Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2) Page 3

  Momentarily perplexed, the major started to rise. “You’re an adventurer?” he said, clearly annoyed. “You like the attention of the young ladies? Being a fighter pilot won’t be that glamorous when the dogfights heat up, I promise.” He caught himself and lowered back into his seat.

  Jeremy tried to protest.

  Crockatt cut him off. “I took you to be more serious. We need men in the field, and you are singularly qualified. At least I thought so until a moment ago.”

  “Hear me out, sir,” Jeremy said, standing and holding back his own anger. “I think I’ve earned the privilege of being heard.”

  Crockatt stared at him and softened. “Speak up. Do you even know how to fly?”

  Jeremy took a deep breath. “I do. I’ve soloed and done a few cross-country stints, but that hardly matters now. The country needs fighter pilots desperately, and the service is taking almost anyone who can say ‘fly.’ They’ve shortened the course to a few weeks, even for recruits who’ve never flown anything.”

  “I see. And why would you rather do that than work with me in MI-9.”

  “Because the battle is here. Now. If we lose it, we lose everything. We won’t have anything left to fight on the Continent.” He gestured toward the window. “We’ll speak German and spend deutschmarks right there in the center of London.” He wiped his brow. “German aircraft are bombing and strafing our ships, ports, and factories every day.

  “This will be a long war. When we’ve secured the homeland, I’ll come back and do your covert work.” He grinned. “As you figured out, I’d like the chance to see Amélie once in a while, if I can pull it off.”

  Nonplussed, the major peered at Jeremy without speaking for a moment. “The lifespan of our pilots over northern France was short,” he said at last. “Do you know what it’ll be in this battle?”

  “Life expectancy wasn’t great for the soldiers on the ground,” Jeremy said with muted vehemence. Then he sighed. “I know it’s not long for pilots. Weeks maybe, but that can’t be the basis for choosing how I best do my part.

  “Pilots will die. Soldiers will die. Innocents will die. The best I can hope for is to survive long enough to make a contribution, and that’s whether I’m flying fighters or jumping behind the lines at night in France.”

  The major chuckled. “Touché.” He consented to Jeremy’s request with a nod.

  “I’ll need you to speak with the air chief. Paul said he’s a friend of yours.”

  Astonished, Crockatt exclaimed, “You want me to talk on your behalf with Chief Air Marshal Dowding? Whatever for? Just go and apply for the flight training program, and if you’re accepted, I’ll release you.”

  “If you want me back, you might need his agreement in advance. Also, I’d like to join one of the forward operational squadrons as soon as possible.”

  Crockatt chuckled, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “You are a cheeky bastard, aren’t you? I’ll do what I can. Was that your second favor?”

  Jeremy grinned. “No, sir, that was part of the first.”

  “Then tell me, Lieutenant,” Crockatt said, feigning obeisance and bowing slightly from the waist, “what is your further wish?”

  “I’d like to take Corporal Horton with me.”

  “That’s certainly easier than your first request. Do you mind telling me why?”

  “I’ve gotten to know him. He’s been through the soup as much as I have, and his mother’s French. He speaks the language well. If we’re going to build this relationship with Henri based on trust because of what I’ve done, then it should be even stronger with Horton there to keep things together after I’ve left. Besides, he could be a good liaison between you and Fourcade when communications break down.”

  The major contemplated the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea. But there’s another detail you should know. We’re doing this as a favor for the Special Operations Executive. Fourcade is concerned with behind-the-lines operations like blowing up bridges, disrupting communications, et cetera. Her prime contact is still with Lord Hankey until the SOE is fully up and running and establishes a French section. He’s informed and supports this mission.” He cocked his head, thinking. “If Horton agrees, he can accompany you. If he stays there, he’ll be transferred to SOE.”

  “That won’t be an issue. He’ll be eager to go. When do we leave?”

  Crockatt smiled. “Tonight. Get cracking. You’ll have to run Horton down.”

