London Dawn (45 page)

“What?” Ramsay shouted back.

“The two Canucks and the Yank! See them? Ten feet tall?”

Three very tall and very lean men were vaulting into their Spitfires on the far side of the airfield. The yellow props stood out among the white and black ones. Maple leafs for enemy aircraft shot down were on two of the planes. The other had stars.

“Where are we going?” yelled Ramsay.

The thunder of Rolls Royce Merlin engines made it impossible for Ben to reply. Strapping himself into his seat, he could only point at the sky. The Canadian pilots were already moving along the runway. Ben fired off a prayer for Ramsay and Matthew, taxied his aircraft into position behind the Canadians, and was airborne in thirty seconds. He kept his canopy open until he could see that his whole squadron was up. Then he slammed it shut and began the climb to twenty thousand feet along with the others.

Harrison asked three different nurses how to find Caroline’s room and finally made his way down a corridor crammed with patients on trolleys. A flash lit up the dark window as he stood in the doorway and saw Caroline motionless on her bed. The flash was followed by a blast that made the glass pane vibrate. Charles was sitting in a chair beside his mother. He looked up.

“Harrison,” Charles whispered.

Harrison removed his fedora. “I’ve been to see the lord and lady and Victoria as well. Lord Preston is still unconscious.”

“I’ve heard Mum talk a bit. There was even a scrap of a laugh once.”

“May I join you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Harrison pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed.

“Have you been sitting here by yourself a long time then?” asked Harrison.

“They’ve all been by at one time or another. Aunt Libby. Uncle Robert. Aunt Emma and Uncle Jeremy. Aunt Char. The lot.”

“How’s your sister getting along?”

“Cecilia is with Angelika and her parents. She seems to be all right.”

“I’ve been to the others. Lord Preston is not responding. But his wife is up and around and so is your Aunt Victoria. I expect you will see them here tomorrow. The prime minister dropped by briefly to look in on your grandfather.”

Charles said nothing.

Harrison cleared his throat. “People tell me you covered your mother and sister with your own body while the bombs were falling.”

“Anyone would have done that.”

“They say you were wounded.”

“Scratches.”

“Still. It’s unusual behavior for someone who wanted the bombs to drop.”

“Not on houses, Harrison. On the docks. On airfields. On factories.”

“You know better than that, Charles. The bombs fell on houses and civilians in Guernica and Warsaw and Rotterdam. Why should England be any different?”

Charles looked down. “You must think me an odd Nazi beast. One minute I’m showing you the wounds my father inflicted on me and the next I’m back listening to one of his broadcasts and applauding. I detest the concentration camps and how the Jews have been treated there, yet that doesn’t stop me from marching with the British Union of Fascists and shouting anti-Jewish slogans, does it? The truth is that quite often I’m sick of myself and how I swing from one position to the other.” His fingers curled around his mother’s hand. “They’ve arrested the BUF leaders.”

Harrison nodded. “I’d heard that.”

“The police came by and questioned me. I was properly repentant.”

“Mm.”

“The thing is, I am, you know. At least right now with my mother lying here. One of my mood swings again.”

“There’s color coming back into her cheeks.”

“There is, isn’t there?”

“I’m sure she’ll pull through. I’ll come by again tomorrow with Lady Holly.” Harrison stood up.

“Who’s taking care of Ashton Park in your absence?”

“The three dogs. And Todd Turpin.”

Charles got to his feet and shook Harrison’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you and Aunt Holly tomorrow. Thanks for coming by.”

“Caroline means a great deal to all of us.”

“I appreciate that. Will you…” Charles stopped and then started again. “Will you pray for her, Harrison?”

“I will.”

Charles sat back in his chair as Harrison patted the boy on the shoulder and left.

“Now, Mum,” Charles asked quietly, “do you think I’ll ever get to the point where I’m praying for you for myself?”

Then he closed his eyes for just a moment’s rest, but within seconds he was asleep in his chair.

“Charles.”

“Mmm?”

“Charles.”

Charles’s eyes opened. Kipp was standing over him. Both his arms were covered in large casts. Charles scrambled to his feet.

“Kipp…Mr. Danforth.”

“Hullo, Charles. I finally made my way here from the other side of the city, Heinkels and five hundred pounders and all. How is she?”

“She…she just lies there without moving. I keep hoping she’ll sit up and, well, laugh for me.”

“Ah, her wonderful Scarborough laugh.” Kipp smiled down at her. “How lovely she is. Always lovely, your mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you? How are you holding up?”

“I’m all right.”

“I was told you took a lot of nasty cuts from flying glass and splinters.”

“Not so nasty.”

“What about Cecilia?”

“Right as rain. She’s with Uncle Albrecht and Aunt Catherine. And Angelika.”

“Capital. I’m back home in a couple of days. Not that I’ll be able to do much with my arms like this. I hope you’ll be there. You’ll surely be needed.”

“If Mum is better.”

“Of course.” Kipp carefully lowered himself into the chair Harrison had used.

“And we’ll need somewhere else to live.”

“I expect we will.”

The windows flickered and flashed. A
thump
made them glance out. The far darkness ignited and glowed red.

“Incendiaries fell on our street, just a few of them.” Charles’s face was lined with crimson and black. “The one body I saw was like melted wax. Just as if a wick had burned right down to the bottom of a candle and guttered there. Do you suppose we’ll use…the British will use incendiaries in their bombings?”

“I hope not,” Kipp replied. “But wars always go from bad to worse the longer they last. Poison gas in the last war. Fire bombings in this one. Soon you use anything you can get your hands on that will help you win.”

“Will the Germans win?”

“They might. But we put six to seven hundred kites up every day against them.”

“The bombers still get through.”

