Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2) Read online

  The man nodded, then grabbed the clothes and left through the rear of the portal.

  “You two.” Albert indicated the pair who had been washing Lance. “Hose down this whole area and scrub out into the courtyard. Make a lot of soap suds and spread them around. You must look like you’re doing a routine job that you do at this time every week.”

  He turned to Lance, who stood naked and dripping, with soap still running from behind his ears. “Follow me.”

  Albert led off rapidly, crossing the courtyard, climbing some stairs, and entering one of the apartments. One of the women met them inside the door. “His clothes are ready,” she said, averting her gaze.

  “Good. Open the windows and spray some perfume around. Do we have any flowers?”

  “I’ll get some from the garden,” she replied. “That will only take a minute.”

  “What about food?”

  “Rachelle is cooking up a good dinner—”

  “Tell her to wait. German soldiers might come here. Tell her to make fresh, strong coffee—it’ll help cover the smell. Bring out some pastries, and get everyone into the living room. We must look like a group of friends having an afternoon visit.” He turned to Lance. “We’ll get you more substantial food later.”

  Then, he hurried Lance down a short hall to a bathroom. “Fresh clothes are in there with some grooming instruments and a towel. Leave a day’s worth of beard, just for effect. Be sure your hair is dry, dry, dry, when you come out. And wrinkle up the shirt and trousers a bit. You can’t look like you’ve just cleaned up. In fact,” he added as an afterthought, “when you’re dressed, go help Rachelle in the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’re coming. Handle some lime, garlic, and onions. We have tuna in the refrigerator. That’s always good for spreading its own smell when it gets on you.” Abruptly, he returned to the front part of the abode.

  Alone in the bathroom, Lance had little time to view himself in the mirror. He barely recognized his own face. Staring back at him was a gaunt man with graying hair. No need for pretense. I look old. His hair was clean, but long and unkempt, and his face sprouted at least two weeks’ worth of beard. Mindful of Albert’s advice, he shaved, leaving enough stubble to represent a day’s worth of growth. Then he brushed his hair until it looked somewhat civilized.

  The knock on the front door came less than fifteen minutes later. By that time, aside from the two men still washing down the courtyard, Albert’s entire group had assembled in his living room, drinking coffee, laughing, and telling funny stories. The two watchmen joined them, alerting them to the approach of a Wehrmacht sergeant and two soldiers.

  Lance sat between two women on a sofa with his back to the entry. Albert and the other two women sat on another divan opposite them. Between them, refreshments including a tuna spread, onions, garlic, crackers, and assorted pastries were arranged on a coffee table. The remaining two men sat in chairs dragged in from the kitchen.

  Albert answered the door. A short, mean-looking sergeant in a black uniform greeted him with two soldiers, all three menacing with their weapons.

  “Papers,” the sergeant demanded. He stepped inside the apartment and looked around. “You didn’t go out to see the prisoners with the rest of your village?” As he spoke, he eyed the food on the coffee table.

  “As you can see, we are old,” Albert replied with a sad air. “Our curiosity is waning. You Germans obviously know how to run a country, and we are happy to learn from you.” While he spoke, he reached into his pocket, removed an ID booklet, and handed it over. “Here you are, sir.” With a flourish, he indicated the refreshments. “Would you care for some pastries? Perhaps your soldiers would like some too.”

  Ignoring the offer, the sergeant took the papers and started going through them. “This is your apartment? Can you vouch for these friends?”

  “Of course. I’ve known them all their lives.”

  The others handed over their booklets. “What about him?” The sergeant pointed at Lance. “He looks undernourished and younger than the rest of you.”

  Meanwhile, Lance drew a huge handkerchief from a pocket and sneezed into it.

  “That’s my worthless grandson,” Albert said. “He’s getting over a bout of summer flu and I’m treating him. You’ll see in my papers that I’m a doctor.” He leaned over the sergeant’s hands to point out the entry and then gestured toward Lance with a playful expression. “I don’t think he’s contagious anymore. We accuse him of constantly being sick to stay out of the army. Good for him that he’s succeeded so far, or he might have been left lying on a beach in Dunkirk.” He laughed and indicated the snacks again. “Are you sure you would not like some food?”

