at the town hall. Ste.-Mère-Église was liberated. It was the first success, the small glimpse of glory before the storm that was to come.

  “Has anybody seen Laroche?” Marsh questioned as he lay against the hedgerow in exhaustion, the silk of a discarded parachute offering him a slight warmth from the wind and mist.

  “Not a sign,” replied a saddened Gig Madison. He had looked for him everywhere; had shone his light into the trees where dead paratroopers still dangled in their harnesses. “I found Williams and Smith, though,” he added. “Poor guys. They never had a chance.” Gig continued to pull fragments of glass from his hands.

  “You should go to the schoolhouse, Madison, and get those cuts attended to,” Marsh suggested.

  Gig shook his head. “I hear they’ve got wounded krauts in there too. I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

  “He’s scared the medics will keep him, or send him back to England,” Giraldo said. “And then he wouldn’t get to go to Paris.”

  A sniper’s fire caused them to seek other shelter. Caesar, the Great Dane, moved with them. Cautiously they crept through the orchard, but the Great Dane, leaving Gig’s side, loped toward the well outlined in the moonlight, and began a low growl. From down in the depths of the well came the sound of a cricket.

  “Jeez, you don’t think . .” The lieutenant held up his hand for Giraldo to be silent.

  Marsh took his cricket, snapped it once, and waited. From deep inside the well came the correct answer.

  With Gig covering their exposed position, Marsh and Giraldo laid down their rifles and began to pull the rope up by hand. At the end of the rope was a half-drowned Laroche.

  With odds of one in a million, Pierre Laroche had parachuted and landed in the well as a golf ball putted from the green. “He’s so little. You think we should throw him back in?” Giraldo teased as Laroche perched precariously on the wooden bucket.

  “For God’s sake, get me out of this miserable position. My butt’s frozen stiff to the bucket.” Laroche’s teeth chattered and clicked as Marsh held the rope steady and Giraldo lifted him bodily to the ground.

  For a full day and night the paratroopers fought to wrest the bridges and causeways from the Germans. But the bulk of their equipment never reached them. The gliders crashed into the swamps and into the mined fields, and the men fought against insuperable odds. With no radios to make contact, the troopers weren’t even sure the amphibious forces had landed on the beaches.

  But the Germans were well aware of the soldiers coming ashore in the landing crafts. The initial surprise of the attack was quickly negated by the force of their powerful guns. Unknown to Allied intelligence, the areas directly behind Omaha and Utah beaches, the sites chosen for the Americans to come ashore, contained an entire German army, gathering for its annual maneuvers.

  One week after the Normandy invasion, Montgomery still had not taken Caen. With the field marshal stopped at Caen, the Americans slowly progressed through the treacherous hedgerow country, with their casualties mounting by the kilometer. By the end of June, 14,000 Americans had given their lives, out of a total 21,000 Allies dead. And the number of their wounded was equally as devastating.

  Two other devastating events occurred during the month of June. One involved Congress, the other, the powerful secret weapon of the Germans. It was the latter that changed Alpharetta Beaumont’s destiny.

  With the invasion in full swing, the need for even more planes became paramount. On the morning of June 12, Alpharetta ferried a long-range bomber from Montreal to Prestwick. And once again, she continued to London. This time, the weather was clear enough for her to take a connecting flight rather than ride the train.

  Through the Air Transport Auxiliary, she had received a strange summons from Air Marshal Sir Nelson Mitford. The letter contained little beyond the necessary information of time and place of the meeting.

  The other letter she carried with her, from Mary Lou Brandon, was long and indignant. In part, it read:

  I am absolutely furious. I guess you’ve heard the news—that Congress is reneging on its promise to authorize flight pay for us. It was the powerful lobbying against the bill by the civilian male pilots that did it. (They’re scared they’ll have to go to war.) So I guess this sounds the death knell for the WASP’s. I heard it’s only a matter of months before the army closes down the whole program. And just when we’ve gotten our Santiago blues, the first really decent uniforms we’ve had. You think the British could use another flyer?

