On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  Behind the pharmacy, in a storeroom set up as a darkroom, Hans Klieber developed the film while Claus waited upstairs. He always enjoyed the brief get-together with Hans, though they dare not speak German, even in the privacy of Hans’ apartment. But it was the only time Claus could let down his guard. And while he waited for Hans to come upstairs, he read the decoded message Hans had received from Abwehr about Sir Dow Pomeroy’s supposed bride.

  Her name is Belline Wexford, an American and a USO hostess in London. There is no record of a marriage to Pomeroy, so it has been assumed that the woman is involved in some secret intelligence work, perhaps with the French Underground. Her brother, Lieutenant Daniel Wexford, is in Normandy with the 82nd Airborne Division. Continue the surveillance until further notice.

  A few minutes later, an excited Hans, hanging the CLOSED sign in the front window, climbed the stairs to his apartment over the pharmacy. In his hands, he carried the wet print of Belline.

  “Look at this, Lewin,” Hans said, careful to call Claus by his alias. “I think the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to come together.” He held out the picture for Claus’s inspection.

  “What is it?” Claus asked, not certain of Hans’ meaning.

  “Wait. Let me get the other picture.” He walked to the desk and from between the covers of a large art book, he pulled the picture Claus had taken of Alpharetta earlier. Putting the two pictures side by side on the table, Hans carefully compared the two and waited for Claus to do the same.

  “She’s wearing her hair differently today,” Claus observed.

  “Look again. Do you see any other difference?”

  “She seems taller, but that must be due to those idiotic shoes.”

  Hans remained silent and waited for Claus to continue examining the two pictures. “She isn’t wearing her wedding rings,” he observed.

  Hans, now impatient, picked up a sheet of paper, blocked out the bodies so that only the head and shoulders of both were visible.

  “Observe the neck,” he said. “You notice the woman in the first picture has a longer neck.”

  “You mean, there are two of them?”

  Hans nodded. “Almost identical—perhaps twins. But I’m certain they are two different women.”

  “But why?”

  “When we find out the identity of the first woman, we will know.”

  Smiling at Claus, Hans said, “You have done an excellent job, photographing them both in the same dress. You are to be congratulated.”

  Claus beamed at the unexpected tribute as Hans poured two glasses of ale to celebrate the small break in Sir Dow Pomeroy’s cover. When he had been assigned to this lonely outpost, to await the invasion of the British Isles by the Führer, Claus had thought the position an important one. But then the invasion had not taken place and he had felt forgotten. All that changed with Hans coming three months ago, to take over the pharmacy willed to him by his “cousin” who had died. Claus knew then that the region had become important again.

  The sound of the bell ringing at the front of the pharmacy brought a frown to Hans’ face. The CLOSED sign meant nothing to the crofters coming into the village at the end of the day. He set down his unfinished glass of ale and peered out the window to see who was ringing the bell so insistently.

  “I suppose I’d better go down,” he said, seeing the woman. “It might be an emergency.”

  Hurrying down the steps, he walked through the pharmacy and opened the front door.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman said, “but I desperately need some salve for this rash on my arm.”

  “Come in,” Hans replied, looking into the blue-green eyes of Belline Wexford.

  By the time Dow and Reggie returned to the military airstrip not far from Lochendall, Dow felt much better. Alpharetta had arrived safely in Sweden via the fishing boat and was a guest on the estate of the countess in whose field the rocket had crashed.

  The fragments were hidden in the stables and well guarded. Dow had been assured that the arrangements for their removal were progressing according to plan. Now he had only one more day to wait for Alpharetta’s return.

  Eckerd, sitting in the Rolls-Royce at the airstrip, was relieved to see his commanding officer walking toward the car. The red-haired woman had put the group captain through his paces for the entire afternoon, refusing to leave the village, even after the few shops were closed. She chose, instead, to go to the pub for dinner. Birdie was expecting them home for dinner, but that didn’t seem to matter to the woman.

  He climbed out of the car and held the door. “Good evening, Sir Dow.”

