Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2) Page 5

  “I’m very proud of my siblings,” Claire said. They became quiet when she related what had happened to Lance. “God only knows which POW camp he’s in.”

  Red broke the tension by changing subjects. “We love our Shorty,” he said, “we really do. But he gets his wars mixed up. He wanted to fly fighters for Finland, but the Soviets finished that off before he got there.”

  “Hah, we were all going there,” Shorty retorted.

  “So, tell me how all of you got here,” Claire said.

  “It’s pretty much the same way for each of us,” Andy said. “We all love to fly, and we believe that sooner or later America will come into the war with the British. But you need help now. We could contribute to the war immediately—by flying.

  “Shorty here, besides being a pilot, he’s a professional parachutist with over five-hundred jumps. Red and I grew up together and always loved flying. He was a private pilot for GM Studios. He flew the celebrities wherever they wanted to go.”

  “Really?” Claire said. “That must have been intriguing.”

  “The flying, yes,” Red replied. “The celebrities, no.”

  “And what about you, Andy?” Claire turned to him.

  “I’ll tell you about him,” Shorty cut in. “He’s a terrific pilot. He bought his own airplane as a teenager and flew at airshows.” He dropped his voice. “I’ll tell you something else about him. His family fled Russia after the revolution there. He knows what it means to live under a dictator.”

  The table grew quiet again. Andy squirmed uncomfortably. “The biggest problem we had in getting here,” he said, breaking through the silence, “was the FBI.”

  Claire shot him a quizzical look.

  “You know that Roosevelt signed into law last year a bill making it illegal for Americans to fight in any wars in which the US is not participating. The penalty includes loss of citizenship. He did that to stop recruitment of mercenaries in our country. But we’re not mercenaries. We believe that Hitler must be stopped.” He laughed. “If we’re mercenaries, we’re not very good ones because the RAF is barely paying us subsistence wages.”

  “You got that right,” Red said, slapping his shoulder.

  “Anyway,” Andy continued, “we had to dodge the FBI to get across the border into Canada. We met up with Shorty in Montreal. Originally, we were supposed to fly for Finland against the Soviet invasion, but the Russkies beat them before we even left North America. So then the plan was to fly for France. We finally caught a ship in Halifax, and it nearly got blown out of the water by a U-boat. We landed at Saint-Nazaire and went to Paris.

  “We had to beg for a plane to fly, even though that’s what we were recruited for. The French sent us to an airfield near Tours, and after several days, they finally assigned us one single-seat fighter, a Potez 63 that could barely get off the ground and was no match for even a Stuka. We were bombed and strafed every day, and we slept in a ditch. Then one morning we woke up to German tanks rolling across the field toward us. We hightailed it south with millions of refugees fleeing Paris, managed to get to St. Philippe de Luz, and caught the last boat out of France.”

  “When we got to London,” Shorty added, “nobody wanted to know us. At first, they said we wouldn’t be allowed to fly, and the government was getting ready to deport us.” He gestured toward Red. “But he would have none of it, and he marched us straight over to the British Air Ministry and convinced them to change their minds. He pointed out that, being short of pilots, they shouldn’t turn away anyone as brave and talented as us.” He crossed his arms and assumed a comically imposing stance.

  “Well thank you, thank you; from the bottom of my heart, thank you for coming,” Claire declared. “That’s quite a tale.”

  “It certainly is,” an unfamiliar voice from outside their circle said. Wheeling to see who had spoken, they saw a man standing just behind Shorty. Other customers in the dining room sat transfixed, apparently having listened in on the stories.

  Red took to his feet, looking sheepish. “Are we too loud?”

  “Not at all,” the man said. His face was lined but friendly, his hair graying and thinning, and he wore dark trousers, black polished shoes, and a tweed jacket over an open-collared shirt. He introduced himself. “I’m the manager here, and I assume that this is your first visit to our establishment.”

  Claire and the men nodded in unison.