  Alpharetta felt a disappointment for Mary Lou and the others with whom she’d trained. They all wanted to continue flying as long as anyone would give them planes to fly. Alpharetta had just been luckier, that’s all, signing on with the ATA in England.

  When Alpharetta arrived in London, she checked into the Savoy Hotel. After a bath, she crawled into bed. She had only three hours to sleep before her appointment with the air marshal.

  Thirty minutes before Alpharetta was to report, Sir Nelson Mitford sat in conference with Air Vice-Marshal Sir Dow Pomeroy.

  “Pom, this young woman is incredible. I’ve never seen another like her. She’s tailor-made for this special mission. And I’m assigning her to your personal staff.”

  “But she’s an American.” Dow commented, not happy at the prospect.

  “I’ve cut all the red tape. You don’t have to worry about that. The only worry you’ll have is to see that the plan goes through as scheduled, before those bloody secret weapons of the Germans annihilate the entire British Isles.”

  Alpharetta awoke with her alarm clock ringing in her ear. She dressed and went downstairs, where the military car was already waiting to take her to Air Defense Headquarters in Stanmore, Middlesex, northwest of London.

  Inside the headquarters, a huge table map of Great Britain was surrounded by members of the British WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), with red metal arrows plotting the path of intruders into its air space. From its gallery vantage point overhead, the operations staff looked down into the room and watched, ready to alert the cities and send out fighters to meet the intruders the moment the coastal radar units spotted them. Observing the procedure of putting the red arrows in place, Air Marshal Sir Nelson Mitford was informed of Alpharetta’s arrival. He quickly left the galley and walked into his private office.

  “Miss Beaumont, it’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, too, sir.”

  “Sit down. Sit down.” He waved to a nearby straight chair “We have quite a bit to talk about.

  “It was opportune for me to bump into you several months ago at the Ritz,” he said, and then wasted no time in coming to the point. “I’ve received permission to borrow you for a while from Air Transport Auxiliary, if you are willing, Miss Beaumont. Do you have any objections to working elsewhere, at least for the next several months?”

  “Will I be flying, sir?” a puzzled Alpharetta inquired.

  “Well, yes and no. All I can tell you at the moment is that you’re to be assigned to the staff of Air Vice-Marshal Sir Dow Pomeroy in a very hush-hush project. You will be a member of a small, select group. No one will be able to get in touch with you directly—only through me. What do you say, Miss Beaumont?”

  Alpharetta, staring at the white-mustached air marshal knew he was only being polite with his inquiry. If ATC had given him the okay, the matter was out of her hands.

  “When do you wish me to report, sir?”

  “We’ll leave the exact time up to your commanding officer,” Mitford said. Going to the door, he called out. “Oh, Pom, would you step in here for a minute?”

  An unsmiling Air Vice-Marshal Sir Dow Pomeroy halted as he recognized Alpharetta.

  “You, he said, and continued to stare in consternation at the woman who had plagued his dreams and disturbed his thoughts for weeks. Just when he had finally ridden himself of thinking of her, she had suddenly appeared again.
r />   “Have you two met?” Mitford inquired, oblivious to the undercurrent.

  Dow quickly recovered. “Not officially.”

  “Then, may I present Miss Alpharetta Beaumont. Your commanding officer, Miss Beaumont—Air Vice-Marshal Sir Dow Pomeroy.”

  “Sir!” Alpharetta responded, saluting.

  Wanting to find fault with something—anything, Dow said, “If you’re going to be on my staff, Miss Beaumont, you’ll have to improve your salute.”

  His scowl, usually so intimidating to others, had no effect on Alpharetta, veteran as she was under Gandy Malone’s tutelage.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, gazing at him with unwavering green eyes. “Do you prefer the British or the American salute?”

  Mitford, recognizing they were getting onto treacherous ground, interceded, “Now, now. Let’s not get bogged down in protocol. The main question, Pom, is when you want her to be ready to leave.”

  “I’ll have my aide pick her up tomorrow morning. Where are you staying, Miss Beaumont?”

  “At the Savoy.”