  “Good evening, Eckerd. Where is—er—Lady Pomeroy?”

  Seeing Reggie immediately behind him, Eckerd hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “She’s at the pub, sir, having dinner with Group Captain Mallory.”

  Dow swore at the news. He quickly climbed in, followed by Reggie. And when Eckerd had closed the door and returned to the driver’s seat, Dow said, “To the pub, Eckerd. And be quick.”

  As they drove out the military gates and onto the main road, great billowing clouds, resembling the fleece of sheep on the nearby lea, rolled in from the sea, and a blustery breeze swept over the road, forming small spirals—dust devils—to dance along the road.

  In the pub, the owner’s wife, Hilda, frowned as she watched Belline with Freddie Mallory. Somehow it didn’t seem right, her being out with another man, especially on her honeymoon.

  Grudgingly, she served them a second drink. Lady Pomeroy didn’t seem to be in any hurry to order dinner. Keeping her eye on the table, nevertheless, to watch for the signal that they were ready, Hilda waited on the other tables while her husband, McGowan, took care of the bar.

  As the door opened, the men at the bar, including McGonegal, turned around in one concerted movement to see who had entered. Dow stared for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the wooden interior. Seeing Belline and Freddie in the center table, he smiled and walked toward them.

  In a voice loud enough to be heard at the bar, he said, “Sorry to be late, darling. Have you been waiting long?”

  He leaned over and gave the surprised Belline a perfunctory peck on her cheek as his ADC stood. And Hilda, coming back from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of cabbage and mutton, relaxed at the sight of the air vice-marshal.

  “Can I be getting something for ye, Sir Dow?” she asked. “A wee drop of brandy, perhaps?”

  Dow laughed. “Now, Hilda, you know no one has any good brandy these days.”

  “Well, I be saving it, for a special occasion.”

  “Like the christening of your daughter’s new baby?”

  Hilda blushed and Dow smiled again. “Save it, Hilda. We really must be going, anyway. Mallory, pay the bill, will you?”

  Leaning over and taking Belline’s arm, he said, “Darling, there’s been a change of plans. We won’t be able to stay for dinner after all.”

  “But—”

  He continued smiling while he ordered in a low voice with his teeth clinched. “Get up. Immediately.”

  Belline had never seen Dow like this before, his hooded hazel eyes those of a peregrine ready to tear its victim to shreds. She rose quickly from her chair and Dow linked his arm with hers, forcing her toward the door, while inwardly he remained cordial.

  “Good night, Hilda—McGowan. We’ll stop in another time when we can stay for dinner.”

  “Good night, Sir Dow.”

  Dow whisked Belline toward the car outside where Reggie and Eckerd waited. As soon as Freddie appeared and climbed into the back, the car sped toward Lochendall with no one saying a word the entire way.

  Later, in Dow’s bad graces, Belline sat quietly at the dinner table. She preferred to sulk, eating little of Birdie’s food, and leaving what conversation there was to the men. She now wore her own clothes, an aqua dress with matching sweater, for the first instruction Dow gave her when they reached the house was to remove the green dress and not
ever wear it again.

  There had been no mention of Alpharetta then, and no mention of her at the table; yet Belline had a suspicion that the woman was uppermost in the minds of each man around the table that night. She was probably on some secret mission or something. But it couldn’t be any more dangerous than dodging the bombs in London.

  Piqued at the turn of events and the age-old jealousy of Alpharetta getting the best of her, Belline blurted out, “Did you know that Alpharetta’s father was once caught making illegal whiskey?”

  Dow, looking at Belline, said, “I believe that was in the thirties, was it not, during your Prohibition?”

  “Well, yes, it was,” she answered, puzzled at Dow’s offhanded acceptance of the information. Had Alpharetta actually confessed her pedigree?

  Ignoring Belline, Dow turned to Freddie, “It seems one of the Pomeroys married a Beaumont a century or so ago, according to my father.”

  Undaunted, Belline tried again, “Her brothers, Conyer and Duluth were no better. They—”

  Dow turned to Belline with such unconcealed fury that she left the sentence dangling in midair.

