 
THE DAWN PATROL

by

Todd Kelsey

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Todd Kelsey on Smashwords

The Dawn Patrol

Copyright © 2015 by Todd Kelsey

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Table of Contents

Credits

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About Todd Kelsey

Connect with Todd Kelsey

\--

The Dawn Patrol

Todd Kelsey

Disclaimer: This is the very first "beta" edition, and I'm releasing it into the wild before I even have a chance to fully edit and fix it. Please forgive the errors – and feel free to sign up for the email list at http://www.thedawnpatrol.net to receive news about future editions, or to give feedback on things you liked or didn't like. It would be great to hear from you!

Credits: a special thanks to Martha Sperry for most of the art – the rest is public domain (ex: Alice in Wonderland, Gustav Dore) or clip art (the dragonfly). You can find the story of how this book came about as well as further acknowledgements, at: http://www.thedawnpatrol.net

Chapter One

Sometimes I wake from dreams of battle. Pilot's blood pulsing, rhythm blurring into the sound of screaming engines, diving, winding through white clouds, piercing bullets, the deadly dance of eagles in the air, menacing each other with metal talons, blue heaven above and around you and orange hell-flame in between and a dark grave waiting six feet underground, moths and red-brown rust destroying over decades and thieves stealing your breath with blinding speed and a whirling tornado of screaming fire like an arrow plunging towards the blessed rest of the green earth below.

By some miracle I make it back, limping and rolling to the hangar. I lie awake there, dreaming of flying again, pursued by my greatest fear – a malevolent force beyond all hope of glory and desire, sucking me down into the paralyzed still vacuum of conversation in a museum, scattering dust and dissipating those sacred split seconds, that summit of my existence and the risk of my destruction, those moments in the sky when I am on the edge of death and yet so fiercely alive.

Billy peered out the window of the taxi, as it made its way across the English countryside, peering out the window, clutching his box of paints and brushes in one hand and his small tablet computer in the other, and holding onto the book he had purchased at Heathrow Airport.

"Mom, why are we driving on the wrong side of the road?" he asked, still having a feeling of strangeness visiting England, mixed in with a sense of magic. _He was going to see his great grandmother, and she was always interesting._

"Just because" she said, patting his arm, and leaning down, "when in Rome, do as the Romans do," in a quiet but playful voice.

Jane was somewhat enchanted herself with England; she had been since she was a child, and it was only recently that great grand mother Edith had moved back across the ocean, to "return to the village she once knew," as she had put it. 98 years old, gentle on the surface, but strong as the hills, and a mind still clear, especially for the stories she loved to tell, about learning how to fly when other women barely had the vote, about the second world war and the Bombing of London, about the love she had for the countryside and the rolling hills.

Jane intoned, "Born at the end of the First World War, and just in time for the Second!," as Grandmother Edith had always said, with a sparkle in her eye and strength in her spine.

"Dear Grandma . . ." Jane said, sighing, watching Billy taking in the countryside, wishing Edith had stayed in the United States, where she had been for part of the year ever since the war had ended, but always making a trip back to England "for gardening season, dear" with her finger raised in the air and eyebrows raised ." . . . and fresh butter!" and a nod, and she was off.

Jane saw a plane fly by in the distance, the sunlight glinting off of silver wings, and she thanked the heavens that Grandmother Edith had finally given up flying planes. Thank heavens! All the arguments and raised voices and pleading from various generations and officials and experts had been met with a genteel smile, and a wagging finger, and something along the lines of "Dear dears, now, I was flying before the lot of you were even born," and she had passed her vision tests and Jane and various others had been tempted to bribe the doctor into failing her on purpose. Even the government officials, local or from London were no help, and all Grandmother would do is wink her eye and say "Well now, do you believe that I've friends in high places now, dearie?"

And Jane couldn't help smiling to herself. _You go, grandma. Give em hell._ Any woman who could survive the firebombing of London and wind up having tea with Winston Churchill and then go on to found her own flight school, was certainly worth her salt.

"Mom, are you gathering wool?" Billy asked, imitating her facial expressions with a six year old's exaggeration, raising his eyebrow in that unconscious overstated way, which always made her want to giggle.

"Why yes I am, Billy, and look!" she pointed at the fields "There's some wool right now!" and they passed some grazing munching sheep, placidly content.

Jane rolled down the window on impulse, and it was delightful – the smell of freshly cut grass, of field and farm and autumn leaves rolled in, crowding out the sterile air of the car. In this corner of England the development had not progressed along as much, and she felt a sense of home in the stones of the hedgerows and the green ivy and the yellow daisies.

By the time they reached Dragonhurst Cottage, Jane was a bit drowsy, but pleasantly so. Billy was too wired to take a nap, and sprang out of the car as soon as it came to a stop in the familiar little round drive, surrounded on all sides by flowers and wildflowers.

"Thank you Miss Jane" – the driver took his tip of crisp paper currency and came round to unload the car. "I expect you'll be wanting me to bring these 'round back?" and he cocked his head towards the cottage and the outbuildings. Tom was a little bit of everything in Grandmother's village, the parish of Carlton-Coville – he was part driver, part mechanic, and part conspirator – still maintaining grandmother's planes in perfect flying condition.

"Thank you, Tom," said Jane, and she eyed him, trying not to smile. "How are the planes doing these days?"

Tom beamed instantly. "Great, Miss Jane! The airframes are as good as new. Aunt Edith kindly lets me put a crew together to take them to various air shows, and it gives people something real to wrap the history around."

"What planes?" called Billy from the front doorstep, and then peered back in the front door. Jane put her finger to her mouth. "Sssshhh. Eh?" and Tom winked, nodding, and coughed. "Oh I was just telling your mother about some model planes I was building," as he carried the luggage around back of the cottage and disappeared.

Grandmother Edith opened the door, and gathered them into her arms, and it felt like a century had passed since the last time they had seen her – wars and peace and generations and stories all wrapped up in her keen eyes, and still the twinkle there, ageless, like the garden.

A bit later they gathered in the study, and Jane felt a mixture of summer and autumn and sadness mixed in with joy, and a sense of belonging, and hope, and accepting mortality. Death, the passing of seasons, sitting so close to Grandmother Edith, who would spurn any attempts to treat her as "old," even though she'd lived ten lifetimes and maybe more. They were quiet without needing to be, gazing at each other, and Jane wanted to cry.

"Oh, Grandma!" Jane said, "Whatever are we going to do with you?!?," and felt a rush of the scent of leather and musty books and the immense weight of being there, and Grandfather _not_ being there. She held it in, it rose from her heart, it trembled on her lip, and she lifted out of the seat and Edith drew her in.

"Oh dearie" Grandma said, stroking her hair, "now, now, that's alright." and Jane wept, knowing Billy would be concerned, but knowing he was ok, hearing him sniffle. "I miss grandpa too." and Jane felt like she was a little girl again, sitting on the same couch, in the same study, as she came back from striking out in the world to find safe harbor in the deep soul of her grandmother. Edith let the tea grow cold, and held her warm granddaughter, thankful for the chance. She gazed at young Billy, and wondered what he might become someday, hoping the world for him, and hoping the world would grow better.

_While I've got the chance, this is the time._ Edith said to herself. _Now Edith Wallace, you've faced down bleeding men and burning buildings and airplanes out of control, and you can get through this and open the box Eric gave you to pass down, and do it while you're still alive._

Edith patted Jane, handed her some tissue.

"Young Master William" Edith said to Billy, as she handed him a tissue, "You're getting a good start on growing to become a man now, and one thing men like to do when they can is pass down something to future generations." She said, as she rose slowly but purposefully to reach for a special box from the shelves.