  At mention of the flu, the sergeant had backed up, his eyes wide with concern. He was old enough to remember the ravages of the Spanish flu that had ended the Great War. “No, Doctor. Some POWs escaped while we were passing through. We caught or killed some, but we’re still checking in case there are others. They’re difficult to account for on the march.” He started for the door.

  Albert hid his disgust. “You are certainly thorough. Here.” He scooped a bunch of pastries into a napkin and thrust them on the sergeant. “Take these. I’m sure your men will like them.”

  As the door closed behind the soldiers, Albert all but collapsed against it. Lance and the others sat in silence, glancing at each other as the footsteps receded down the hall until they were gone. The two men sitting on the kitchen chairs removed pistols they had concealed under their legs and set them on the windowsill. Then the group let out a collective sigh of relief.

  12

  July 22, 1940

  RAF Hawarden, Flintshire, Wales, Great Britain

  Despite feeling conspicuous in his army uniform, Jeremy could not help the thrill that coursed through him as he sat in the rear cockpit of a de Havilland DH 82 Tiger Moth open biplane. He reached forward and flipped the ignition switch to the left of the short windshield, certain that the adventure would approach that of modern closed-in, monoplane fighters. Some experienced pilots had sworn to him that this model was still the best plane ever built. What it lacked in speed and maneuverability it made up for in reliability and sheer enjoyment, with plenty of aerobatic ability. The wind buffeting the head and shoulders about, they said, gifted an unmatched sense of freedom.

  To his front, a crewman shoved downward on the propeller. A throaty cough sputtered from the engine. It caught, turned, gained speed, the engine revved to a steady roar, and the prop disappeared in a whir of high-speed circular motion. In the forward cockpit, Jeremy’s flight instructor talked him through the start-up checklist.

  While Jeremy waited for the engine to warm up, he recalled his conversation with Major Crockatt upon returning to London from Marseille. The major was still not happy about releasing Jeremy to the Royal Air Force, but he honored his commitment.

  “That was a good job you did there in Marseille,” he had told Jeremy. “One of those chaps you met with is on a mission to the north of France. Phillippe Boutron, I believe his name is.”

  “I’m glad but surprised to hear that. I thought I’d failed.”

  “You didn’t fail. Succeeding took a few days longer.

  “Lord Hankey at SOE asked if we could speed up deployment of one of our more able radio operators to support the mission. Theirs are not far enough along in training to contemplate early deployment. Anyway, his office is thrilled to be receiving a shipment of documents coming in soon by submarine from one of the operators developed while you were there.

  “The other chap has lined up a group of recruits. The challenge for SOE, so Lord Hankey says, is to provide support as fast as Alliance builds its organization. If we don’t keep up on this side of the Channel, they could become disenchanted on that side.”

  “I see that,” Jeremy replied. “I want to thank you for putting in a plug for me with the air marshal.”

  “To be honest, it wasn’t as difficult as I had expected. I told him what you proposed. He knew of you
because of the publicity surrounding your rescue of Timmy. I think he still feels guilty that he could not supply air cover over Saint-Nazaire when the Lancastria went down. In any event, he agreed to expedite your training, with conditions. You’ll have to do some hours of refresher-flying and then take the standard check ride to demonstrate that you can fly well enough. Once past that, you’ll join one of the operational training units at RAF Hawarden for aerobatic and combat flight training. As soon as you demonstrate proficiency to the satisfaction of your flight instructor, you’ll train on the Spitfire and transfer to an operational squadron.”

  Jeremy had been elated. “Thank you, Major. I appreciate what you did.”

  “Tell me that again on your return,” Crockatt said flatly, “if you’re alive. As I told you before Marseille, pilots are not lasting long. Expedited training is becoming the norm, and God help us, we are sending green young men to their deaths in our skies every day.” He exhaled. “When the Battle of Britain is won, you are to be transferred straight back to me. Is that understood?”