  “You will kindly refrain from speaking ill of the—ill of anyone, while at my table. Is that understood?”

  Birdie, removing the plate from Belline’s place, sloshed some gravy on the tablecloth. “Sorry, luv,” she said, dabbing at the stain while giving her commander time to regain control of his temper.

  Belline rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, I’m not in the mood for what passes as dessert.” She quickly left the dining room and walked to the steps leading upstairs.

  “Get out of the way, Brewster,” she demanded.

  The sheep dog, asleep in his usual place, slowly got up, stretched, and walked several paces farther down the hall to sprawl again.

  When Belline reached the bedroom, she pulled out the salve prescription to rub on the rash on her right arm.

  By noon of the next day, Hans Klieber had heard from Abwehr. The German secret intelligence had the entire dossier on the woman flyer, Alpharetta Beaumont. Putting the pieces together, they had completed the puzzle, noting her arrival on the fishing vessel and her subsequent visit with the Swedish countess.

  Now they knew the seriousness of her mission. Spies had been alerted to monitor her every move, but not to hinder her in that neutral country. Once she took flight and passed the Norwegian coast to the North Sea, the blueprint for her annihilation would be put into action.

  For the second time, Hans and Claus celebrated with a glass of ale in the apartment over the pharmacy. And they toasted Belline Wexford for helping them engineer Alpharetta Beaumont’s downfall.

  Chapter 21

  Along the beach where the wind was driving giant spumed waves against the rocks, Dow looked out over the expanse of gray and listened for the sound of an approaching plane.

  But the North Sea played its own dark, deafening symphony—crashing cymbals and tympani.

  The mist clouded his binoculars, the salt air whipped his face, but still Dow stood and waited. And listened.

  It was on the beach that Dow had begun to awaken, as one long asleep, to experience the feelings that he had long ago pushed away. Strange, that Alpharetta could do what time had been unable to accomplish—to make him feel again, to question his heart and then to discover that love, without his bidding, had invaded it.

  The dog Brewster raced up and down the beach, stopping at intervals to look back for attention from Dow. The man picked up a stick and threw it toward the rock. As the dog raced after it, Dow relived that afternoon on the beach with Alpharetta, when he had held her in his arms and kissed her—not because the man was watching them from above, but because he wanted to see if she could summon from his numbed heart what Lady Margaret had been unable to do—a feeling of being alive, of being brought back from the dead, where he had long resided with his brother, Gerald.

  His guilt for living was now gone, washed from him by the cleansing powers of the surf against the rocks of Lochendall. It was as if Gerald were in the very wind, whispering to him that it was all right to love—and to live again.

  Dow glanced down at his watch. He had hoped to see the plane by now, but still there was no sign. Yet he knew he shouldn’t begin to worry until the hour was up, when the cease fire would no longer be in effect for the planes monitored by Mittie at Stanmore.

  He walked to the lonely outpost far down the beach, where Gregory Malcolm drank his afternoon tea and viewed the radar screen for enemy ships and planes.

  “Any activity, Malcolm?” Dow inquired as the lonely old man opened the locked door to him.

  “Not much, Sir Dow,” he answered, “beyond the usual fishing boats coming in with their catch.”

  “What about the plane activity?”

  “The day bombers should be passing over soon. Haven’t come on the screen yet. Would ye be joining me in a cuppa tea?”

  Realizing he was cold and wet, Dow nodded, “Thank you, Malcolm. But I’ll get it myself.”

  With the teacup in his hands, Dow settled down to watch with Malcolm. Every few minutes, he glanced at the time. The hour passed slowly and Dow’s anxiety began to mount.

  A rumble of thunder slowly moved across the sky and the flash of lightning touched the water on the horizon.

  “Looks like we be in for a storm soon.”

  Brewster, outside, began to bark and run back and forth and whine at the door.

  “Be quiet, Brewster,” Dow ordered. And the dog, hearing his master’s displeasure, sprawled on the ground, his tongue hanging out and his head to one side, listening for the closed door to open.