A sunny day, light streaming in through the windows, coming in to get Eric for dinner, coming closer because he is hard of hearing. He shows me the box, and says, "This one like the others, Edith, the Order of the Dragonfly," and smiled with that poet's smile that had warmed her heart even as their skin had grown wrinkly and their hair silver. And her heart catching a beat with the finality of it, knowing that this would be the last – their children, their children's children, and now, a great grandchild coming into the world. A sense of the sacred trust hinted at by the words of men who had danced with death in the skies, who had risked life and limb for the sake of their families and friends, and kept Hitler from plunging England into darkness forever - "Rescue and Defend" - written in Latin on each box, in between the symbols of eternity.

Edith carefully reached for the wooden box from the shelf, and set it down in Billy's lap, who politely burned with curiosity. _There was always something about Grandma._ And his flesh prickled a bit when he saw the phrase, which he had only seen in one other place – on a necklace his father had worn, the last time he had seen him.

"Go ahead, open it, it's just a few things your Great Grandfather wanted you to have." and Edith felt the ache of the sacrifice that soldiers make. She felt the hollow place inside her, and the memory of losing her son in the Vietnam War and still hoping against hope that he was in a prison camp somewhere. And she felt her granddaughter's fear, with Jane's husband Sam now off in a disaster zone with his helicopter. And now this great grandson, who might end up as the only living link for this legacy someday. _Rescue and Defend, indeed -_ the words echoed in her mind with the solid authority of a thousand flowers she had laid down over the years.

Billy looked her in the eye, and Edith held her breath. Just for a moment she had seen he husband's features outlined in the great grandson – the blue eyes, the serious but kind stare, so old and yet so young. _The Wallace legacy. The Order of the Dragonfly. Rescue and Defend._

And then Billy pleasantly opened the box, which contained a small toy, which he knew was a Spitfire, and two envelopes marked Now, and Later.

"You can open the one marked Now, Billy" his mother said, wondering whether the Order of the Dragonfly was a curse, or a blessing, or something in between. She exercised her internal muscles, blowing away the butterflies floating around, drawn in by the reminder of how her husband was off in Asia, in some godforsaken weather conditions, doing search and rescue missions – probably as a result of family tradition. Probably as a result of having received a box like this. She felt a protective reflex, an urge to take the box.

"After my son died, Jane, I wanted to take these boxes and burn them all" Edith said, her words touching Jane quietly. "But then I remember all the men and women who died in England when Hitler attacked us. It all seemed so senseless at the time. Yet later I came to realize how close the entire planet had come to falling into shadow." She put her hand on Jane's wrist. "And I believe they died for something. For freedom." She gave a gentle squeeze.

Billy opened the envelope marked Now, and it contained a key.

Jane gasped and her mind did a back flip, like a ball of tightly wound yarn coming unsprung. She didn't know whether to feel awe, or sadness, or joy.

I remember that key.

Chapter Two

I am the Tempest, the Reaper of Skies, a Dark Wall of Death rolling across Europe. I am the Onslaught, the Anschluss, the lightning-fast Blitzkrieg striking down all who would oppose the Fatherland, knocking down countries like puppets before their Master. I am a creature of Europe's own making, forced to rise like a Phoenix from the ashes of the Treaty of Versailles. Ah, what sweet victory, to fly the Swastika over Versailles, to shine its shadow over the very railcar where the cowardly agreement was signed, to break like a tidal wave of steel on the rest of France and roll ever onwards, relentless to the coast, driving the English like dogs across the Atlantic Ocean, back to their hiding place on the tiny weak Island of Britain, cringing in fear at the legions who are loyal to the Fuhrer.

I am the flint-eyed masterpiece of engineering, the preying falcon tamed to a savage hunting pitch, twisting into the screaming arc of a dive bomber strafing, scattering soldiers and refugees like insects along their broken roads, unleashing a hail of fire and smoke to deliver death from above for those who deserve it, punishing a rebellious Continent. My overwhelming numbers are the crescendo of a thousand factories, churning out a waterfall of unending glory to darken the skies. I am the strength of a nation renewed, the ice cold Conqueror, the iron will and honor of the Luftwaffe. I return silently to the perch on my master's arm and eagerly await the next chance to fly.

Ernst Grunen sat at his writing desk on a cold dreary morning in wooden barracks, lamenting that officers in the Luftwaffe rated no better than foot soldiers on this particular piece of ground, which had been so hastily taken that there were no proper quarters as of yet.

He took off his spectacles and marveled, half-dazed at the speed of their victory, as day merged into day and hour into hour, to the point where between morning briefings and coming back from the skies, he knew not and cared not where he was or where they were going. Supporting the advance, swatting away the half-hearted resistance from surprised and devastated neighbor nations, Ernst Grunen suppressed his personal views like most pilots in the Luftwaffe, placing complete faith in their commanders and giving utterly complete obedience.

He sipped at a glass of wine taken in Poland, and Ernst could not help but revel in the ample food and drink supplied to pilots and taken along the way, and why should Poland not open up her hoarded wealth after the Allies had impoverished Germany for so long, with their merciless reparations? Ernst tried to forget growing up half-starved in the wake of the First World War, with the shame of defeat, and then a rising anger and confidence in his countrymen, which became a wildfire, unstoppable, even as the Great Depression swept the world and made things worse, when a loaf of bread had cost a million Deutschmarks!

He looked out the window at the muddy fields, at the hastily improvised community of war, hundreds of kilometers away from the area he had grown up in, but a constant reminder of the people of Lubeck. The industrious digging, the repair, the finely trimmed mustaches, the shine of buttons, the unbending, unwavering schedule of efficiency, like an old village clock, striking on the hour.

"Ernst!" cried Rudolf Jodl, from outside the door, with loud knocking. "Ernst! Come and have some wine. Trinken und Tanzen mit hubsche madchen! Some of the finest maidens from the area. Ernst!" and the obnoxious knocking.

"No thank you Herr Jodl" Ernst replied, grimacing, and slightly uneasy. "I've got a letter I need to write!" he said, as if he had to justify taking a break from the incessant celebration of victory in between campaigns and raids and reconnaissance.

As he picked up the fountain pen again, he felt the anxiety rise up as well, thinking about some of the things he had seen in the air and on the way, some of the things less honorable than others. "War is hell" he muttered, and began to write.

Cousin Rudy,

I can't be sure exactly when this letter will even get to you, but so that you can witness the admirable efficiency of the German Empire, I will write 3 copies, and send them at different times, through different routes, and all three will come to you. What's more, you will be impressed with my continued mastery of the military, knowing exactly what I can say and what I can't – who could dare to cross out anything that I, cousin of General Rommel, would say?!

Yes, there is of course some jesting, but can you deny me my moment of glory? I still remember visiting America, and I'm sure you remember how small and skinny I was, and how hungry and shy. Yet we played at being soldiers, even as the generation who fought in the Great War kept quiet and sent us off into the woods, shaking their heads, wanting to deny us the glory they had.

I am glad to hear reports, sensible voices in the United States, even Ambassador Kennedy, who patiently reiterate the realistic course for America – a negotiated peace of course. We are clearly in charge of Europe, our forces are unstoppable, and all the resources of every country we take under our wing are at our disposal. We have no quarrel with America, and of course you see that it's best that we leave each other alone. Europe's affairs are Europe's alone!

Ernst smiled, imagining himself as a diplomat, careful to tow the party line, and wondering what Cousin Rudy might read between the lines. He also wondered if he was even aware himself of what was between the lines.

You'll be interested to know that my plane has been behaving perfectly. I've taken fire on many occasions, but no major panels have been breached, the engine has remained true, and all is in Ordnung – in order. What a thrill to be flying again, eh? I'm glad to hear that you have learned how to fly as well, and how well I remember going with you to the County Fair, to see the old Sopwith Camel Biplane flying there. I certainly have you to thank me for my career direction.

Best to be brief with these wartime communications. I trust all is well, write to me care of Luftwaffe Headquarters in Berlin.

