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

  Jeremy half-smiled, looked down at his army uniform, and nodded. “Of course. How silly of me. I’ll attend to the uniform right away, Sergeant.”

  Eddy eyed him dubiously. “I’m happy to see someone’s at home in that noggin of yours. I had begun to fear that only the lights were on.” He indicated the tea. “Drink that up, and let’s go look at the airplane. There’s a table out there where we can talk freely.”

  Five minutes later, they stood before a Spitfire. Seeing one up close for the first time, Jeremy’s awareness perked up. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

  “Follow me around, and I’ll point out some of its features,” Eddy said. “You’ll note right away the elliptical wing design. Currently, that’s the most efficient way to create lift, but it’s difficult to manufacture, which is why Hurricanes get to the field faster and in greater numbers than Spitfires. They’ve been a rugged battle horse in the inventory for a while longer than the Spitfire and we have a lot more of them.”

  He gave Jeremy a piercing look. “I can talk all day about the Spitfire, and you need to know what I have to tell you, but we can pick that up as we go along. Right now, we must discuss your state of mind.”

  When Jeremy started to protest, Eddy waved him off. “I’ll be blunt. What you did yesterday was incredible. We watched from the ground the predicament you were in. That you landed the plane at all was stupendous, but you brought it back whole. You’re a legend here just for that.”

  He took a breath. “I’m supposed to transition you to these Spitfires, but I won’t let you risk your neck, and I certainly won’t let you risk this aircraft until your head is straight.” He pointed at a nearby table with benches. “I suggest we go over there and have an honest conversation.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’ll be all right for flying when I say so. Let’s go.” When they were seated, Eddy continued. “We’re in a dangerous business, and I’m not talking about the war. We lose large numbers of pilots in training right here at Hawarden, maybe approaching the number we lose in combat.”

  Seeing Jeremy react in surprise, he went on. “Oh yeah. I’m going to take you up and teach you aerobatics, but we’re not doing it for fun. Your aircraft is the fastest and most modern design and should be able to beat any other fighter out there. But the kite can’t do it alone. Skill might bring you out alive at the other end of a dogfight.

  “The German ME 109 has a fuel-injection engine. A steep dive won’t bother it. Our Spitfire will cough out in a dive because it has a carburetor and can’t get enough air. But with its wing design, it can take a much tighter turn. So, if an ME 109 spots you behind him, what is he likely to do?”

  “Dive?”

  “Exactly, and if you spot an ME 109 on your tail, what do you do?”

  “Go into a tight turn?”

  “That’s right, but what’s the problem in tight turns?”

  Jeremy pondered. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t be expected to know,” Eddy said. “But when you’re in a turn that’s tight enough to outmaneuver a Messerschmitt, you’re going to be pulling so many Gs that you’ll black out if you don’t know what to do.”

  “Gs?”

  “A scientist would say it’s the equivalent force of gravity from fast acceleration. Think of riding a centrifuge—that’s you in a tight turn. In a Spitfire, you could be pulling as many as six g-forces. In that case, you’d better know how to breathe. You have to lean as far forward as you can, tuck you knees into your chest, and take deep breaths. If you don’t, you’ll black out and we’ll pick up your pieces in some farmer’s field. But if you keep things together and keep flying, you’ll find that operating the stick, throttle, and pedals will need all your strength, because they’re also affected by Gs.”

  Jeremy sat back in awe of Eddy, feeling an unfamiliar moment of self-doubt. “You think I can do all that?”

  “You can, if you get your head straight. When you get to your operational unit, the experienced pilots will teach you advanced techniques they’ve developed since they went through here. My job is to get you to the point that you can fly with them, and we don’t have a lot of time. Even less in your case.”

  Eddy stood and stretched, then sat back down. “You’re famous, you know?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the chap who saved that little kid from the shipwreck. The government is being very quiet about the ship, but the story of what you did is too good to keep down.” He looked Jeremy over and grinned. “When are you going to change those awful clothes? If you’re going to fly with the RAF, the least you could do is wear our uniform.”

  Jeremy laughed. “I see it really bothers you. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Be sure you do.” Eddy chuckled. “Look, I’m under pressure from above to get you qualified as a fighter pilot as quickly as possible. I’m told the push is coming all the way from the Fighter Command. That’s fine with me. You deserve a little consideration after being left at Dunkirk, and what with the kid and all, I’m willing to put in the hours and the work. But I won’t allow shortcuts, I won’t accept unnecessary risks, and I won’t let you take any while you’re in my charge. Is that understood?”

  Jeremy stood up and extended his hand to Eddy. “I’m honored.”

  “Good, then.” They shook hands. “Let’s go take a ride. I’ll fly. You don’t touch a thing today.”

  As they walked, Eddy steered Jeremy toward a different aircraft. “You’re going to learn aerobatics in that one,” he said, pointing to another single engine plane. “It’s a Miles Master, a British fighter in its own right, but it’s also a great trainer. It’s the closest kite you’ll get to a Spitfire. Get proficient on that one, and we’ll let you more than look at the Spitfire. We’ll spend a few days in the Miles Master. You’ll get a chance to practice with me along, and then solo.”