  “Bloody hell,” Horton grumbled good-naturedly. “What’s with you and your brother? You’re always getting me into things. I barely got home, and you want me to go back out again?” He shot a hopeless glance heavenward and shook his head. “Why me?”

  Jeremy laughed. “I only arrived back from France less than two weeks ago myself. I haven’t known you long, Corporal, but long enough. I know bollocks when I see it, and you’re as determined to find my brother as I am.”

  Horton was one of eight abandoned soldiers Jeremy’s brother, Lance, had gathered after the evacuation of Dunkirk and led across France to Saint-Nazaire. He and Lance had been separated from the rest when they boarded an ill-fated ship offshore during further withdrawals of soldiers farther south. He had witnessed Lance’s capture, and he had made his way overland to Spain and then Gibraltar, where he caught a boat to England. He still looked haggard from the ordeal but retained his stocky physique.

  Jeremy eyed the corporal. I’ll bet he played rugby. “This should be an easy mission. We’re going to talk with a chap, and then you’ll get to rest up in sunny southern France until you’re ready to come home.”

  Horton stood in front of Jeremy, hands on hips, face thrust forward, and a hint of a grin forming at the corners of his mouth. “I want to find Lance, but you’re talking about getting me on an airplane and making me jump from it in the dead of night. Is there something wrong with that airplane?”

  “You’ll have a parachute.” Jeremy laughed. “If you’re scared, say so.”

  Horton jutted out his jaw. “You think I’m scared?” He squinted and then broke into an involuntary grin. “You didn’t say I’d have a parachute. That liaison job sounds top-flight. All right, I’ll go.” He pointed a finger at Jeremy. “Don’t you tell my mum I did such a lunatic thing.” He tapped his head. “She worries if I’m all together up here.”

  “Your mother might have a point,” Jeremy joked. He became serious. “Keep in mind that our official mission is to persuade this French chap to join the Resistance and bring his former mates with him.”

  “I got that. And I’ll stay there on the sunny French coast while you come back here to fight the Hun in the air. Sounds like a good deal—for me, not for you.”

  “I’ll live with it.” Jeremy shook his head in mock disgust. “Don’t forget that our personal aim is to locate Lance and bring him home from wherever he is.”

  Horton folded his arms across his chest, all humor put aside. “That’s a tough one. After all the evacuations up and down the Atlantic coast, there were still some forty thousand soldiers left behind. Most of them were captured. I saw some of the prisoner groups. They were force-marched east by the thousands, heading to wherever.”

  Jeremy frowned in disgust. “Every one of those soldiers has someone waiting to hear from him at home. Most will try to get word out. Lance is tenacious. He got a message to us letting us know he’s alive, and that wasn’t through the Red Cross.

  “First, we find him, and then we figure out how to rescue him. You’ll be with Madame Fourcade’s group in Marseille. If we’re successful in getting this Henri to join us, you’ll be tied in quickly to a much wider organization, and we’ll alert the Boulier network to be on the lookout for him.”

  Horton eyed Jeremy in silence. Then, grinning again, he said, “I figured this out about you Littlefields. I’d much rather be on your side in a scrape than fight you. How soon do we go?”

  Jeremy glanced at his watch. “It’s still morning. We’ll have all afternoon to train and prepare a
t the airfield. Get your stuff.”

  4

  London, England

  Lieutenant Paul Littlefield had to smile as he watched Claire breeze around other diners at the Savoy and make her way to his table. Usually buoyant, she seemed energetic beyond normal, flashing a radiant smile at anyone crossing her.

  People seeing them together would know immediately that they must be siblings, with their similar height and ruddy-blond hair, brown eyes, straight noses, and easy smiles, although Paul always carried himself with a measure of reserve. Their differences rested in their genders, and while Paul was lean and cerebral, Claire was slender with a lively demeanor that people found endearing.

  He stood to greet her, and she threw her arms around him, not an uncommon display of affection for her but one possessing pronounced enthusiasm today.

  “You’re cheerful,” he said as they took their seats. He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for menus. “What’s happened? Something good, I hope.”