  “Then we can agree that yours is not yet a cock-and-bull story.” His eyes twinkled over a broad smile. With a sweeping hand, he indicated the other customers in the dining room. “We’ve read about you chaps in the papers. Other American pilots have arrived, but I don’t know how many. They’re calling you ‘eagles,’ for your national bird.

  “One of your chaps is a two-time Olympic gold-medalist bobsled driver. William Fiske, I think. He’s quite popular, and without an ounce of arrogance, despite his looks, money, and fame.”

  “I’ve seen him about London,” Claire said. “He’s a charming fellow, and obviously very intense about whatever he’s doing.”

  The manager nodded, looking serious. “Unfortunately, one of your chaps died fighting for England in the skies over Dunkirk last month. Pilot Officer Jimmy Davies, I believe his name was, may he rest in peace.”

  After a brief moment of respectful silence, he held out his hand. “We want to welcome you, and to let you know that your money is no good here. Never, in this establishment, will you pay for your food and drink.” With a sweeping arm, he once again indicated his customers. “Our patrons want to chip in, and what they don’t cover is on the house.” He took on a crafty look. “If you like cock-and-bull stories, you might find the same friendliness around the corner. I’ll challenge them to it.”

  He turned and called out, “A round on the house for everyone.”

  While merriment spread through the dining room, he leaned close to Claire and spoke in a low voice. “I overheard what you said about one of your brothers, the one who was captured. Please accept our best wishes. We do hope he comes home all right.”

  “Well, ma’am, this has been a particular pleasure for me,” Red said when he dropped Claire off. “Thank you.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I’d like that, but I don’t make promises I might not be able to keep.” He sighed. “The war is on. We’ve got a little more than twenty hours of Hurricane training, but when we get back to base, we could be sent to an operational squadron at any moment. To be honest, we’d welcome it. We’re champing at the bit.” He exhaled. “There are stories of new pilots showing up at operational squadrons with no combat training and going straight out on patrol before they’ve even unpacked their luggage. The Germans have bombed our airfields and ports every day since their first aerial attack six days ago. They hit the Chain Home radio direction finding stations for three straight days, and this morning, they attacked the naval yards on the south coast.”

  “It’s a tough war,” Claire said, her jaw taut. “I’ve kept up with the news about the bombings.” Fragments of decoded messages from that day flashed unbidden through her mind, casting a sense of foreboding. They’ll be bombing aircraft factories tomorrow. An uncomfortable sense came over her of knowing about catastrophic events before they occurred.

  Then, she realized another irony that caused her to catch her breath. Field Marshal Göring ordered the destruction of the British air forces. He codenamed the day of his planned assault “Adlertag,” or in English, “Eagle Day.”

  What was it The Bull manager had mentioned? With Red, Andy, and Shorty standing there, he had said that the American pilots had been dubbed “eagles.”

  “Are you all right?” Red held her shoulders to steady her. “You turned pale.”

  She nodded. “Probably just overwork.”

  “As I was saying, with the war heating up, it’s hard to say when we’ll get away again. I’ll call when I get another day off.”

  Her poise regained, Claire hugged him and kissed his cheek. He embraced
her.

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said. “I hope to see all three of you again soon.” Then she gently pushed him back. “You’d better be off. You have a long way to drive tonight, and you need your wits about you in the morning. Do be careful driving through the blackout.”

  Red released her reluctantly and walked back to the car. “Whatever happens,” he called over the top of the Austin, “I hope your brother Lance gets home safely.”

  For several minutes after he left, Claire sat alone in her darkened living room, the persistent feeling of dread tugging at her. In her mind’s eye, she studied the faces of the three young pilots, seeing them flying through clouds in their flight suits, silk scarves, and goggles, smiling and waving at each other from their individual cockpits. Then suddenly, they appeared as pain-ravaged corpses, consumed in fire.

  She shuddered, and other thoughts intruded: her parents on Sark Island under German occupation; Jeremy, training as a covert operator; and Lance, in a bleak German prison.