Yours, Ernst

\--

A month and an ocean away from Ernst, Rudy Mitchell unfolded the letter from his cousin, not sure what to expect, but yearning to join the coming battle as fervently as anything he'd ever wished for. He sat in the small farmhouse in Iowa, thanking the heavens that his father had good enough sense and good enough fortune to allow the family to get a plane, so Rudy could build up hours. He held the letter, imagining the surroundings that Cousin Ernst must be in – was it the chaos of war, or some fine European chateau? He cursed himself inwardly for being drawn to the allure of being a warrior, the amoral gravity of battle, and felt the beginnings of the anguish he would feel if he flew against his cousin.

"But I still want to fight, by god," he pounded his fist unconsciously into his leg, raising a frown from his mother, who was busy shucking corn. She pursed her lips and shook her head, and kept almost as quiet as when Amos Josiah Mitchell had gone off seeking glory in World War One, only to come back the shell of himself, and only just coming back to himself the days.

"Calamity just rearing its ugly head again" she muttered.

Rudy looked up, imagining his mother's thoughts. He shook his head slowly at the smug words of his cousin, and felt green envy at the thought of flying an actual warplane. The currents in his mind and heart were like the racing mixture of air and fuel in the cylinders of an engine: fuel on the one hand, wanting to take action, to fly, to be in the skies – air on the other hand – a sense of anger at Hitler's total disregard of decency and freedom.

"Mom, you know I'm not looking for glory – but how can America just sit by and watch, while Hitler gains air superiority over all Europe?"

"I don't know about air superiority, young master Mitchell" she fixed him with an eye, "but I do know your father has taken 20 years to heal from wounds that were only in his mind."

She continued to shuck corn, not angry, not even fatalistic – just a solid as the hills. And inside, she hoped America would not enter a European war again.

Rudy sighed, set down the letter, and immediately felt restless.

"I'm going to take up Bessie, I think she needs some tweaking" Rudy said, glad to finally think of something he could do. He grabbed his oily gloves, his goggles, and a leather jacket, and scooted out the door before his mom could say anything.

He looked up at the bright blue sky, breathed in the summer air, and nearly burst with the desire to fly, thankful that the wind wasn't too strong and that the clouds were not the kind that spelled trouble.

Rudy's dog Hank loped after him, sensing something that was up, and barked a few times, but kept his distance from the biplane, as Rudy wheeled it out from the barn. _Rudy must think he is a bird,_ thought Hank, wishing he was courageous enough to be loyal enough to go anywhere with his master. _Anywhere but the sky,_ Hank thought, as he suddenly caught scent of a cat somewhere nearby and ran off to investigate.

Rudy felt like he was due for a dose of danger that day, something in his bones told him it was time to practice gliding, and run the engine completely dry of fuel. The fields down below were streaming by, he kept a good height, and put the plane through its places, wondering at how a concoction of fabric and wood could be called an aircraft, how fabric could have carried a generation of fighter pilots into the air. He imagined that the plane was metal, that he was flying a Spitfire, which he had read about in the newspaper.

In the midst of his reverie, the engine started to splutter, and he looked down, knowing the farmland and patches by sight, wondering who he would have to inconvenience today, whose ego he would have to soothe if he crushed some vegetables or lettuce or scared some cows. He scanned the horizon quickly, looking for a good plain piece of land, calculated the distance, eeked out the last remaining sputters of strength in the engine, and crossed himself with one hand while the other held the controls, feeling himself like a bird. A very heavy bird at that.

I don't think a Spitfire could glide as far as I can.

Rudy banked the plane into a long sweeping arc, as the first glints of sunset reached up into the sky on the western horizon, hailing his landing with plumes of orange and blue and the hint of red. He guided the plane down towards George Montgomery's clover field, reasonably flat and near a road, and he smiled at the thought that George's daughter Bessie might just be home.

Now that certainly would be pleasant.

Muddy, oily, smoky and comfortably tired, Rudy climbed out onto the field, and patted the plane that he had named after George's daughter.

"Thank you, Bessie, for bringing me home safely" he said, tracing his hand along the airframe, inspecting it in the fading light, thinking about things that were worth dying for, people who were worth protecting, people who were worth coming home to.

He knew without knowing that he would have to join the war in England sooner than later. It was in his blood, he could feel it.

He sighed, regretting the day he'd have to say goodbye, and everything that he'd have to leave in his wake. But he told himself, "There's nothing wrong with hope!" and so he chose to hope that he'd return someday, and walk these same familiar roads, which he knew like the back of his hand, home to Bessie.

Chapter Three

His craft and power are great

and armed with cruel hate

on earth is not his equal

Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also

The body they may kill, but love endureth still

This Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him

His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure

One little word shall fell him

Eric felt chills down his spine as he opened his eyes, waking an hour earlier than usual, with the excitement a boy may have felt on a holiday morning or the first day of summer, like a racehorse wanting to surge, but holding it back with the reins of approaching the day as a man. Today was the day he would fly a Spitfire for the first time.

He looked at his surroundings, at the dark green wool blankets, the cots of the other sleeping officers, all tired beyond measure with the relentless training. The card table with the last dregs of the previous night's card game. Newspapers lying on crates, clothes and blankets carefully folded for the appearance of order.

Emma looked up at him from the floor, twitching her tail expectantly, wondering what fun might be afoot. She lifted her head with a mutt's curiosity, her speckled coat rippling with a morning stretch, and yawned into the chill air, grunting, rising to her feet, wagging.

Eric reached over and scratched her behind the ears. "Yes Emma, girls can be in the Royal Air Force too, you know that. But a Spitfire's no place for a dog, so there's always the Women's Auxiliary Force you can join. What say you?"

And Emma nodded hear head, wagging.

Eric rubbed his arms, and rose over the cold bowl with a bit of water, separating some for a rinse, and took his razor, readying the shaving soap, and leaned back in the morning light, carefully following the curve of his neck with the needle sharp edge of the blade, pausing to dip it in the water, and then rinsed away. He thought about how soldiers all across Europe were doing the same thing, Axis or Allied.

He took out a toothbrush, squeezing out some Solidox toothpaste, remembering how it had come from Norway, the year before, from a company called Lilleborg. And barely a month ago, on April 9th, 1940, Norway had been invaded. And now, at the beginning of May, the last of the British Expeditionary force had soldiers in France, waiting for the hammer to fall.

Eric brushed his teeth and wondered if the Norwegian toothpaste company would survive the war, and whether German soldiers would also be using this toothpaste. He spit out the taste of last night's ale, shook his head, and walked out towards the airfield with Emma the Mutt in tow.

Dawn was just breaking over the airfield, and no engines had been fired up yet that day, but electric lights were on in the hangar, and Eric walked over the dew laden grass to where the mechanics were working on the Spitfire.

"Morning, master Tomkins" Eric nodded, "a gift for you that happened to survive last night's card game" and he handed him a bottle of wine from Bordeaux. "Now that bottle there is mighty precious, from a soldier coming back from France." and John Tomkins opened his eyes wider and whistled. "A mighty fine gift that is, given what those lads are up against."

"Well this lad was evidently appreciative of the role that the remaining RAF pilots are playing over there" said Eric. "And I refused twice, but the third time I took the wine, two bottles as it were, in a little haversack, and cracked one open last night, and here's one for you lads then."

"Aye well it will be a fine toast to the RAF then!" said John, as he set the bottle down in his rolling cart and mused, then snapped his fingers. "And I daresay it will be celebrated for the miracle it is, water turned into wine, when all the lads make it back over the Channel."

"So you don't think they can hold out against Hitler when he strikes?" asked Eric.

"No Eric, not against the Blitzkrieg by land and the Luftwaffe by air," said Johnny.

Tommy Cranshaw stood and patted the Browning machine guns on the Spitfire's wing, looking over the eight protruding gun ports, like a father over 8 sons.