“When you fill the sky with as many as Jerry does, some are always bound to get through.”

Charles looked at the casts on Kipp’s arms. “Do you think you’ll fly again? Or is that it?”

Kipp shook his head. “I’m not done yet.”

Sunday, September 15, 1940

RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex

Ramsay sat in his cockpit, “the office” as his father called it, and watched the exhausts on the engine cowlings of the Spitfires blaze a bright blue in the dawn darkness. He was cold and cramped, and the only things that were warm were his hands because they were wrapped around a mug of hot tea. He hardly drank any of it, preferring it remain hot and in the mug where he felt it could do his hands the most good.

Right, Ramsay, are you listening?

I am, Dad.

Don’t call me Dad. The Me 109 has a fuel-injected engine. The Spit doesn’t. So the Me 109 can go into a steep dive to get away and the fuel continues to feed into the engine. If we go into as steep a dive, the g-force pushes the fuel away from the motor and we stall.

Isn’t there anything we can do?

Perform a half roll if you must go after him. That will help keep the petrol feeding into the Rolls Royce engine.

The sun was up. The sky was gold and blue. Ben signaled his squadron to turn their engines off. Several took the opportunity to get out and stretch their legs. Ramsay gave Matthew a thumbs up. Matt grinned and waved his hand. Another hour went by. Ramsay climbed down to the ground when his father approached.

“Take a quick break and get yourself some more tea,” Ben said. “Haul Matt along with you.”

“Do you think we’ll go up today?”

“Oh, we’ll go up. It’s perfect flying weather. Jerry will be on his way soon.”

Ramsay slapped Matt’s airplane. “Come on. Let’s get some more tea.”

“The last thing I need is more tea.”

“Well then, use the gent’s room, and then get some more tea.”

A flare suddenly burst over the runway.

“Scramble!” a corporal shouted from a hut. “All squadrons!”

Ramsay dropped his mug, and it broke in two.

His father was shouting at him. “Never mind all that! Get in and get up!”

“See you in the clouds, Ram!” called Matt.

“I hope so!” Ramsay called back.

In minutes all four King’s Cross squadrons were in the air and climbing.

Operations bunker, RAF Hillingdon, Uxbridge

“Heinkel 111s, fifty plus, angels two five, same bearing, straight on for London.”

“Yes, I have that,” Jane responded. “Heinkel 111s, fifty plus, twenty-five thousand feet, same bearing.”

“Fighter escort, Me 109s, sixty plus, angels three zero, same bearing.”

“Right, I have that, Me 109s, sixty plus, thirty thousand feet, same bearing.”

She began to push wooden counters across the map toward London. All the counters from all the WAAFs were converging on London. Information continued to be relayed to her more and more rapidly, and she placed more and more counters on the map. The destination was always the same.

“The prime minister.”

Sergeant Turnbull said it quickly as she walked past, but Jane caught it. She looked up and saw the round figure of Churchill seated beside Air Vice Marshal Park. Her headphones crackled.

“Here’s another lot. It looks like they’re pulling out all the stops. Junker 88s, sixty plus, angels two five, on the same bearing as the Heinkels. London is the target.”

“I have Junker 88s, sixty plus, twenty-five thousand feet.”

“Fighter cover at angels three zero, Me 109s, fifty plus.”

“Me 109s, fifty plus, thirty thousand feet.”

She looked at the sector clock, tagged both counters with yellow, and used her rake to thrust them over the Channel and Kent to London.

Rows of bulbs flashed on and off and on again behind her. The long wall, or tote board, blazed. She glanced quickly at Pickering Green. E
NEMY SIGHTED
was lit up for both squadrons. Then she saw the same signal blaze across the board for all airfields and all squadrons—
ENEMY SIGHTED
. Sergeant Turnbull slipped a note into her hand.

11 GROUP, 10 GROUP, AND 12 GROUP ARE ALL ENGAGED. THIRTY SQUADRONS. NO BREAK IS POSSIBLE. STAY SHARP.

Jane’s headphones crackled to life. “Large formation of Dornier 17s, forty plus, fifteen thousand feet, fighter cover Me 109s and Me 110s, sixty plus, twenty thousand feet, bearing on London.”

“Thank you,” responded Jane, “Dornier 17s, forty plus, fifteen thousand feet, Me 109s and Me 110s, sixty plus, twenty thousand feet, converging on London.”

God, be with our boys. With Sean, with Ben, with Matt, and Ramsay. And please, please be with James. I don’t know how all this works, all this prayer and faith. But save their lives and save our country.

Kensington Gate, London

“Get Angelika! Get Cecilia!” Albrecht was stuffing notes into his briefcase. “We must make for the shelter at the end of the street!”

“We’ll not make it!” Catherine had ten-year-old Angelika by the hand. “The siren’s been wailing for two minutes!”

“We have to try. I feel like this house is a target. Where’s Cecilia?”

“Tavy has her.”

“Where is he?”

“Halfway down the block.”

“What about Darrington and Mrs. Longstaff and Norah?”

“They’re in the cellar. They won’t budge.”

Albrecht raced out of his room and down the staircase. The bottom floor was a shambles of broken walls and shattered windows and torn carpets. He swung open the door to the basement.

“This place is ready to fall down!” he shouted. “Even a near miss would do it! You’ve got to make a run for the shelter with us!”

Only Mrs. Longstaff responded. “Bless you, my legs can’t carry me that fast anymore. And just the other night a shelter took a direct hit, didn’t it, and that put paid to all those poor folk? We’ll take our chances here. One place is as good as another, that’s how we all feel.”

“You must come with us!”

Catherine was heading out the door. “I’m gone, Albrecht. I can hear the AA fire and the bombs. It’s Buckingham Palace again. They’re coming this way.”