London Dawn (34 page)

Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.”

Ramsay was on his feet.

“You can’t deny me this, mother.” He wasn’t looking at her. “You can’t deny me my place.”

Victoria had closed her eyes. “We shall talk about it when your father is home.”

“I must do something besides take notes in class or sew buttons on greatcoats.”

“When your father is home, Ramsay. Which hopefully will be very soon.”

“Isn’t that right, Matt?” Ramsay looked to his friends. “Isn’t it, Sean?”

Matthew nodded, still standing by the radio as the BBC announcer came on. Sean finished a biscuit and wiped the crumbs from his shirt. “I can’t stand the thought of those bounders messing up Grandmum’s roses at Dover Sky and Ashton Park.” Sean looked up. His eyes were dark. “I think of her and how she loves all that and how good she’s been to me, and I can’t bear the thought of those houses and rose bushes being flattened by bombs and trampled by their rotten jackboots. I won’t let them kill her.” He got to his feet. “That settles it for me then. I’m off to the recruiting station with my mum and da’s blessing. Thanks for the tea, Aunt Caroline.” He glanced at Matthew and Ramsay and nodded. “I’ll talk to you later and let you know how it goes.”

“But you’re still seventeen,” protested Victoria.

He smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Aunt Vic.”

France fell four days later, on June 22. Kipp and Ben touched down in the south of England with their squadron on June 23. Within twenty-four hours they were on their way by rail to London after ringing up their wives to announce they were on leave. Kensington Gate became the location for another family gathering, where the two pilots held young men like Peter and James and Ramsay and Matthew spellbound with stories of the air war over France. Sean could not be at the celebration because
he was in flight training with the RAF. Robbie was also absent due to his involvement in Home Defense exercises with his regiment.

“Ben.” Victoria grasped one of her husband’s arms in both of hers and smiled at his audience in the backyard. “I wonder if I might steal you away for a few moments?”

“I was just at Dunkerque.”

“My brother can surely speak for both of you.”

“Easily done.” Kipp lifted his glass of orange squash. “I’ll claim some of your victories.”

Victoria walked with Ben out of a green and sunny backyard spilling over with people, and into the house.

“What’s all this about?” he asked her.

“War isn’t a game, Flying Officer Whitecross.”

“Did I say it was?”

“When you’re out there talking with the boys you act like it is.”

She led him to her father’s private study and locked the door behind them.

“Now you really have me wondering what’s up, Vic.”

“Do I? Well, I won’t hold you in suspense any longer. Have a seat.”

“If I’m going to be shot I’d rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

The blinds were drawn against the sunlight outside, and the room was dark.

Victoria leaned her back against one of her father’s tall bookshelves with her hands behind her gripping the edge of a shelf.

“I see what’s coming,” she said. “It’s nineteen fourteen to nineteen eighteen all over again. Only worse. It’s bad enough having you up there one day after another. I’m not having Ramsay up there with you.”

“Vic, he—”

“I know he feels he needs to be a pilot like his father. That he needs to defend his country and Western civilization—Churchill has him all stirred up. But we’ve lost one child already, Ben. I’m not prepared to lose two.”

“What child?”

“The child who’d be almost twenty years old now. The child I’ve given a name and whose birthday I honor every year in the privacy of my heart. The child I’ve always loved and who I’ll love forever.”

Ben stared as tears stabbed at her cheeks. “It was a miscarriage, Vic,” he finally said.

“It was a baby! My baby! A boy! Quentin Paul Whitecross!” She made no attempt to lower her voice or clear the tears from her eyes and face. “All these years I couldn’t talk about him, could I? Stiff upper lip and all that. Noble family. Mansions in Lancashire and Kent. Father an MP. Brother an MP. Husband a winner of the Victoria Cross. Show the world what you’re made of, Victoria Anne. Show them that the death of your baby doesn’t faze you. You’re made of sterner stuff.”

“I thought—I thought you were over it.”

“Over it? In two weeks? Two months? Two years? I’ve never been over it, Ben Whitecross. I’ve never been over losing your son and mine.”

“You were so happy when Ramsay was born.”

“Of course I was happy. I was ecstatic. I gave birth to a son. I adore him. But he wasn’t my first son. He was my second. And I still grieve for my first. Yes, I still grieve for him.”

She collapsed into his arms, and he held her as close as he ever had. Her body shook with her weeping. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, slick with tears, and her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “I understand now. Forgive me. Of course he’s our firstborn. Of course he’s our first son. I love the name you’ve given him. You don’t need to have his birthdays in private anymore. I’ll celebrate them with you.”

“Do you mean it?” She could barely get the words out.

“I mean it. It was a day in April, wasn’t it? Early April?”

“April ninth, nineteen twenty-one.”

“Right. So he just turned nineteen?”

“Yes.”

“Well, bless him, bless his soul. I love you, Vic, and I love him.”

She was crying so hard she began to hiccup and struggled for breath.

“Look. I may have missed it first time around, but I’m here for you on the second flypast,” he told her. “Don’t keep it in anymore. Not with me. When you remember him and it hurts, tell me. Let me hold you. When the fact he isn’t out in the yard with Ramsay and Tim breaks your heart, let me know. When the ache won’t go away, I’ll hold you until it’s not so sharp. I’ll hold you all day and all night if I have to.”