"But we'll give it back to them, by God" Tommy said, and looked at Eric. "Now this will be your first time up in a Spit, and I imagine you've heard about the guns." he said, pointing at the Brownings. "Now our lads have found that even if all eight of these work completely perfectly, you have to fire thousands of rounds to take an enemy down."

"Thousands of rounds!" chimed John.

"And I hear that they're working on a different caliber?" asked Eric?

"True enough" said Tommy, "outfitting them with Hispano guns of .30 caliber"

John patted the Spitfire. "One way or the other, we'll give them what they've got coming, and the Spitfire's a grand bird to fly."

"I can hardly wait!" Eric exclaimed, and they all grinned.

Tommy winked at him, and motioned him over. "Now I'm supposed to let Captain Brethridge officially take you on the tour of the plane, but seeing as how everyone else is still sleeping besides you and John and I, well I can make allowances." and the ambled over to the fuselage, setting up a stand to step up carefully on the wing, John on the other side, Tommy and Eric peering into the cockpit, just like a pack of schoolboys.

Tommy nodded and gestured to the plane. "Well in you go!"

And Eric sat in the cockpit of the Spitfire, and it felt strange and familiar at the same time. The central gauges - Airspeed, Attitude, Climb in top center, then Altitude, Turn/Heading, Slip. Most other controls were in the same locations.

"You know about the Rolls Royce engine?" asked Tommy. "A new 12 cylinder, liquid cooled engine called the PV-12." He gestured at the throttle. "Try it out." Eric put his hand on the throttle and imagined the engine roaring to life.

"They're going to rename the engine Merlin." John chimed in. "It's a real corker."

Eric put his hands on the pressure plate of the pneumatic firing gun button, just lightly touching the safety. Tommy and John grew quiet.

"And you know of course that the elliptical wings on the Spitfire enabled Mitchell to pack in four Brownings on each wing." Tommy said.

Eric gripped the control stick as if he was in flight, when they noticed a pipe smoking figure walk up in the morning mist. As he came closer, Tommy exclaimed.

"Well bless my stars, it's Douglas Bader!" and Tommy clambered down from the ladder stool, and clapped the figure on the shoulder. He motioned for Eric and Johnny to come down. "This here is Douglas Bader, come to visit his old mate from the fighting over in France!" and Tommy beamed.

"How do you do Tommy, nice to see you," and he nodded at Eric and Tommy.

"Well, Master Bader, I wasn't sure when I'd see you again, when I was shipped home to work on these here Spits." and he jerked his thumb in the hangar, and nodded at Eric, "Some of these saw service over in France."

Douglas nodded, thinking about how very precious a good mechanic was, and Tommy was among the best, if not the best.

"Well Tommy, you know my old friend, Tubby Mermagen," suggested Bader, holding his pipe.

"Yes, I seem to remember sharing a few drinks . . . " Tommy said.

"Well it turns out that I'm in his squadron, 222 at Duxford." Douglas said, and Tommy could tell something was underneath the words – he knew Bader. Something in his voice was different.

"What's afoot, Douglas?" he asked, and had a premonition.

"Well, you lads didn't hear it from me, but the Nazis have invaded Luxembourg, the Netherlands and France – today." and they all thought of their comrades in the British Expeditionary Force.

Eric asked, a pit opening up in his stomach. "Do you think the BEF can hold off the Jerries?" Douglas looked at him and shook his head.

"And actually Tommy, I'm sorry to be crass, but I've come to invite you and John to join me up at Duxford with the 222 squadron, and I need to know rather soon." He said, earnestly. "You're the best mechanic in the RAF, and I want you with the 222. What do you say?"

Tommy smiled, and didn't hesitate. "On your honor? I'm assuming you've spoken to the right people?" and Douglas returned his smile. "It's taken care of – I'm owed a few favors by certain people."

Something about the man impressed Eric, and without thinking what he was doing, he blurted out. "Mr. Bader, would you consider taking me into the squadron?" and he held his breath, waiting.

Douglas surveyed Eric, looking him up and down. Turning to him in the light, Eric realized that Douglas was actually standing on artificial legs. He remembered hearing about an RAF pilot who flew just as well as anyone else, and was known to be a bit daring.

"Sir, an honor to meet you. Is it true that back in November, you flew the Avro Tutor upside down at 600 feet?"

And Tommy and Douglas both laughed. "Well, I guess word has gotten around. I couldn't resist the temptation. And then just like you, I progressed through flying the Fairey Battle and the Miles Master, and now here we are flying Hurricanes and Spitfires." Douglas turned to Tommy, looking at him questioningly, nodding at Eric.

Tommy looked back and forth between Eric and Douglas Bader, and coughed.

"Well Master Bader, from what I know Eric is among the best pilots we have." He said, gesturing to the Spitfire. "He advanced very fast through Hurricanes and has the full confidence of his commanders."

Eric held his breath, and marveled at the fact that Bader would have some pull to get him in that squadron. It may be a better squadron, or worse squadron at that – but there was something about the man that drew him. Up in the sky, the other pilots you flew with could make the difference between life and death, just like the mechanics.

Douglas reached out his hand. "A pleasure to have you, I'll talk to your commander."

And Douglas walked back away in the mist, puffing his pipe, walking fairly close to the gait of a normal man. Tommy whistled.

"Well I'll be damned. You can start the day with one expectation and things can change in a flash." he said, turning back to John and Eric. "Ok mates, let's see if we can wake up the rest of the pilots" he said, with an evil grin on his face. Eric raised his eyebrows, and John winked, saying. "It looks like we're going to do a convergence test on the Brownings of this here Spitfire that you're about to fly."

Eric thought back to the discussion of harmonization and convergence in gun placement for the Spitfire, calibrating the guns so that they would come to focus on a point somewhere ahead of the plane. For the Spitfire, 400 yards originally, but under debate. Some believed the guns should be dispersed to have the widest possible zone of fire with a single gun on target. Others believed the guns should be parallel so that they would cover an elongated zone when dealing with bombers. But in practice, the concentration of fire on a single point had proved most effective.

"How far out is the convergence point set?" asked Eric, as they connected the hitch to a small vehicle to bring the Spitfire around to the area where the convergence point was tested. It was a homebrew experiment from Tommy, who liked to make absolutely certain everything was in order.

"250 yards" said Tommy, and Eric imagined flying at the top speed of the Spitfire, roughly 300 miles per hour, and what it would be like to close in to that point, and let out a short burst on another plane that was trying like the devil to do the same thing to him. A terrible dance indeed, and devilishly difficult. John seemed to read his thoughts.

"It's all about geometry, mate" said Johnny, patting him on the back.

Word had gotten round the barracks with other early risers, who stood around in groups, watching the men back the plane into an embankment so that it was roughly level, and point it at a small group of very old cars about 250 yards in the distance. Tommy gestured to Eric. "Up you go! We're off to Duxford anyway, don't worry about captain. And you know as well as I do that up in the air you need to let out short bursts. But this morning we want to let out a solid stream until all the bullets are gone, partly to test the convergence point, and also the guns overheating" Eric nodded.

"You may wish to cover your ears" Tommy said, to some of the other green, new pilots who might never have heard 8 browning machine guns fire before in unison. No one covered their ears.

Eric climbed in the cockpit, touched the pressure plate switch to unlock the safety, and looked at Tommy, who raised his thumb, and covered his ears. Eric depressed the trigger, and everyone covered their ears, as bullets and tracers roared out in a blaze of fire to reach 250 yards in a split second and devastate the junk cars assembled there. It was still not fully light so the noise and the explosions lit up the morning. Eric couldn't bring himself to shoot so continuously, in spite of the go ahead, and stopped, and took a break, his pulse racing. He looked at Tommy, who motioned for him to keep going, and covered his ears.