  “Kite?” Jeremy said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said ‘kite’ a moment ago.”

  Eddy grinned. “You’d better learn the lingo, soldier-boy. You’ve joined the Royal Air Force. A kite is an aircraft. That’s our jargon.”

  As they neared the plane’s parking area, Jeremy asked, “What happened yesterday? How did those Messerschmitts get all the way over here? I’d have thought we’d be out of their range. And what about our radio direction finder?”

  “You mean radar?” Eddy shrugged. “The Germans were able to extend their reach to Hawarden once they occupied the Atlantic coast of France and all those wonderful French airfields. They’re much closer at take-off, and Hawarden is a strategic target. Fighter pilots are born here, and we have lots of kites.

  "As for radar, our Chain Home system was built along our east coast from the north of Scotland to the southern tip of England and across the southern coast to the western end of Wales. Most of it faces the Continent with the idea that the Luftwaffe would have to fly over France. Now that they have airfields as close as the area east of Brest, they can come in from the south. The Luftwaffe hasn’t much believed in radar, though, and I don’t think they understand its capabilities, or they’d flank our towers along the southern coast by going farther out over the ocean, turning north, and coming in behind our towers. That would limit them to targets in the south, though, and they probably wouldn’t get this far. As it is, some of their aircraft still sneak through across the southern coast.”

  As they approached the trainer, Eddy saw that Jeremy’s attention alternated between the plane and what he was saying. “The Luftwaffe tried to bomb the radar towers along the entire length of Britain on the eastern side and southern end,” he continued, determined to make a particular point. “They don’t know that they could have done more damage by targeting the huts at the base of the towers. That’s where all the scopes and communications equipment are that feed the aircraft positions into Fighter Command. The huts are easier to target too.”

  They arrived at the Miles Master. Jeremy admired it, running h
is hand along its smooth surface, as Eddy continued talking. “Without radar and central command, we’d be goners. The Germans greatly outnumber our aircraft, but thanks to our air defense system, we have an even chance of beating them. We can thank Marshal Dowding’s brilliance for that.”

  Still running his eyes over the aircraft, Jeremy said, “How so?”

  “We’ll have that conversation another time, but for now, you need one major point registered in your head. Do I have your attention?”

  Startled, Jeremy turned from the plane and nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Never forget this. When you fly combat, your squadron will be instructed via radio about where to go by a controller. Listen to your controller. He’s in the fight too.

  “Some pilots resist control. That’s a mistake. The Great War days of patrolling the skies searching for the enemy are gone. Our controllers can see out over a hundred miles and tell you where to attack or alert you to the enemy coming after you. They want to win this war as much as we do.”

  Eddy stopped talking and observed his student with amusement. Jeremy’s attention at this point was obviously forced. “Had enough talk?”

  Jeremy stared at the Miles Master eagerly and nodded.

  “Good. Remember: listen to your controller.” He glanced at the kite. “Let’s fly.”

  Late in the afternoon, after several hours of loops, spins, and dives, and stretching Jeremy’s nerves beyond even what he had experienced at Dunkirk, he and Eddy landed, taxied the fighter into its parking place, and closed it down with help from the ground crew. After post-op, they walked together to the dispersal hut. It was almost empty, but as they entered, the three pilots Jeremy had distantly noticed that morning sat conspicuously at a table in the middle of the hut. The tall, red-haired pilot stood. “Are you Jeremy Littlefield?” he asked with a pronounced American accent.

  Jeremy nodded. Next to him, Eddy nudged his elbow. “Be careful of this lot,” he said with a grin. “They come from across the pond and we’re not sure of their intentions.” He added, “I’ll see you at first light. Be ready.” With that, he departed.

  The tall pilot held out his hand. “I’m Gene Tobin. My friends call me Red.” He shook Jeremy’s hand and introduced Shorty and Andy. “Would you join us for a while? We had dinner with your sister, Claire, last week.”

  Jeremy regarded them with a friendly but noncommittal smile. “You met my sister?” he said with a subtle hint of a brother’s guard being up.

  Red nodded. “She’s a very nice lady. We met her two weeks ago, and we heard your name yesterday. Everyone’s talking about that attack and how you got the Moth down in one piece. When we saw you this morning, we figured you must be one of Claire’s brothers. You look just like her. We’ve been eager to meet you.”

  14

  Saint-Quirin, France

  “We should try to get you across the border soon,” Albert said with a smile. “You’re looking a lot better than when you came to us.”

  “You’ve been kind,” Lance replied. “How long has it been?”

  “Two weeks, I think.” Albert consulted a kitchen calendar. “Well, almost three. You don’t look so emaciated now.”

  “How can I ever repay you?”

  “Get home safely and come see us after the war. You can’t stay here much longer. We don’t have papers for you, and the Germans are tightening security along the border. They’ve locked down the crossing points and started rationing. We won’t trust your life to the work of forgers in the area. They’ll get you killed. We have to get you out of the country, toute-suite.”

  A look of dismay shadowed Lance’s face. “I will miss you all. You risked your lives for a stranger.”