“Ben—”

“Look. I love to fly. It’s exciting. And it’s exciting to fly in combat—terrifying, but exciting. But I’m no stranger to death, Vic. We lost good men in France. Sure, we all try to brush it off and keep flying. We can’t let what happened to our mates paralyze us. Kipp and I and the others were trying to defend hundreds of thousands of people, so we had to put them first, not what we felt. I can tell you this though. No pilot loses another pilot in his squadron without losing a part of himself. Big part, small part—he’s never going to be complete again. I want to fly, Vic. And I want to defend the millions of people who live in Britain because before God, and you know this to be true, there is no way on earth they are capable of defending themselves against the Nazi army and air force and navy. I have to do it in my Hurricane or they die. Edward and Terry have to do it in their ships. Robbie has to do it with his regiment. We do it or they die. We do it or the Jews in Britain are done for as well. Charlotte and her sons, Owen and Colm, are finished.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Ben. I understand all that.”

He gently tilted her chin upward with his hand. “You don’t want to lose Ramsay or Tim the way you lost Quentin. You don’t want to lose me. But someone has to defend Charlotte, don’t they? And someone has to defend you. The Nazis rained bombs on Spain, Vic. They rained them on Belgium and Poland and Holland and France. They killed without mercy. We can’t let them do that here too. And we can’t let them enslave us.”

“If he doesn’t have to go up, Ben, I want Ramsay to stay here with both feet on the ground.”

“That’s a big if. Who’s going to decide?”

“I want to. I need to.”

He kissed her forehead. “All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him that.”

“He won’t take it well.”

“I’ll explain about Quentin. We’ve never talked about the first baby. That will help him understand.”

“He’ll resent me, won’t he?”

“If he carried a child inside him for nine months he would know why you’re afraid.” Ben patted her on the back. “Ramsay will grasp more than you think. He’s not just a wild eighteen-year-old who wants to fly a fighter plane.”

“He seems that way to me most of the time.”

“He takes protecting the innocent and defenseless to heart. He really does see himself as a knight of the air.”

“I don’t want him going up, Ben. Not unless our situation in Britain is desperate.”

Ben said nothing, only touching his lips to her auburn hair once again. “I’ll be posted to another squadron soon.”

“How soon?”

“It’s only a matter of weeks.”

July 7, 1940

Dear Vic,

I’m writing you from the new air base I’ve been assigned to in the south—King’s Cross. The paint on the huts is still wet. If I had that yacht of your father’s and sailed straight across the Channel, the locals tell me I’d wind up in Dieppe.

There is a lovely old church here. Not Methodist, mind you, but it couldn’t be, really, since it was built about eight hundred years before John Wesley was born. I gather it has two sister churches and one of them is Jeremy’s. The other is St. Simon of Cyrene’s Cross in Wiltshire. In any case, I sat in King’s Cross church today and prayed about all the young lads in the squadron I’ll start leading tomorrow morning. Some of them were probably seventeen only a few months ago. I’d like to pray that I won’t lose any, but that’s not realistic. I suppose I can pray that I’ll only lose a few. But that may not be realistic either depending on what Jerry throws at us.

I think I’ll start the briefing tomorrow with a quick prayer and a quick reading from the Bible. Then they’ll probably start calling me Ben ‘Preacher’ Whitecross.

I love you. My love to Ramsay and Tim as well.

Ben

July 11, 1940

Dearest Ben,

Thanks so much for your letter. Way down in West Sussex, are you? Do you know I’ve never been? But I’ve heard it’s lovely.

I was going to say I’m glad things are fairly quiet for you but I’ve just had Ramsay rush in and tell me your squadron had a bit of a row yesterday. One Hurricane down and two German bombers down whilst you were protecting a convoy. It isn’t you because Ramsay said they mentioned your name as squadron leader. I’m glad you came out all right, obviously, but I’m sorry for the chap who was lost—or did he bale out in time?

We are praying constantly. I expect you know that Kipp is at Pickering Green? That’s only a few miles northeast of you. Peter and James are due to be assigned in a few weeks. Jane has joined the WAAF and is already a corporal, which doesn’t surprise me at all.

Please write as often as you can. Your letters mean so much to me.

Much love,

Your Vic

July 17, 1940

A quick note. Jerry’s really going after our shipping, and we’re very busy here. We bagged two Me 109s yesterday, but they shot down three of our Hurricanes. The trouble is, Jerry’s got the experience. He’s been fighting in Poland and France, and most of our lads have never seen combat before. Of course the longer I can keep our boys alive the sooner they have the experience they need to beat the odds.

Pray for us. I hate seeing the bombers get through and any of our ships sunk or damaged.

Love,

Ben

PS—How are Ramsay and Tim getting on?

July 21, 1940

Dearest Ben,

We’re all doing fine here, so please don’t worry about us. All the trouble’s over the Channel, isn’t it? Thank goodness young Owen isn’t in the thick of it yet. He hasn’t finished his training with the Royal Navy. When it’s done he wants to be assigned to a battleship. But there you are protecting the convoys day after day, so that will make his mother glad.

Caroline tells me Kipp is doing pretty much the same thing you are—he’s a squadron leader with a lot of young boys to look after. But he’s getting along well enough. He has one bomber and one fighter to his credit. Isn’t that the same as you?

I saw Sean the other day. Still in training. Tall and dark like our Ramsay and Caroline’s Matthew. He seemed to me to be completely at ease with himself. So I’ve added him to my prayers every morning and evening. Catherine appears to be taking it rather well, and of course Albrecht wanted him to enlist, so he is quite proud of what his son has accomplished.

I hope all the fighting stays over the Channel. Is that what you call an unrealistic prayer?

All our love,