Eric fired, thrilled and sobered and excited by the roaring power of the machine guns, and by some miracle, none of the guns jammed or faltered in their fire – when they ran out he could just hear the final whirring clicks, and he thought he could see some steam and smoke rising from the hot metal of the gun ports.

After the noise stopped, Eric depressed the safety again, and some of the new pilots made as if to go and inspect the cards. Tommy waved at them.

"Sorry, the captain doesn't wish anyone to get in front of guns, just in case" he said, and stared down their naive curiosity, and they started back to the barracks. It was a bald-faced lie of course.

Tommy thought about the wreckage of other Spitfires that he had to salvage for parts, and he was afraid that if new pilots saw the devastation that 8 Brownings could do up close, they might bring more fear into the sky than they already had, or they might not go at all.

Eric thanked Tommy and John, and made his way back to the barracks as well.

"God bless em" said Tommy, as he and John watched the pilots filter back to their barracks to catch a few minutes of sleep before first call, whispering excitedly about the invasion of Europe.

"Do you think we'll have enough pilots and planes to keep the Nazis at bay?" asked John.

"We'll have enough planes at least" said Tommy, who had been to the Vickers Supermarine factory for training, and talked to the people who were ramping up production, and actually walked the production lines. "But I don't know as we'll have enough pilots. They're just lads, courageous, going up against hardened pilots who have been flying for longer" he said.

"But at least they'll have the Spitfire and Hurricane to fight with, and that has already given the Jerries a run for their money" said Tommy, wondering how well they would fare, and just how far the Luftwaffe outnumbered the RAF. He thanked his lucky stars that Bader had told him about the experimental radar project, and sworn him to utter secrecy. The courage of the pilots, and the people on the ground, and radar – maybe that would allow us to hold out against Hitler. Just maybe.

Chapter Four

Sun is shining, over England, sky is calling, the Dawn Patrol. Such great beauty, may be the last time, that I ever, see dawn again.

The words of the simple song sung to self are hummed from the grey drape mist-covered edge of an airfield, nowhere in particular, yet everywhere scattered throughout England like rose petals with deadly thorns, as the die is cast and the cast assembles to act out lines spoken at meetings on Downing street and draped across the countryside on telegraph poles, and lapping upon the eardrum shore to roll up into the mind in waves as grim eyes look on sleeping pilots, growing weary and wearier still they will become, propped up, carried along the rushing rapid moments of adrenalin, in the air and back again to collapse or be taken into hospitals or buried in the underground of earth or stone or ocean, there to join the dreaming kings in otherworlds of oak and ash and alder.

And everywhere, the tousled hair that mothers yearn to touch again, as once she did upon a time her son that suckled at her breast and wished upon a star.

The Nazi warlord Hermann Goering breathed in the excitement of nearing the very edge of the coast, the westernmost bulwark of the Fatherland's embrace of Europe. He was high as a kite, but he felt that he managed himself well after nearly two decades of taking morphine.

"What a glorious morning!" he exclaimed, jumping out of the car and looking out upon all the assembled soldiers before him.

"Heil Hitler!" he yelled, and it echoed back from a thousand voices. He gazed with lingering adoration before him, appreciating the symmetry of the soldiers, thinking back to the toy soldiers he had played with as a boy, never imagining that the Teutonic legends would come alive before him, and under his command.

He put his hand out for a pair of binoculars, and greedily looked out across the English Channel, and found himself actually salivating.

"Ich werde Luftwaffe sehen! Schnell!" and he leapt back into the staff car, which sped immediately along the heavily fortified rim of France, past castles of concrete and impenetrable defenses, that sprung up in Goering's mind and dotted the maps at Berchtesgaden, the Eyrie in the mountains that he would return to when it was finished.

"All in good time," he muttered, reminding himself out of habit to return to the present, well beyond remembering what it was like to think without morphine in his system, or how painful the injury in 1923 had been.

"No matter, it's a fine day for hunting!" and he slapped the car with an enthusiasm that made his attending officer jump, afraid at any moment to trigger the wrath of the leader of the Luftwaffe, the German air force that had devastated Europe, the gathered storm that was poised to move over England and take the final plot of land in Europe that stubbornly, stupidly opposed the Fuhrer.

Hermann barely noticed the bumps in the road, but he gleefully counted the wrecked military equipment that England had left behind; the wreckage of planes and trucks and ammunition. And then he tired of counting and did the math over again in his mind, with the latest estimates of the 4:1 majority the Luftwaffe had over the weakling Royal Air Force.

He calmed a bit and composed himself as they pulled up to the forward base of the Luftwaffe, where more soldiers and especially the officers of the Luftwaffe gathered at attention, barely concealing their smiling proud strength, having destroyed all Europe and reached the edge of France with blinding speed.

"Ah" Hermann said, loud enough for his pilots to hear, as they stood stock still. "My eagles, my falcons, my striking force! At ease." and the gathering relaxed, and Ernst Grunen felt so weary that he could barely stand, and smile at the Fuehrer's right hand man, shaking his hand, and marveling that Goering had survived World War One, flying in the same fabric planes that he and Cousin Rudy had seen at the county fair in America.

Ernst managed to stay upright through the rest of the occasion, answering occasional questions, and feeling a momentary sense of hatred for Rudolf Jodl, who seemed so full of energy standing there, only because of the Pervitin he was taking, a powerful methamphetamine, which had helped to fuel the entire Blitzkrieg.

Ernst reached inside his mouth and felt his gums, glad that he still had his teeth. He had taken Pervitin for a long time, and then found that he couldn't function well without it, and eventually stopped taking it when he made some serious errors, and when he felt his teeth actually weaken in their sockets. He shuddered, remembering asking a doctor to tie him up for a week so he could clear his system, and then begging and pleading for more Pervitin, and eventually cursing like a common criminal, in the rage of an offended body deprived of its energy. But now Ernst was clear again, and he wondered how much the drug would affect pilots and soldiers on either side of the Atlantic.

"Better stick with coffee" he muttered, as he stumbled back in a groggy stupor to his quarters there on the edge of France, ignoring Goering, knowing that he could ignore Goering, because he was the top ace of the Luftwaffe, and had 23 kills painted on the fuselage of his airplane.

Ernst ached with the pain of months of sleep deprivation, of vibration and relentless progress, and as he sank down into the stone solid comfort of a cot and blanket, he wondered if anyone in the Royal Air Force was as tired as he was. "If they aren't" he groaned to himself, "they will be soon," and he drifted off as the ocean waves crashed not far away on the beaches of Normandy.

\--

George Wallace sat at the small white table in Hastings by the Sea, watching the sleepy town incredulously make its own version of preparations for war. He shook his head as he always did, and shielded his pipe to light it and take in the tobacco and sea salted air in the same breath, and puff away minutes until he decided to read the paper.

Sometimes he looked East across the ocean towards France, and wondered why he was here in England and not buried in Passchendaele or the Somme, with a million other men he left thankfully behind. But generally he just shrugged inwardly, kept himself to himself, and got on with life, thankful for his wife, and how their son Eric had grown up as a fine young man.

George took a sip from his pint of ale, and decided it was time to open the letter from Eric, who had been stationed at an airbase somewhere on the Isle, but owing to secrecy, the exact location not to be revealed. George grunted belligerently. "As if they'd take me for a bleedin spy!" and he opened the letter, proud of his son and hoping against hope that they could keep England from falling into the hands of the bloody Nazis.

Dear Father,

Things are going well at training. I've been building up some hours in Hurricanes. You'd never credit the way that a Hurricane can dive down from the commanding heights where the sun shines – that's a bit of strategy for you –

George grunted, nodding, "I'll be keeping that in mind, I will"

. . . and we do some practice of diving down at a great speed – I'm not supposed to say exactly how fast, but I guarantee you – it's fast. And we do what training we can, getting the feel of the planes, but there's just not enough hours in them before one has to go up in the sky. One lad had a crash – it happens. And no one knows for sure when the first contact will happen, but my bones tell me it will be soon.

