London Dawn (37 page)

“Us and the Canadians. That’s it. They’ll put up a fight. But it won’t be enough. The Germans have millions of troops. And their planes will be bombing our cities, won’t they?”

The blonde drew in on her cigarette while the redhead drank her tea.

“A lot of our boys have gone down,” said the redhead. “Poor lads.”

“But a lot of Jerry too, surely.”

“He can afford it, can’t he? He’s got thousands more waiting in the wings. We have a few. Just a few.”

Jane got up and left the room, cup in hand, and walked the seventy steps to the surface. Armed soldiers nodded at her as she went outside. The sky was a perfect blue and the sun a perfect gold. She walked away from the bunker a few yards, turned her face up into the light, and closed her eyes. The warmth felt good on her skin.

I suppose German girlfriends are praying for their pilots. And here I am praying for mine. Well, it’s not as if I’m You and You’re my servant and I can force You to do my bidding. I can’t bend You to my wishes. It’s ‘Your will be done,’ isn’t it, not mine? But is it really Your will for England to be conquered? Is it really Your will for the Nazis to rule Europe? Is it Your will that Peter or James die? Or that any man die today? Yet hundreds are already dead. So what does it mean when we pray that Your will be done? Does that mean everything that happens is Your will? Or do things happen that aren’t Your will at all? And if they aren’t Your will, whose are they?

She went a little farther and sat down on the grass. The tea was getting cold, so she finished it.

I’m not a theologian like Uncle Albrecht. I read his book on suffering, but it left me with more questions than it answered. You may be an infinite being, but You can’t answer all the prayers of the German families and all the prayers of the British families. You already haven’t. There will be mothers and wives
and girlfriends weeping on both sides of the Channel tonight, isn’t that right? I only ask for James and Peter to live. Or if the way war works doesn’t make that possible, I ask for one of them to live. I’m not going to say which one. I want James to marry me. But I want Peter to stand with us too. If I were very brave I’d ask You to give me the strength to bear up under whatever happens and not just ask for their lives. But I don’t want that sort of strength because I don’t want something to happen that requires strength like that. I’m just being honest.

“Jane.”

She opened her eyes.

It was Sergeant Turnbull.

She dropped her cup and jumped to her feet. “Yes.”

“Jenny’s taken ill. I need you to replace her. I’m sorry. You’ve just had the half hour.”

“That’s fine. I’m all right.” She bent and picked up the cup. “I’ll be right there.”

“There hasn’t been any sort of letup. The bombers are coming in droves.”

Jane followed her down the long flight of steps to the underground bunker. She put on a headset, checked that it was working properly, and stood near Shirley, who was pushing bombers and fighter escorts into Sector A and King’s Cross.

“Ju 87s. Thirty plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”

“Yes,” responded Jane. “I have that. Ju 87s. Thirty plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”

“I have the bearing.”

“Thank you. Relay the bearing, please.”

She listened as she was inserting the proper numbers and colors of paper onto the wooden counter. Then she pushed it into Sector C at Biggin Hill and Pickering Green.

E
NEMY SIGHTED
was lit for both squadrons at Pickering Green and three at King’s Cross.

Jane worked until the evening, not standing down until a force of Me 109s and Me 110s prowling London’s suburbs was dealt with by the RAF. Messages from Pickering Green and King’s Cross were handed to her after she had left the plotting room, one from James and the other from Peter. Both told her they were all right. Peter said he had helped shoot down a Ju 87, a Stuka. Feeling much lighter in her spirits than she had in hours, she walked briskly to her flat. Both her roommates were out. She brought
some Colby cheese from the icebox, made some cheese toast, and fell asleep in her bedroom with her uniform on.

“Air Vice Marshal Park will be hosting the prime minister today, Corporal Fordyce,” Sergeant Turnbull told her the next morning. “If you glance that way you’ll see the pair of them sitting there above us.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“The RAF flew more than nine hundred sorties yesterday. First reports had more than one hundred and eighty enemy aircraft shot down. Now we are saying it is closer to seventy-five or one hundred.”