  “Then please be in the lobby at 0800.”

  She nodded and then addressed Mitford, “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Run along, Miss Beaumont.”

  She quickly moved back as the air marshal lumbered toward her. She hurried to the door with a salute and, with the guard accompanying her, she walked out of the underground caverns of Bentley Priory and climbed into the military car waiting to take her back to the Savoy.

  That night, Alpharetta wrote three letters, to give her new mailing address. The first was an answer to Mary Lou Brandon, the second to Reed and Anna Clare St. John, and the last one, a joint letter to her brothers, Conyer and Duluth, both serving on the same ship somewhere in the Pacific.

  In the early hours of the morning, an air-raid siren awoke Alpharetta. She got up and sleepily pulled aside the blackout curtain to peer into the dark, but she saw nothing. There were no telltale signs of enemy plane engines, no returning fire of guns. Within minutes, the all clear sounded. Alpharetta crawled back into bed. A few minutes later, the sirens warned the city again. Off and on, a baffled London awoke, listened, and then went back to sleep. The majority of its residents were unaware that the first V-1 rockets had hit a section of the city, and a new reign of terror was to begin.

  Chapter 15

  Flight Lieutenant Reggie Minton could hardly believe his eyes as he stood in the lobby of the Savoy—or of his luck, either, when Alpharetta Beaumont walked toward him. He’d been inwardly lamenting his forced incarceration on the deserted crags of Scotland with no one more interesting than Birdie Summerlin, the staff secretary. And here Pomeroy had planned all along to take this gorgeous creature, too.

  Suddenly remembering the secret arrangements, he frowned. Maybe there was something between her and his commanding officer. But no. Pomeroy wasn’t like that. Besides, he had a fiancée at home. Yet some of the American generals had wives at home, too, and that hadn’t seemed to make much difference.

  The flight lieutenant shrugged. “Miss Beaumont?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Flight Lieutenant Minton. The car is waiting. Will you follow me?”

  The chauffeur, a sergeant in the British Army, stood at the curbing. He opened both doors and took Alpharetta’s luggage to place it in the trunk of the staff car. Alpharetta saw that the other figure in the back seat was Dow Pomeroy.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said and climbed into the front seat, leaving Flight Lieutenant Minton to ride with the air vice-marshal.

  A surprised Minton looked at his commanding officer and then climbed into the back.

  At first, the seating arrangement pleased Reggie, for it indicated that there was nothing between Pomeroy and the woman. But then he grew wary again. Maybe the two were just being discreet.

  They left London behind and headed north. No one in the car spoke. To Alpharetta, it was ridiculous, this unnatural pall of silence. She didn’t even know the driver’s name, or how long it would take them to arrive at their secret destination.

  Vowing that she was not going to ride the entire way in silence, or be intimidated by the man in the back seat, she turned to the driver. “My name is Beaumont,” she said. “Alpharetta Beaumont. And what are you called?”

  “Eckerd, mum,” he replied.

  “Well, Eckerd, how long is it going to take us to get there?”

  He hesitated. Dow Pomeroy, looking up from the papers he had been examining, supplied the information.

  “We will spend the night at Harrington Hall, Miss Beaumont, and arrive at headquarters sometime tomorrow.”

  They lapsed into silence again. And somehow to Alpharetta, it just wasn’t worth the effort to continue the conversation, even to finding out what and where Harrington Hall was. From her bag, she pulled her sketchbook and pencil and soon became absorbed in recording the scenery along the way—a flower, a tavern sign, a tree. The route alternated between expanses of open country and small villages, heralded by bland signposts that gave no clue to the traveler unfamiliar with the land.

  They crept through the villages, and once they reached the open countryside, they picked up speed. To Alpharetta, the towns had an almost medieval look with their cobblestoned squares, wooden doorways, tea-shop signs, and old stone churches with tall steeples. In the country, a castle or manor house occasionally loomed in the distance, amid trees older and larger than any Alpharetta had ever seen. Images of Shakespeare, the old oaks of the Druids, and the two beautiful white swans that were the only survivors of the park in London, filtered their way from her mind to the sketchbook in her hands.