  Claire laughed, a taunting, musical expression of mirth Paul had grown up with on Sark Island as they climbed cliffs, played soccer, and enjoyed an idyllic life with their parents and two brothers: Lance, the middle one, and Jeremy, the baby of the family. The four looked enough alike that, at this age, they could be mistaken for quadruplets, their most notable differences being their eyes—Lance’s and Jeremy’s were green.

  Thoughts of them momentarily disrupted Paul’s good feeling as their faces flashed across his mind. Jeremy, a veteran of Dunkirk, survivor of the sunken HMT Lancastria, and now training to be a covert operator behind enemy lines; and beloved, adventurous Lance, now a prisoner of war last seen somewhere in France. Hopefully, he’s still alive.

  Sensing the seriousness of Paul’s mood, Claire moderated her own. “I’m glad you could attend this meeting of the London chapter of the Littlefields,” she teased. “I worked late last night and took the morning off. You go first with news of whatever is happening in your life.”

  “No, little sister, it’s rare enough that we get good news these days and you seem to have some, so go ahead. But first, how’s Timmy?”

  Claire’s eyes warmed even more. Timmy always brought a smile to her face. In Jeremy’s absence, she and a nanny took care of him in a rented guesthouse on an estate near Stony Stratford, a short nine miles from Claire’s job at Bletchley Park.

  “He’s happy and growing. Our landlords love him and arrange for other children to come play with him fairly often.” She sighed. “It’s such a shame to lose your family at so young an age.” She dismissed the dark thoughts. “But he’s got us.”

  “Indeed, he has,” Paul replied. “If he’s still with us when we can finally see our parents again, they’ll love him as their own. Now, what’s your news? Out with it.”

  “Speaking of Mum and Dad, have you heard any news from them?”

  Paul shook his head.

  Claire’s eyes dropped in dismay. She closed them as though to shut out the realities of Britain at war. When she opened them again, she reached across and squeezed Paul’s arm. “We’ll win this war. You’ll see. And we’ll all go home to Sark to be with Mum and Dad. You, me, Jeremy.” Her voice caught and her eyes teared up. “And Lance.” Through an anguished laugh, she added, “And we’ll take Timmy with us.”

  “Tell me your news,” Paul insisted. “I didn’t mean to throw a dark cloud over the day. Get on with it. I have a few things to attend to this afternoon.”

  Claire wiped her eyes with a napkin and took a moment to collect herself. “You’re right, and I have a meeting this afternoon too.” Then her eyes lit up once more with excitement, and her cheeks flushed scarlet. “I’ve met someone.”

  “What? You’ve never been particularly interested in anyone before. You’ve always been too busy.”

  “I still am, but sometimes things just come over you. I met him at a party last week—”

  “Last week,” Paul interrupted. “You didn’t mention it when we were together with Jeremy over the weekend, and you’re this excited. Tell me about him.”

  “He called and asked me to dinner this evening. He’s tall and handsome, and so funny. All the girls love him.”

  “I’m jealous of his popularity, but what does he do?”

  Claire drew back in mock indignation. “He’s a pilot. A fighter pilot.”

  “That explains things,” Paul grunted. “Those blokes get all the attention these days.”

  Claire frowned in dismay. “I forgot. You’re not allowed to fly.”

  “Perhaps after the war, when secrecy is lifted, I’ll get my chance. You know, after all the battles have been won.” He heaved a sigh. “Tell me about this chap of yours. You must take care not to let him know anything about your work.”

  “Of course. I’ll be cautious, and he’s not ‘my chap’ just yet. I mean realistically, I don’t know if I want him, but at this stage, the prospect is exciting.” She turned her brilliant smile on Paul and nudged his arm. “He’s an American, and he’s come to fight for England. Like Dad did.”

  Paul laughed. “You’re almost giddy over him. As your older brother, and in the absence of our father, I must meet and approve before you have anything more to do with him. Does he have a name? Is he genuine? Americans are prohibited by their Neutrality Act from fighting in foreign wars, including ours.”