  Finally, dots appeared on the screen and Malcolm became alert, watching the trajectories. “Must be the bombers,” he said.

  And Dow glanced down at his watch. For one hour, that northern portion of the United Kingdom had been left defenseless, to allow Alpharetta time to get through. Now she was no longer protected, but a primary target for any plane crossing her air space.

  Not able to sit still, Dow got up, left the lonely cabin, and began to hurry up the beach with Brewster at his heels.

  Alpharetta, dressed in her heavy flight suit, wiped the cold mist from her goggles. Every few minutes she made corrections to her navigation to compensate for the turbulent downwind that threatened to blow her off course.

  She was late, but it couldn’t be helped, with the Messerschmitt appearing out of nowhere, strafing her and the decoy plane directly ahead. She had been lucky, moving upward into the cloud bank and losing the Messerschmitt on her tail.

  That was the only thing that had saved her. The decoy plane had not been so lucky. She had seen the explosion just seconds before the cloud cover enveloped her. The pilot never had a chance.

  Alpharetta took a quick look at her gas gauge. She had gone far off course, so the fuel tanks were half empty even though she still had a long way to fly. But the missile fragments were secure in the hatch.

  A squadron of bombers appeared to her right and Alpharetta, taking no chances, immediately sought the cover of clouds until they had passed.

  Ben Mark St. John, struggling as usual behind the rest of the fighter squadron, felt particularly pleased at the success of their mission. It wasn’t often that they scored such direct hits and got to observe the mushrooming in a chain reaction. The bombers had dropped everything they had on the ammunition train. Ben Mark felt a little sad, though, that they had so little opposition in the sky that day. Just two more to his credit would have made him an ace. And that meant a lot to him.

  With his keen eyesight, Ben Mark was the first to notice the plane coming out of the clouds. Suddenly banking to the right, he gained altitude until he could get close enough to read the identifying marks on the plane. He could tell from the shape that it was a British Avro Anson. But the Germans now flew some they had captured, since they had lost so many of their own.

  As he came into range, he saw the marks of the plane had been wiped clean, like finger
prints removed from the scene of a crime.

  “Unidentified aircraft at port quarter.”

  Twice Ben Mark gave the plane a chance to identify itself, but there was no response. And he moved in for the kill.

  Dangerously close, he made a pass at the plane, his hand in the machine-gun throttle sending deadly bullets toward the cockpit.

  There was no retaliation, no defense beyond a sudden maneuver to avoid being hit. Curious now at the refusal of the plane to fight back, Ben Mark made another pass, coming in so close that he could see the holes in the fuselage from the first bullets. He opened up again with all that he had, the tracer fire visible against the dark clouds beyond the wing tip.

  This time, there was a response, a voice suddenly breaking radio silence, as if the bullet had caused a short in the cockpit and the transmitter had been turned on accidentally.

  It was impossible, but it sounded like a woman. His ears had deceived him, he knew, but in those few seconds, the heart had gone out of the fighting. The plane was crippled, the pilot more than likely wounded. That in itself should be enough to satisfy him.

  Ben Mark turned to catch up with the rest of his squadron at the same time the two Messerschmitts, unmistakable in their shape, came out of the clouds and headed toward the unidentified plane, intent on finishing the job that Ben Mark had started.

  Ben Mark was under no obligation to defend the plane from its predators, as he would have been if it had given up, using its wings or landing gear to signal surrender after the first shots. He would have followed it to land, and taken the pilot prisoner, if that had happened. It was too bad the crippled plane had not done so.

  Defending the weak against superior odds had never been one of Ben Mark’s priorities. He remembered being on his Uncle Reed’s farm outside Macon, and seeing the sickly yellow chick unable to defend itself from the vicious pecks of the other fowl surrounding it, and Alpharetta crying for him to save the fuzzy creature.

  “The biddy’s going to die, Alpharetta. It’s a fact of life in the barnyard. Only the strong survive. Might as well let the others finish it now. It’ll happen sooner or later.”