"My bones tell me the same thing, lad." said George.

I can't say I understand why Chamberlain or anyone in government could seriously consider making a negotiated peace, but there's talk, almost a fear, that there will be some kind of negotiated peace, that we won't get to meet the enemy and show our mettle. You know, father, I have no thirst for glory – I'm just doing my bit as you did. But I just can't imagine how they could let Hitler get away with taking Europe, and then promising to leave us alone, and expect him not to break a promise.

"No son, Hitler is not so good at keeping promises." Muttered George.

But I've heard that Winston Churchill is putting up a resistance to Chamberlain, and word is going around about that. I don't hope for war, but I don't see how avoiding it will help either. I've no other thoughts for now. Godspeed, Eric.

"And Godspeed to you, my son," said George, and breathed a deep breath, accepting the fact that he may hear again from his son, or never again, that a war may start, and end, or never end, or never begin.

George peered at a shopkeeper, who was carefully laying tape in criss cross patterns on the shop's glass windows, obscuring the toy airplanes that hung in the window on strings. George recalled from his training that the tape was to help prevent shards of glass from flying everywhere in the event of a bomb attack. He remembered Verdun, seeing entire mountains of earth heave suddenly in the air, when neither side had made real progress in the war with millions of lives lost, and resorting to digging tunnels and leaving large amounts of explosives to try and blow the enemy kingdom come from beneath. He shuddered, and peered up at the sky.

"I don't know as a bit of tape is going to do much good," but he accepted that a bomb may not take you out of your misery directly, but might land on a neighbor's house, and why would you want to be walking around with splinters of glass sticking out of you?

And George folded his paper and the letter, and went to get some proper tape for doing up the windows on their home, walking down the cobbled streets of Hastings to their home, and up the steps, where Mrs. Wallace was deadheading some blooming flowers.

"Ah, there you are, now give me that letter from Eric" she said, zeroing in on the envelope and the handwriting she knew so well, and reaching out. George passed the letter to her, and sized her up.

"Now I'm off to the back to put some tape up on the windows, and then I'll be taking car down to the corner to blacken it all down" he said, sighing. "I don't fancy having my headlights reduced to slits or the windows neither, but I guess that keeping the lights down as low as possible will take the fun out of things for the Nazi bombers if they come our way."

George gave her a kiss on the cheek and ambled off.

Elicia Wallace savored the kiss, as much as she had the kiss of her son, and breathed a deep breath, and carried the letter into their home into the kitchen, and set it down on the kitchen table next to the stove. She picked a tin of her special Ceylon tea from the shelf, and treasured the sugar that was soon likely to be rationed, carefully pouring a bit into the porcelain cup her mother had given her. The stove piped up grandly and rose to the occasion of boiling water, and the tea was strong, just the right flavor. She would make an afternoon and evening of it, first with the letter and then maybe a bit of the wireless, some music, a novel from her treasure trove, and then maybe a bit of knitting on the sweater for Eric.

Chapter Five

_BBC News Flash, May 10_ th _, 1940: Churchill takes helm as Germans advance_

German forces have invaded Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg by air and land.

The invasion began at dawn with large numbers of aeroplanes attacking the main aerodromes and landing troops. The Dutch High Commission says more than 100 German planes were shot down by its forces.

In London, it has been announced that Winston Churchill will lead a coalition government after Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain said he was stepping aside.

The first news of the German invasion reached London at dawn. Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax received the Belgian Ambassador and Dutch Prime Minister at 0630 when they formally asked for Allied help.

The invasion had been expected for some time. In a proclamation issued to the German armies in the West, Hitler said: "The hour has come for the decisive battle for the future of the German nation."

Reports from Holland said German troops crossed the border during the night. The Dutch destroyed bridges over the Maas and Ijssel to prevent the German advance.

There were reports of fierce fighting at Rotterdam where German troops were landed by flying-boat. Other planes landed at Waalhaven aerodrome and troops quickly seized control.

This evening German forces are occupying the Maas and Bourse railway stations in Rotterdam. There are conflicting reports about whether they are still in possession of Waalhaven airport.

German reconnaissance planes have been seen flying overhead all day.

British and French troops have moved across the Belgian frontier in response to appeals for reinforcements.

Reports from Belgium say British troops have been enthusiastically received. Their guns have been festooned with flowers and the soldiers plied with refreshments.

In Washington President Franklin Roosevelt was asked at a news conference whether he thought Germany's invasion of the Low Countries would lead to US involvement in the war. He replied that it would not.

George Wallace turned off the BBC broadcast and sighed, lifting some spare change from the dish near the sink so that he could walk down to the corner and get a paper.

"I'm off to get a paper, dear" he said up the stairs.

"Aye then, be sure to get a good pair of gloves while you're out if you still plan to go out boating at all this season. I tried to mend yours and they just didn't take to mending" she called back. And George stared up for a moment, not sure whether Elicia truly comprehended the danger that was massed just across the English Channel, or if she was just being practical, or both. Then he remembered her going around with Mildred Bingham to all the shopkeepers they could interest, with a trove of "Business as Usual" posters that Mildred had brought from London. And he felt a bit of pride in his wife's pugnacity.

George was pleased and then surprised to find a letter from 10 Downing Street in the post, without a name as a return. For a split second he felt a momentary panic that Eric had somehow died, but then he remembered that this kind of notification didn't come from Downing Street, and was often in person or through a telegram at least.

But he sat down, nonetheless, feeling slightly weak. _Steady, there George Wallace, you'll need more mettle than that to make it through this war._ And he realized that the weakness in his knees came not from concern about Eric, but a sense he had about whom the letter was from, and how he was about to be drawn back into the past, whether he would or no.

He took a breath and opened the letter, and knew without looking that it was from Winston Churchill.

Dear George,

_I hope the Spring finds you well. I hear that your son Eric is making a name for himself in the RAF as well. I continue to be thankful for your special service in Ypres with the 6_ th _Royal Scots Fusiliers._

George's eyes unfocused for a moment, as he was drawn back to the 9th circle of hell in December of 1915, and the Christmas Day when Winston Churchill was presented as their new commander, and the way he had unthinkingly yanked Churchill down to avoid a sniper shot, which had come seconds after Churchill had stood on a box that no one had bothered to move, since the last person who'd stood on it had been shot, with their head peeping just inches above the line of the trench. He looked down at the letter.

_So you remember Sir-Archibald, my second in command? Well I'm going to make him Secretary of the Air on May 12_ th _, and I expect by the time you get this letter you have heard that I'll be the new Prime Minister. So raise a glass for me, George._

I'll get right to the point: I know that you are involved in private boating, and know fishermen and owners of pleasure craft all up and down the coast, and frankly there's not enough time to obey the normal forms of courtesy – if you can see the writing on the wall you'll know we may come to disaster in France. And we may wish to have private boaters who may be ready to serve their country in one way or the other, to supplement the Navy in a small but important way. I know you've some influence amongst these folk, so I wondered if you could float the word around, and join the conversation, and help steer it in the right direction.

Yours truly,

Winston Churchill

George drew in his breath and whistled. He blinked and thought for a minute about what it might mean, to go out in a private boat on the Channel, and not to come back. But he was convinced that at this point, they were fighting for their very survival, and that everyone, everyone had to do their bit, or die trying. He breathed deeply again, and set the letter down, and picked up the change, and headed off to buy a newspaper. God only knows what it would say in the headlines.

As he walked through the streets of Hastings, he imagined himself walking once again through the village of Ploegsteert, near the Ypres salient on the Western Front, with the hundreds of thousands of soldiers buried there.