  “You did the same for us when you came to France. We can’t stand by and watch the barbarity we witnessed when the prisoners came through. This is a place of beauty and peace, but it won’t be that way if the Nazis keep control. We will fight them every way we can.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Do you feel strong enough to go over the Alps?”

  “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “I’m joking.” Albert laughed. “I wanted to see how strong you’re feeling. I wish we were near the Alps. Going over them would be easier. Unfortunately, they are on the other side of Basel, which is the nearest big town in Switzerland close to the border. Between here and Basel is farmland, which means either flat or rolling country, so getting you across the border unseen is more difficult. We have to find a gap.” He inhaled and then breathed out heavily. “Your French is very good. Do you speak German?”

  “I’m fluent.” Lance allowed a small smile. “One of the few things my mother was able to force into my head despite stiff resistance.”

  “Your mother might have saved your life,” Albert said. “You’ll cross into Switzerland in a section where German is spoken. We’re ready to move you and we’ll try to get you near the border on the first day. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles away. You’ll go at the busiest time so your transport will mix with traffic.

  “I won’t be going along. A doctor you’ve never met will take you by ambulance coming from another area with a license plate taken out of a junkyard. You’ll be an unconscious German soldier, properly bandaged and needing specialized care, wearing a bloody German uniform and using stolen papers from a corpse. You don’t look like the person on the ID, so don’t wake up, don’t speak, and don’t remove the bandages.

  “The hardest part will be getting across the border because you’ll have to do it alone. We’ll give you directions to the house of friends on the other side, and they’ll take you to the British Embassy in Geneva.”

  Lance shook his head in wonder. “The world would be a much better place with more people like you and your friends.”

  Albert growled. “It would be an even better place with no Nazis or people as evil as them.”

  They left the next morning, Lance wearing the German garb over a British uniform and strapped to a gurney in the back of a civilian ambulance. The unknown doctor sat with him, along with a woman Lance had never met who posed as a nurse, and the driver. His eyes wrapped in a gauze dressing, Lance saw none of them. Recalling that his own uniform had been discarded into the bowels of an outhouse, Lance had inquired about the provenance of its replacement.

  Albert had regarded him with sad eyes.

  “Don’t ask,” was all the Frenchman would say.

  They made steady progress. Lance figured the group must have established a system of surveillance and communication, because the ambulance would travel a distance, make a series of turns, and then stop with no explanation. Usually, only a few minutes would go by, but once or twice, time lapsed to something between a half hour to an hour, during which Lance struggled to control the raw ends of his nerves. His unseen companions sought to reassure him with low-toned expressions and occasionally patting or rubbing his arms.

  Once, the ambulance pulled to the side of the road. A voice barked orders in German. The driver replied in French. Raised voices followed, in both languages, and Lance heard the sound of a rifle being charged, followed by running footsteps and then banging on the rear of the vehicle. Sightless, he held his breath.

  The doctor stirred and opened the back of the ambulance.

  “What’s the problem, Sergeant?” he asked in a soft, authoritative voice, speaking in German.

  “Your driver says that you are transporting one of our infantrymen to Mullhouse for treatment,” a soldier said. “I want to see him.”

  “Of course, Sergeant, please help yourself. Here are his documents.” Lance heard a rustling of papers. “Please be quick. He needs immediate care for internal bleeding inside his skull. If we do not relieve the pressure soon, your comrade will die.”

  “Check the story out,” the sergeant ordered his men. “Try to contact the unit. Also, call the hospital in Mullhouse and see if this patient is expected.”

  The clomping of boots onto a steel bed sounded i
nside the ambulance. Lance’s heart raced. He willed himself to lie completely still while feeling the presence of someone leaning over him. Then fingers pressed against his neck, checking for a pulse.

  “His heart rate is very high,” the sergeant said.

  “Of course it is,” the doctor said. “He was in some kind of maneuver accident. He fell and hit his head against the treads of a moving tank. I understand he was dragged a short distance. Fortunately, the driver stopped before this man was killed. The field hospital wasn’t equipped to handle it. I can keep him alive for a while, but to fully treat him, I need the assistance of a specialist in Mullhouse and their facilities. He won’t survive this way much longer.”

  “I have the hospital on the phone,” a voice called from outside. “They’re expecting a doctor with a German soldier for treating a head injury. They said they had received word that the situation is an emergency, and they are prepared to treat as soon as the doctor and his patient arrive.”

  “Any word from the soldier’s unit?”

  “It is on the move. We’ve been unable to make contact.”

  “Then get out of the way and let them through,” the sergeant barked. “We won’t stop medical treatment for a soldier of the Third Reich.”

  Soon, they were rolling again, and Lance let out a sigh of relief. “We’re almost there,” the doctor said. “Listen carefully. We’re going to the town of Saint-Louis. It’s very close to the Swiss border, but it’s also near the German border. When we arrive, we’ll help you out of the ambulance. You’ll be in a safe place, inside a garage, but you must keep your headdress on until we’re gone. You’ll find food and blankets there for you. You’ll be alone until dark, and then someone will come to direct you across the border.

  “If you forget everything else, remember this: if you are about to be captured, rip the German uniform off to expose your British uniform. You know what they do to spies. Do you still have your identification medallion?”