  “I need no one’s approval,” Claire retorted, amused. “His name is Eugene Tobin. Everyone calls him ‘Red’ because of his hair—and yes, he’s genuine. He had to dodge the FBI to get into Canada. Then he had to almost force his way onto a freighter that was joining a convoy coming to England, and the ship next to his was torpedoed. I’d say he’s demonstrated a certain dedication to our cause.”

  “Or he’s a down-and-out bloke wanting to fly on someone else’s ticket.”

  Claire jabbed Paul in the ribs. “You are not going to ruin my dream, however short-lived it might be. I’ll be careful. Now it’s your turn. Tell me some news?”

  Paul arched his eyebrows. “I’ll tell you the truth, Sis, I have none. I’ve been parked. I read and analyze reports and send them forward, but in all honesty, I’m not doing anything that feels worthwhile. Nothing like your job; and with Jeremy training for covert work, and Lance in a POW camp, I feel like a slackard.”

  “Hey, big brother, no one thinks that of you, I promise. Major Crockatt would take you into MI-9 in a heartbeat—”

  “If Menzies would let me go, but he’s been clear that he won’t. I think he’s afraid that I’ll get sent to France for covert work like Jeremy. It’s not just that I can’t fly. He won’t let me leave the country. He’s afraid I’ll be captured, tortured, and state secrets will be revealed.”

  “He approved Jeremy’s mission that you brought to him, so he can’t think too badly of you.”

  Paul sighed. “You might be right.” He picked up the menu and studied it. “We should order,” he said, and his voice took on a sarcastic note. “I have earth-shatteringly important reports to analyze and send forward this afternoon.”

  Arriving at Hut 6 adjacent to the mansion on the Bletchley Park estate, Claire glanced at her watch. She would be meeting with Commander Alastair Denniston in three hours. A few weeks earlier, she had been in a meeting with him during which she was sure she would be sacked—a meeting in which she and Paul had been roundly scolded by Director Menzies of MI-6. She had no direct contact with Denniston since then.

  She donned a headset, listened to and jotted down a few Morse-code messages, and set about the process of decoding them. Dwelling on the function of Bletchley was something she seldom did. The people who knew about the place were sworn to silence under threat of severe punishment. They believed it to be Britain’s most closely guarded secret. Organized under MI-6 and obliquely titled the Government Communications Headquarters, or GCH, it possessed the technology and expertise to decode the German military’s radio communications, aside from naval traffic. Another unit of MI-6 worked hard to develop the missing piece of
technology that would make Admiral Karl Dönitz’ navy codes as easily read as the rest.

  In another of the huts that ringed the mansion, a group of technical geniuses strove to automate the decoding process, but until they succeeded, the manual method would be required, and that entailed finding patterns within the messages that would unlock the meaning hidden behind Germany’s “unbreakable code.”

  The effort had been incalculably aided by delivery of an Enigma machine from Polish intelligence just days before Germany invaded that country. The Poles had determined the method of anticipating what the daily settings would be, and from that point, decoding required academic discipline, persistence, patience, and intuition.

  Appearing as a clunky typewriter, the Enigma was the centerpiece of the German system, allowing the operator to key in a clear message and see it transformed into a series of letters laid out in groups of five. On the receiving end, the operator would enter the letter groups into an identical machine, which would then convert the code back to the original text. When intercepted and decoded at Bletchley, the messages went to a translator to convert from German to English, and then to intelligence analysts.

  From a decoder’s perspective, the difficulties lay in instances where errors in entry were made or when a message was repeated. The programmatic challenge rested in the huge volume of traffic. Until an automated solution was achieved, the decoding process relied on a growing number of trained people.

  A rising star at Bletchley, Gordon Welchman, had studied the pattern of message origination and discerned the level and location of German military organizations. Further, the decoders noticed that they could ascertain when specific operators were sending messages by the manner in which they keyed in the Morse code. Some were fast, some slow. Some lingered with the dashes and were fast on the dots. Others were the opposite. However, the decoders at Bletchley started seeing patterns of credibility associated with specific operators or noted that they had moved from one geographical location to another.