  Once she turned to Eckerd to ask the name of the town they were passing through and then quietly went back to her sketching. By midmorning, they stopped for petrol and to stretch their legs. And then they drove on.

  About the time that Alpharetta was becoming sorry that she had not eaten an English breakfast before checking out of the Savoy, she heard Dow Pomeroy addressing the driver.

  “I think we can stop along here, Eckerd,” he instructed from the back seat, and the sergeant immediately began to slow down.

  Alpharetta, surprised, saw nothing more interesting than old ruins a hundred yards from the road, shaded by a large tree and a clump of purple and yellow wild flowers growing amid the stones.”

  “I expect everyone is hungry by now,” the man added. “Eckerd, you remembered to pack the silverware?”

  “Yes, sir. And the corkscrew this time, too, sir.”

  The flight lieutenant climbed out of the car first. “I’ll go ahead and make sure the place is uninhabited.”

  While they waited for him to return, Dow said, “Miss Beaumont, I presume you have picnics in Georgia?” Before she could answer, he continued, “But no. You have barbecues. I remember that from reading Gone With the Wind.”

  Alpharetta smiled. “Actually, we have both.”

  Sergeant Eckerd removed a rattan picnic basket from the floorboard of the back seat and, with the aplomb of a waiter setting the table at Maxim’s, he spread the white linen cloth on a slab of ancient stone amid the ruins that Reggie had pronounced safe. There was no need to mention the wild pig since it had fled, Reggie decided.

  Without being asked, Alpharetta became Eckerd’s helper, removing the china plates and cutlery from the basket. In a natural, unobtrusive manner, she became the hostess, serving the picnic fare while Eckerd attended to the wine.

  Once they were all served, each searched for a place to sit in the circle of the ruins. Knowing that enlisted men did not share the same mess with their officers, even in the wilds, Sergeant Eckerd found a place away from the other two men. But he was not alone for long. Alpharetta joined him. And Dow Pomeroy, with a frown, let it be known that he was not pleased at this.

  Ignoring his look of disapproval, Alpharetta wiped her hands on her napkin and said,” And what area of England are you from, Eckerd?”

  “Yorkshire, mum. From the city of
Leeds. Are you familiar with the city?”

  Alpharetta shook her head. “Only through the geography books.” She closed her eyes and tried to recall schoolgirl lessons. . . Wool and. . . wool and steel,” she said and opened her eyes.

  Sergeant Eckerd grinned. “And we have ruins, too—like this,” he said. “In the middle of the city—Kirkstall Abbey.”

  They continued talking while they ate, the sergeant getting up several times to pour the wine and Alpharetta following with the tray of sandwiches. When they were finished eating, she helped Eckerd gather the china and utensils to place in the basket. While he carried the basket to the car, Alpharetta removed the white linen cloth from the slab of stones, shook it before folding, and followed him. By the time she reached the Packard, the two officers had disappeared behind the ruins. She climbed into the front seat while Eckerd remained standing by the car door.

  When Dow and Reggie returned, the older man hesitated, and then in a low tone said to Alpharetta, “We still have a long way to go, Miss Beaumont. It might be a good idea for you to make a rest stop before we proceed.”

  When she had disappeared, Dow turned to his subordinate. “I say, Minton, it might be a good idea for you to ride up front for a while.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A shot rang out, startling the three men into action. “Hell’s bells. I’ll bet it’s the bloody pig,” Reggie Minton said. “I should have warned her.

  With their weapons drawn, the three began to run toward the ruins. Reggie knew he would never forgive himself if the wild pig had attacked her.

  “Miss Beaumont? Miss Beaumont!”

  The men fanned out from the ruins, carefully stalking the animal and searching for some sign of the woman. Suddenly, Alpharetta stepped from the copse and paused long enough to place the small Beretta back into its holster.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  Without answering the questions, Alpharetta glared at Dow Pomeroy and said instead, “I don’t think much of your rustic rest stops, sir!” and walked past them.