“What about our losses?”

“The Germans are making extravagant claims. But our sources tell us thirty to forty. Lympne was badly hit and cannot be used as a forward stage for our planes any longer. RAF Manston in Kent took a blow—sixteen men lost, two Spitfires destroyed on the ground. Pickering Green was heavily damaged but they kept filling up the bomb craters and sticking to their missions. RAF Martlesham was knocked about by a flight of Me 109s. It shan’t be back in service for two or three days. Ju 87s took out our radar stations at Dover, Rye, and Foreness. I should be grateful if they leave our air bases and radar towers alone today. But I don’t think the enemy will be so obliging.” The sergeant nodded. “Try your best again today, Jane.”

“I shall do.”

By midmorning Jane was pushing several wooden counters toward Tangmere and King’s Cross once again. She scarcely noticed when the prime minister arrived and was surprised to see him hunched over in a seat above when she took a fifteen-minute break. Things intensified after that, and she never looked at him again. The enemy aircraft went after King’s Cross in waves. Lights rippled up and down the large squadron readiness board behind her. She was pushing the wooden counters into Kent as the
Luftwaffe
went after Pickering Green as aggressively as they had the day before.

“Ju 88s. Fifteen plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”

“I have that. Junkers 88s. Fifteen plus. Fifteen thousand feet.”

“Ju 87s. Same bearing. Ten plus. Twelve thousand feet.”

“Fighter escort. Me 110s. Fifteen plus. Twenty thousand feet. Angels two zero. Same bearing.”

“Roger. Ju 87s. Ten plus. Twelve thousand feet. Me 110s. Fifteen plus. Twenty thousand feet.”

She pushed the wooden blocks into Sector C and toward Pickering Green.

Lights came on and off and on again.

O
RDERED TO READINESS
. O
RDERED TO STAND BY
. L
EFT GROUND
. O
RDERED TO RAID
. E
NEMY SIGHTED
.

Finally the voices in her headset went silent.

“You may stand down, Corporal Fordyce.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Please join me in my private room.”

Jane followed Sergeant Turnbull into her office.

“Please shut the door, Corporal, and take a seat.”

Jane closed the door. “Thank you, I’ll stand.”

Sergeant Turnbull did not sit either. “I know the brothers at Pickering Green and King’s Cross have been on your mind a great deal.”

Jane was at attention. “I don’t let it interfere with my work. I concentrate on the information I’m given—”

“I received the following signal an hour ago. ‘Peter Sweet was shot down over the Arun Valley in West Sussex in pursuit of enemy fighters. His aircraft’s descent was spotted by local farmers, who hurried to the crash site. He was still in the cockpit and was likely dead before he hit the ground. Please convey the condolences of all flight personnel and ground crew at RAF King’s Cross to Corporal Jane Fordyce at RAF Hillingdon.’ ”

The sergeant dropped her hand with the note in it to her side.

Jane stared at her.

“I’m terribly sorry, Jane. So terribly sorry. If it were a different set of circumstances, I should give you leave to travel to King’s Cross. But we must have you here. At any rate, you would not be permitted to go to the base. The enemy attacks are far too frequent. But you are relieved for the evening. Is there anything I can do?”

Jane heard her voice. “No. That’s quite all right. Thank you for letting me know so promptly.”

“I shall see you in the morning then?”

“Of course.”

“I’m so sorry, Jane. What a brave lad he was.”

Jane made her way up the stairs and along the street, paying no attention to the Friday afternoon traffic or the people on the sidewalks. Her roommates greeted her cheerfully, saw her face, and stopped chattering.

“What is it, Jane?” asked the one with short brown hair.

“What’s happened?” The other, a young woman with Chinese blood like Jane, took her hand. “What did you hear?”

“The brothers I told you about, the pilots.” Jane felt the heat build in her eyes and her throat tighten. “The one’s dead. Shot down.”

“Oh, no.” The one who was holding her hand embraced her.

The brown-haired one was pale. “He could be wounded.”

“They pulled him out of the cockpit, Jenny.” The tears burst onto Jane’s cheeks. “They were sure he was dead before the crash.”