  Throttling despair, she blotted the images from her mind. Rising, she crept into Timmy’s room. Careful not to awaken him, she stroked his head and arms. Then she stooped and kissed him on the forehead. “Goodnight, my sweet,” she whispered. “Let’s hope for a better day.”

  6

  Marseille, France

  Madame Fourcade, codenamed “Hérisson,” stepped out onto the veranda of her rented villa above Marseille overlooking the sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea. A favorite colleague, Maurice, sat at a table drinking café au lait and admiring the view. A platter with cheeses, meats, and fruit was set on the table’s surface.

  Fourcade was a petite, unremarkable-looking woman, pretty when she dressed up, but she could easily disappear in a crowd, and she hardly looked like the head of a French Resistance network. Born into aristocracy and well-educated, she had foreseen the war and probable German occupation. With a major formerly on Marshal Pétain’s intelligence staff codenamed “Navarre,” she had laid plans even before the invasion for an active resistance. Navarre had since gone to Algeria to join anti-German forces there, leaving Fourcade in charge of the group they had built.

  One aspect of their organization was that they set up Maurice in a vegetable vending business. He was a huge man with protruding eyes and such a gregarious manner that few would suspect him of being in the Resistance. His route took him to the best hotels and restaurants where wealthy and influential patrons gathered, and where he could listen, recruit, and receive reports from employees working with Fourcade’s network. Profits from the enterprise helped fund the local Resistance.

  As France’s largest commercial port city, Marseille’s position on the Mediterranean made it a major trading center. Situated on the southern coast, having a history and culture of being fiercely independent, and with the German occupation still hundreds of miles north, Marseille continued to be a free city. However, Marshal Pétain seemed to emulate Adolf Hitler, and his expanding grip exerted dictatorial pressure.

  Germany, with its forces spread across several countries, wanted to control the city, but would have to meet that objective either at another time or by means other than armed invasion. That left Resistance leaders in a fairly safe place with time to recruit and organize.

  “Our young lady will be here shortly,” Fourcade said as she sat next to Maurice, enjoying the aroma of café au lait as she poured a cup.

  “Good. Getting Amélie and her sister apart for even a few minutes is difficult. They stick together like glue.”

  “Who can blame them, after what they went through. Their father is back up near Dunkirk. I wish he had taken more time to recover. He’s an old man, but he insisted on going back, and maybe he’s right. After all, he is Boulier. He built the network and he’s the heart and soul of it. If difficulties arise, he’s the man who commands loyalty.” She sipped her coffee. “How did you manage to separate the two girls?”

  Maurice chuckled. “I sent Chantal on an important ‘secret mission.’” Seeing Fourcade’s dubious look, he went on. “Don’t worry. I know she’s only fourteen. She wants so much to be like her big sister and forgets the six years between them. I wrote out a message in code—it’s just a bunch of letters strung together with no meaning. We put it into the handlebars of a bicycle, and I sent her off to deliver it as if she were a courier. She’s going to a farm in a safe area about ten miles away. My friend knows the situation. Amélie accepts what I did. We’ll have time to talk without interruption.”

  As he finished speaking, the door behind them swung open and closed, and Amélie joined them. Like Fourcade, she too was small, with thick auburn hair that glistened in the sunlight, honey-colored eyes, a cute turned-up nose, and full lips.

  “Nicely done,” she said to Maurice, and jabbed his shoulder. “We can’t do that to Chantal too many times. She’s zealous, not stupid. She’ll catch on.”

  “The last thing I want to do is patronize or insult her,” Maurice said, “but she wants real missions, and this was good practice without putting her in danger.” He alternated his glance between Amélie and Fourcade. “My friend knows to make her feel important and appreciated. We need this time to talk.”