"I wonder what's come of old Plugstreet" he hummed, using the name soldiers had given it. And he couldn't help but wonder whether Hastings or some other town along the coast would become a town of graveyards. George looked at the relative calm around him and wondered what would become of it.

\--

"Thank God it's Saturday!" said Eric to no one in particular, as he came into the barracks to grab his gloves. Emma the mutt raised her head and then put it down again sensibly. He had been terribly frustrated by having to wait for several hours, and not being able to fly the Spitfire that was right in the barracks. Instead he had been assigned one that was to come in fresh from the factory.

He stood expectantly on the airfield, willing the plane to arrive, and eventually he heard the telltale sound, and the plane descended in a graceful arc and rolled to a loud rest in front of him, as crew came out to tend it.

Out stepped a female ferry pilot, and Eric smiled. He had heard of this phenomenon, but hadn't expected to meet it face to face.

"How do you do." Said Eric, to the somewhat disheveled and dashingly pretty pilot, who planted her feet confidently on the ground, and gazed up at him.

"Edith" she said, raising an eyebrow. _Pilots, they're all the same, so eager to fly into the arms of death. I guess I'm not different._

"How is the Women's Auxiliary Force treating you?" Eric asked, not being able to keep his eyes from the plane, or Edith. Tommy and John both looked on, amused.

"Just fine, thank you. I suppose you'll be wanting to know about your plane. Where can a girl get a drink around here?" she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

Eric was momentarily caught off guard, but rose to the occasion. "Well, we can certainly set you up in the officer's mess, and I'd be glad to take you up on your offer."

They walked off towards the officer's mess, and John grinned. "Well that's a sight for sore eyes. I'm sure glad there's female ferry pilots in this war" he said.

"Well just you be careful John" Tommy said, wiping his fingers. "It takes a lot to tear a pilot away from her plane, and Edith Rose is quite a pilot, and so is Eric. So why they are off to have a drink I can't tell, but we best look at this new Spitfire here while we have a chance."

Eric felt his mind divided in several different directions as he talked with Edith in the offer's mess. He was enamored with her for being a pilot, and enjoyed the way that the light glinted in her keen, green eyes, and bounced off her brown hair. He could tell she was tired, but she was animated when talking about the Spit.

"The engine is good and strong in this one." she said proudly. "She's even and consistent at full throttle." and she frowned a bit "although just like the others, when you nose her down too much and apply negative G, the carburetor float in that Merlin engine can stop delivering fuel." Eric nodded, and noticed another pilot quietly listening with rapt attention.

"She's got a Merlin PV-12, right?" asked Eric, trying to think of some way he could find out where she was based, how to get in touch with her.

"That's right, and I inspected the engine from stem to stern and didn't see any issues. I think she'll serve you well." she replied, eyeing the green pilot up and down, envying him for being able to go into combat, and honoring him in the same instant, knowing she might never see him again, even if she wanted to. About the last thing she wanted right now as to get involved with an RAF pilot, but this one seemed a bit different. Something in the poetry of the way he talked, not over-confident, not scared either. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her she knew he was interested – he was an open book. But she liked that, looking at the ruffles in his hair, enjoying the smell of his aftershave, his enthusiasm for knowing the inner workings of the plane. Perhaps it was the wine, or the announcement about today's invasion – she decided life was too short to wait for him to figure out a gallant way to give her some kind of invitation.

"Well you can always find me at this station if you have any questions," and she handed him her card, which she had gone specially to have printed up, proud as a peach.

Edith Rose, WAF Ferry Pilot. Spitfires, Hurricanes.

"Well it's been nice, Eric." She stood up and reached out her hand, and Eric took it, to the envy of ten pairs of eyes throughout the room that followed her movements.

A flash of inspiration by God!

"Well, do you have a way to get back to . . . Vickers?" asked Eric, hoping for an opening.

She smiled, and decided not to mention that she had a motorcycle there at the airfield that another WAF had left for her.

"I was expecting to hitch a ride, but if you're free . . ." she asked, and Eric bowed a slightly. Tommy elbowed John in the corner, and whispered "Now don't you laugh Johnny, their time may be short enough on the earth," and Tommy followed the pair out of the Officer's Mess.

"Master Eric" asked Tommy, catching up to them. "I just fueled up the Silver Ghost, and wondered if you might like to borrow her?" and Eric turned to look, asking, "The Black Ghost?"

And Tommy said, "You know, that special job I've been customizing with one of my crazy experiments" and he winked at Eric.

"Ah yes, the Black Ghost" and Eric gestured to the barn, "Just over here." and when they opened the barn door, Tommy pulled the canvas off a glinting Rolls Royce Phantom III, which he jokingly called the "Colossus of the Roads" after the Greek status Colossus of Rhodes. It lay there gleaming in the half-light and Edith was drawn to it, and she frowned, noticing that something wasn't quite normal about the car. She turned back.

"Has it been banged up in a wreck or something" and Tommy could barely contain a smile and put his finger on his mouth to shush Eric. She walked up to the car, reached over to the switch for the electric light, and non-chalantly opened the oversized, very oversized engine compartment, and she noticed the tires bulging a bit more than was normal. She leaned in closer to the engine, and gasped.

"Well I'll be buried in a biscuit!" she exclaimed, and she turned. "You didn't." and Tommy nodded. "I confess" and he raised his hand.

Edith gazed at the monstrous 12 cylinder Merlin engine, that more rightly belonged in a plane, and had been shoehorned into a car, taking the Phantom III's displacement from 7 liters to 27 liters!

"Is it safe to drive?" she asked. "Is it legal?" she asked in a fainter voice.

"Plenty legal, maam" said Tommy, and Eric gazed at him, always amazed at the surprises Tommy would bring – the fact that he was nobility and chose to be a mechanic, the way he liked working with engines more that hunting fox on his parent's estate, the friends he had at the Vickers/Supermarine plant.

"And never you mind, it wouldn't quite do in an actual Spitfire" he said, patting the Black Ghost affectionately. "The engine had some issues that were beyond risk for a Spit, so I gladly took hold of her and have re-bored and re-fitted her with some features that make her more car-friendly, including a governor on the engine so that no one gets themselves killed unnecessarily."

And Eric opened the door for her. "It's best we be off, if I'm to be back later to fly the Spitfire," and Tommy gave Eric the keys, and waved them off into the Spring day, like a proud uncle. "There goes the future of the country" he said to himself. "May they ever prosper"

The trees flew by, and it was all Eric could do not to press down further on the accelerator, as the engine purred them along the countryside, probably wishing it was in a plane, like a proud racehorse, wanting to be put through its paces.

They enjoyed the sunlight and the beginning of the day, forgetting the war, forgetting the warplanes, and savoring the few moments of adventure. Edith caught covert glances at Eric from time, who seemed lost in thought, but always with a half smile on his face, as they made their way towards the train station.

She stood there on the platform, enjoying the handsome look that Eric wore naturally, with his light coat, and attentive eyes. _Always the eyes dearie, you're a sucker for the eyes_.

She felt her heart wanting to open a little on the one hand, and a voice trying to crowd in that she may yet not ever see this pilot again. Still, she thought, there's nothing wrong with hope. _Edith Rose, this lad looks to be a good one, as good as any other, and maybe a bit better, judging by how warm under the collar you got, prating on about the Spitfire, preening like a schoolgirl at the officer's mess. Best give him a chance. It's the 20_ th _century girl, take his hand by God!_

Edith took his hand, thinking about the impending battles, feeling the texture of his skin, as she sometimes touched the interior of the Spitfire, wondering what would become of them as they passed through her hands.

"Do take care" she said, and gave a gentle salute.

"Will do, my lady" Eric said, and squeezed her hand, thinking how quickly a day could change, like passing clouds, from one shade of light to another, from dark to light and light to dark. He waved her off as the train departed, and thanked his lucky start that he had met at least one girl before he went to face unfriendly skies.