  “No argument, sir.”

  “Off you go, then. Try to stay in one piece.”

  That had been the day before yesterday. With Luftwaffe attacks against airfields occurring the length of the British Isles, Jeremy felt compelled to report immediately to RAF Hawarden. Yesterday, he had flown for several hours in the Tiger Moth, and this morning, he would take his check ride.

  The Moth’s engine settled into its normal hum, gauges and indicators functioned properly, fuel tanks were full, elevation above sea-level checked, and controls firm and responding. Jeremy nodded to a ground crewman at the forward edge of the left wing. The man pulled the chock blocks away, and the plane jumped forward slightly.

  Moments later, its rear wheel dragging, the little plane waggled back and forth as it taxied down the grassy runway. Jeremy’s right hand held the stick lightly, and he rested his feet on his heels while steering with gentle pressure on the pedals. With his left hand, he pulled back steadily on the throttle. The Moth responded, gaining speed as it bumped along the rough ground. Then Jeremy pulled back on the stick, and the nose lifted as the aircraft sailed into the sky twenty miles southeast of Liverpool.

  The flight plan he had recorded called for him to fly to specific checkpoints. In mid-air, his instructor changed the plan, re-routing him to other coordinates. Jeremy made the modifications flawlessly. One checkpoint was an airfield where he landed, refueled, and took off again, with no errors. After a few turns and approaches, the instructor directed him back to Hawarden.

  Jeremy exulted in the joy of flying. The wind whipping through his hair was exhilarating, control of the aircraft exciting, and he had performed magnificently.

  The home airfield appeared dead in front of the Moth, and Jeremy prepared to land. He lined up his approach from six thousand feet, adjusted the rate of descent, circled, and entered the traffic pattern.

  Suddenly, he heard a roar and the rapid staccato of sharp noises that he knew only too well from Dunkirk and Saint-Nazaire—fighter planes firing machine guns. Tracers flashed by, barely missing the Moth’s nose.

  “I have the controls,” the instructor yelled as more tracers flew by. He jammed the stick forward into a steep dive and banked hard left. Then, he slumped in his seat.

  Blood flew back, blotting Jeremy’s goggles. He clawed at them, jerking them from his face while more blood streamed and his eyes teared from the rush of wind. He wiped the blood away with his sleeve, but more flew. Overcoming shock, he grasped the situation. Meanwhile, the Moth spun into an uncontrolled dive.

  The rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire sounded again.

  The Moth’s angle steepened. More bullets flew by, followed by a Messerschmitt ME 109, its black crosses glinting in the sunlight. The fighter’s nose dropped into an even steeper dive. A Spitfire streaked past in hot pursuit, firing a salvo of hot lead.

  Jeremy yelled at the instructor. No response.

  He yanked back on the stick. It moved slightly, but he realized with horror that the instructor’s body must be leaning on it. Desperately, he released his strap, took his feet off the pedals, and forced himself to stand. Then he leaned across the wall separating him from the front cockpit, praying that he would not get sucked out. Straining against wind and inertial forces pulling him backward, he reached as far forward as he could, grasped the instructor by the collar, and jerked him back.

  The Moth’s nose dropped into a steeper dive.

  Desperately, Jeremy tugged at the belt around his own waist and clamped one end between his teeth. He grabbed the instructor’s collar once again and pulled him back. With his free hand, he looped the belt through the silk scarf around the man’s neck. Then with both hands he tugged on the belt, wound it around one of the struts holding up the windshield, through the buckle, and secured it.

  Panting heavily, he dropped into the seat, positioned his feet roughly on the pedals, and pulled back hard on the stick with his left hand. It gave stiffly, the force of wind and gravity gripping the aircraft in its dive.

  He held the stick between his knees while throttling down to slow the engine. Don’t stall it! Then once again grabbing the stick, he forced it to the right as far as he could and pressed the right pedal, hard.