  “So, I’m going north to the area around Dinard, is that right?” Amélie shifted her attention to Fourcade, who nodded. “A secretary there worked her way into the German senior command. I’m supposed to find out if she’s a collaborator or if we can recruit—"

  “We’ll give you more detail before you leave,” Fourcade interrupted, “but that’s not why we asked you here today.” An impish smile crossed her face.

  “What then?” Amélie drew back, alarmed. “Is this about my father? Is he hurt?”

  “Ferrand is fine.” Fourcade reached across to place a reassuring hand on Amélie’s arm. “We have news.” She glanced at Maurice, barely able to constrain her own excitement. “This is about Jeremy. He’s coming here.”

  Amélie stared at Fourcade and then at Maurice. “Jeremy is coming here? To Marseille?” Tears flooded her eyes. She propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. “I thought I’d never see him again,” she gasped through happy sobs. Looking up, she wiped her eyes. “Is he really coming? When?”

  “He’s really coming,” Fourcade said softly while massaging Amélie’s arm. She laughed gently. “How could we let a war stand in the way of young love?”

  Amélie straightened and composed herself. “You’re not bringing him here for me,” she said flatly. “He’s on a mission.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” Fourcade said, “and we know we can’t bring him here without making sure he gets to see you.” She chuckled. “Everyone knows how you feel about each other, including the bosses at British intelligence.”

  Amélie blushed. “I see.” She laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Now that’s out of the way, why am I here? You didn’t need to divert Chantal to tell me that. She’ll be thrilled to know he’s coming.”

  Fourcade took a deep breath. “Maurice, go ahead.”

  Maurice nodded. “Let’s not make too much of this,” he said. “It’s not a big deal, but it is an important detail. Your sister doesn’t know you’re going north, right?”

  Amélie nodded.

  “Keep it that way. Jeremy can’t know either, for the same reason—operational security. He’ll be here a short while and will then return to England. His mission isn’t dangerous, but yours is. Neither of you can afford to worry about the other. As far as either of you knows, the other is in a safe place. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” Amélie sniffed. “Of course I understand. I’m in love, but I’m not a child.”

  “We know,” Fourcade said. “We just needed to press the point.”

  Amélie dismissed the subject with a toss of her head. “When’s he coming?”

  “Tonight,” Maurice replied. “By parachute.”

  “Tonight?” Amélie took a deep breath, her eyes wide with excite
ment. “Can I meet him at the drop zone?”

  “Not a good idea,” Maurice said gruffly. “We need people there who are alert for things that could go wrong, not someone who might be overly excited.”

  Amélie scoffed. “I think I can control myself, but I get your point.”

  “They’ll bring him straight to the villa as soon as we know everything is safe,” Fourcade said. “You and Chantal can wait here with me.”

  Late that night, Amélie watched the gate from an upstairs window of a darkened room, staring at the narrow, curved road that ran in front of the villa. Chantal, a younger version of Amélie, sat across the room, watching her.

  “You do love him,” Chantal said in a slightly teasing voice. “I knew it from the start. A blind person could see it.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Amélie retorted. “Of course I feel for him. We’ve been through a lot together. Who knows how we’ll get along after this war is over?”

  Chantal laughed. “Everyone except you,” she exclaimed. “Look at you. You can’t sit still, you keep holding your breath, you can’t pull yourself away from the window, and you watch every car that goes by.” She darted across the room and grabbed one of Amélie’s wrists. “I’ll bet your hands are clammy.”

  “Oh, stop. What do you know?”

  “I read novels.” Chantal laughed. “And I know my older sister. No one has gotten under your skin before.”

  Amélie whirled on her, then caught her breath as the headlights of a vehicle rolled into view. “There’s a car turning in.”

  A small sedan entered the courtyard and stopped. A man emerged from the backseat. Disappointed, Amélie stared at him. He was on the short side and stocky, but in the dim light, that was all she could make out. He stood outside the car, stretched, and looked around.

  Another man emerged from the back seat.

  Behind Amélie, Chantal took off in a dead run. “I’ll bet I get to him before you do,” she called over her shoulder.