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

“Best give her the telegram, Jenny,” said the young woman holding Jane.

“D’you think that’s a good idea, Liz?”

“It can’t get worse than it already is, can it?”

Jenny brought the telegram out of her dress pocket.

“I can’t read it.” Jane gripped Liz’s back and sobbed. “I can’t see. Tell me what it says, Jenny.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

Jenny opened it.

I’M SO SORRY, JANE. NO ONE WAS EVER BRAVER THAN PETER. HE HAD BAGGED ONE ME 109 THAT STRAFED OUR BASE. HE WAS AFTER THE OTHERS. HE OUTDISTANCED ALL OF US. THEY TURNED ON HIM AND IT WAS THREE ON ONE. EVEN THEN THEY HAD A HARD TIME OF IT. HE WILL BE BURIED WITH OUR OTHER PILOTS AT KING’S CROSS CHAPEL. WHEN YOU ARE ABLE TO GET DOWN HERE I WILL TAKE YOU TO HIM. I WISH YOU ALL THE COMFORT GOD CAN GIVE.

MY PRAYERS

BEN

“He’s a hero,” said Jenny.

“He is that,” agreed Liz.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The tears poured across Jane’s face. “I should have loved him more. I was sure I’d see him again. I was certain of it.”

“Shh…shh…” Liz stroked her back.

“I want to talk about him. I want to talk about Peter all night.”

“Then do it. We’ll listen, won’t we, Jenn? Stay with you right through to morning.”

Jenny nodded. “Yes, of course we will. I’ll put the kettle on the stove.”

“They said he wasn’t strong. But they weren’t right about that. They weren’t, were they? Look how brave he was. Look how he fought the German planes…look how he defended us.”

Liz held her more tightly. “He was strong. Very strong. You knew that. That’s why you doted on him, Jane. That’s why you loved him so much.”

After very little sleep, Liz and Jenny walked Jane to the gate at RAF Hillingdon and hugged her before she stepped through. In the bunker she nodded at Sergeant Turnbull and the other WAAFs and put on her headset. The day was slow. During a break, a telegram from RAF Pickering Green was handed to her.

JANE

WE BOTH LOVED YOU. HE LOVED BOTH OF US. THEY WILL BURY HIM TODAY. OUR FIELD WON’T BE OPERATIONAL FOR ANOTHER 24 HOURS BUT I WON’T BE GRANTED LEAVE. BEN WILL SEE THE FUNERAL IS DONE RIGHT. OUR PHONE LINES ARE CUT OR I WOULD HAVE CALLED MUM AND DAD. I WILL TRY AS SOON AS THEY ARE REPAIRED. PETER AND I BOTH SAID IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ONE OF US IT WOULD BE UP TO THE OTHER TO LOVE YOU FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. THAT IS WHAT I AM GOING TO DO.

JAMES

Rainy weather and poor visibility set in for the week. There were still raids, but nothing like August 15 and 16. Jane remained at the plotting table day after day. On Tuesday, August 20, the WAAFs turned the radio on in their lunchroom to listen to a speech from the prime minister. Jane sat with her fingers around a cup of tea she never drank. She half listened to the broadcast, one part of her mind on Peter lying in the ground, the other on James sitting in his cockpit.

The great air battle which has been in progress over this Island for the last few weeks has recently attained a high intensity. It is too soon to attempt to assign limits either to its scale or to its duration. We must certainly expect that greater efforts will be made by the enemy than any he has so far put forth. Hostile airfields are still being developed in France and the Low Countries, and the movement of squadrons and material for attacking us is still proceeding…

The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the world war by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.

The young women went back to chatting and laughing after the speech. Jane got to her feet and walked to the operations room, placed a headset on, and stood waiting for directives. Nothing much happened. Eventually she planted herself in a chair set back from the table and map. Across her sectors pilots sat in their cockpits on standby most of the day and the rest of the week. Jane returned home on Friday to find a letter from James, hastily scrawled out on a sheet of paper torn from the back of a book.