  The natural forces of wind, gravity, centrifugal force, and inertia fought in concert against Jeremy for control of the Moth. He gritted his teeth and demanded every ounce of strength from his body. At last, those impersonal forces relented sufficiently that he slowed the spin, maneuvered to an upright attitude, and shallowed out of the dive.

  Only then did he have the chance to glance at the altimeter. He was still above two thousand feet and descending rapidly, but the flight controls were easier to handle.

  His legs and arms screamed from the exertion, but gradually, he pulled farther back on the stick, and by continuing the pressure, he finally flew straight and level.

  More gently, he raised the nose, starting a slow climb. The angle leveraged gravity to work in his favor, holding the instructor’s limp form against the back of his cockpit. Finally, he dared to take a breath and look around.

  The vapor trails told a story of a fierce fight between Spitfires and ME 109s over Hawarden, but by the time Jeremy could observe the aerial battle, it was over. In the far distance, three ME 109s flew southeast with a handful of Spitfires in hot pursuit.

  When the Moth touched down a few minutes later, it taxied between destroyed aircraft, some leaning on their wings, some still on fire, others smoldering. Medics waited at the end of the runway with an ambulance and two stretchers.

  The ground crew ran out, grabbed the ends of the wings, and helped steady the Moth while Jeremy shut it down. They would position it later. The medics hurried to attend to the instructor and more ground crew members checked the Moth for damage.

  Jeremy stood up weakly in his cockpit. His legs wobbled beneath him before giving out. Then he slumped over the side of the Moth and emptied his stomach.

  Another medic and the crew helped him to the ground where they checked him over for wounds. He had none. They supported him as he staggered to the hut.

  On the way, he stopped and watched the medics treating the instructor, lying flat on a stretcher. The man’s uniform was soaked in blood. As Jeremy watched, they covered him in a blanket and pulled it over his head.

  Jeremy slumped to the ground and buried his face in his hands. “We hardly spoke,” he whispered, anguished. “I don’t even remember his name.”

  13

  “You’re assigned to the No. 7 Operational Training Unit here at Hawarden,” Jeremy’s new flight instructor told Jeremy the next day. “You’re training to fly Spitfires—”

  Jeremy nodded numbly. “What’s your name?” he interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your name. What’s your name?”

  “I was about to tell you my name,” the instructor said. “It’s Eddy Lewis.” He peered at Jeremy. “Are you all right?”

/>   Jeremy nodded. He had slept little overnight, images of yesterday searing his mind. I didn’t get the flight instructor’s name. And now he’s dead. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” he grunted.

  Eddy stepped in front of him. “I heard about what happened yesterday,” he said. “I’m sorry. If you need a few days off, I’m authorized to grant them.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Thanks, but I need to keep my mind working.”

  Eddy studied him. “That’s fine, but first we’re going to talk.”

  He led Jeremy to an empty table inside the dispersal hut. When they entered, other pilots eyed Jeremy and fell silent. As he sat down, Eddy crossed to a counter that had a pot of tea and some cups.

  While he waited, and despite his numbed state, Jeremy could not help noticing three pilots sitting together apart from the others. One was tall with red hair. One looked to be average height, but the third man was very short. For a fleeting second, Jeremy wondered if the man could even reach an airplane’s flight controls.

  Around the hut, the normal joshing of pilots resumed. Eddy returned with two cups of tea and several sugar cubes. While he stirred his cup, Jeremy stared into the dark brew. “Aren’t you going to drink it?” Eddy inquired.

  As though not hearing him, Jeremy continued staring.

  “Lieutenant Littlefield,” Eddy said sharply. “Pull yourself together, mate, or we’ll have to scrub this right now.”

  Jeremy blinked. “So sorry, sir.” He sat up straight and took a sip of tea.

  Eddy exhaled. “Let’s get off on the proper foot, shall we? In the first place, you’re a lieutenant and I’m a flight sergeant. I call you sir. You call me sergeant. And if you ever get a proper uniform, I’ll call you ‘flight’ for flight lieutenant.”