\--

Eric held his breath as he sat in the new Spitfire, ready to fly it for the first time. He went through the startup sequence carefully, searched his perimeter, gave the thumbs up to Johnny and Tommy, and watched Douglas Bader just cresting up into takeoff, who had come back from Duxford to visit Tommy and also to give Eric some pointers on his first flight.

Eric felt a surge of excitement as he started rolling for takeoff, and eased the throttle to give the engine more power, scanning his gauges and the outside in a regular pattern. The fields started rushing by, the plane surged, and eased up into the air with a grace that Eric felt with every fiber.

The flight with Bader was glorious, as they practiced various maneuvers, and gained elevation to practice some dogfighting tactics. From the ground they looked like hawks, chasing each other in the air. Every minute, every moment, Eric was alert, and felt at home in the sky. The Spitfire was a marvelous flying machine, and he was proud to have made it through all the various stages of training. He was not eager to inflict pain or destruction, or to be the target of bullets, but he was eager to do his bit, and it seemed the fit was right. He wondered how he would match up against pilots who had been flying Messerchmitt bf109's since 1938 in the Spanish Civil War.

When they were back on the ground, Douglas seemed to read his mind.

"That was a good flight, Eric" he said, knowing the thoughtful distance that penetrated Eric's excitement. "Remember, when they come for us, we've got the advantage of fighting to defend our homes and the ones we love. There's a fierceness in that." Eric remained silent, searching his mind. "And remember that we'll come up against it ourselves when we have to invade the Continent, and Germany" Douglas looked in Eric's eyes, saw the strength there, and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll see you in Duxford" and walked off, bringing out his pipe, and walking off to the officer's mess.

Eric was still lost in thought when an aide came up to him. "Eric, the commander has an urgent request for you. Come on" and they were off to the Commander's office, who received them with a stern look. "Eric, sit down" he said, and Eric sat down, still glowing from the flight.

"Eric it seems that things are not likely to go well in France, and what I'm about to say is a top secret matter." He paused and survey Eric, who nodded.

"Of course, Commander."

"It seems that within two weeks, we expect the British Expeditionary Force to be overwhelmed, no matter what we do – or we at least need to plan for that eventuality, so the RAF would like to pull some pilots for Channel Duty." he said.

"Channel duty, sir?" asked Eric, not understanding, and the commander sighed, imagining what kind of chaos might envelop the Channel in two week's time, if the fears were true.

"Yes, it seems that if we try to save a portion of the Expeditionary Force, then we need to try and throw all we can afford in air cover to protect them as they try to get back across the Channel" he said, and Eric's mind fixed on the phrase "a portion," and realized that things were going a lot worse than anyone thought, and they had only just started the invasion today.

But he didn't say another word, and stood up, and saluted.

"Sir."

"Moxley will give you your flying orders. Grab your kit, leave the rest to us, and be off in your Spitfire. After a few weeks of Channel Patrol we'll send you on to Duxford"

"Thank you sir" and Eric went out into the night, wondering what the rest of the month of May would bring, for himself, for his plane, for his country.

Chapter Six

The Leader And Supreme Commander Of The Armed Forces.

Headquarters, Berlin. 24th May, 1940. 7 copies

Directive No. 13

1. The next object of our operations is to annihilate the French, English, and Belgian forces which are surrounded in Artois and Flanders, by a concentric attack by our northern flank and by the swift seizure of the Channel coast in this area.

The task of the Air Force will be to break all enemy resistance on the part of the surrounded forces, to prevent the escape of the English forces across the Channel, and to protect the southern flank of Army Group A. The enemy air force will be engaged whenever opportunity offers.

2. The Army will then prepare to destroy in the shortest possible time the remaining enemy forces in France.

3. Tasks Of The Air Force: Apart from operations in France, the Air Force is authorised to attack the English homeland in the fullest manner, as soon as sufficient forces are available. The struggle against the English homeland will be continued after the commencement of land operations.

4. Tasks Of The Navy. All restrictions on naval action in English and French waters are hereby cancelled, and Commanders are free to employ their forces to the fullest extent.

5. I request the Commanders In Chief to inform me, in person or in writing, of their intentions based on this directive.

Adolf Hitler

Hermann Goering waited impatiently, fidgeting, while all his commanders, and all the pilots and officers entered the large briefing room and sat down. What a day! He strolled in at the earliest possible moment and took the stage. When they were finally seated, he began, taking the pointer from a startled aide, and stood in front of the map showing the French coast.

"Achtung!" he exclaimed, and pointed at Dunkirk, that last remaining strength of the Allied forces in Continental Europe. Everyone was deadly silent.

"We will attack on all sides with great strength and fierceness, and concentrate upon Dunkirk and the beaches." and he traced the areas with the pointer. "We will press in upon the narrow exit, both from the east and from the west, firing with cannon on the beaches which is the only way for shipping to approach or depart."

He pointed to the English Channel. "We have sowed magnetic mines in the channels and seas, and we will send repeated waves of hostile aircraft to attack the single pier that remains, and on the sand dunes where the troops will try to shelter. We will also send U-boats of course."

He looked up and felt the contained excitement of his commanders, who dared not utter a word. They knew every detail of the plans.

"We must hurl all our armored divisions, infantry and artillery against Dunkirk."

Ernst Grunen watched from the back of the room, bored, but knowing that to show his boredom now could result in complications, so he kept his eyes open, and pretended to be interested. He felt the dust of his uniform, the heat, and the uneasiness of his stomach, a mixture of weariness and stress, and excitement in combat that had rolled into an unending blur. Sitting on the fixed, solid ground, he felt that speeches and human interaction had a surreal, dreamlike quality, compared to the split second decisions of pulling a trigger or moving the control stick, or pointing out the enemy. He looked over at Rudolf Jodl and felt only revulsion, for his slick backed hair, his avid hatred of the enemy, for his blind faith in the Nazi party.

Am I disloyal? Ernest asked himself this, over and over again. I swore an oath to the Fatherland. But to Hitler, who appears to be a raving maniac? Or Goering, who appears to be on fire all the time, any less a maniac? Does anyone sense my lack of loyalty, do they even care, as long as I keep shooting down British planes?

Ernst tried not to think about the possibility of Rudy entering the war, because that made things more personal. But the more that the Luftwaffe owned the skies over Europe, the less confident he felt in the honor of their mission. Were they defending the Fatherland? Clearly not.

He was used to the life of being a soldier, a pilot, obeying orders and plans as they were handed down. And he kept returning to that familiar stream, plunging back into it to pass each day. But somehow as the number of kills he made increased, it became harder to plunge back into that stream. He wondered to himself, what will it be like when we fight more actively over the Channel, and over England? _The pilots will be fighting to the death for their homeland. We are expanding our Empire at this point._

He thought dreamily of the County Fair in America, and the peaceful way that the biplane had glided through the air, free of guns, just giving people rides. _I would like to be a pilot like that,_ he thought, _if I survive this war._ He realized for the first time that he had doubts about his survival, or his will to survive, and that he felt caught, in a way. And he knew that this kind of doubt could be deadly. And he didn't care.

\--

At 10 Downing Street, on Saturday, May 25th, 1940, Winston Churchill sat in a heavy atmosphere of gloom in the Cabinet room, with various aides and attendants and soldiers quietly coming in and out, laying down papers, as the War Cabinet deliberated and discussed the situation at Dunkirk.

An aide was reading a report, and Churchill watched intently, noticing a senior general with his head buried in his hands after a night without sleep, and an RAF commander who looked rather pale. Everyone looked very grim. Winston felt grim, listening.

"The Rifle Brigade, the 60th Rifles, and the Queen Victoria's Rifles, with a battalion of British tanks and 1,000 Frenchmen, in all about four thousand strong, are defending Calais to the last. The British Brigadier was given an hour to surrender. He spurned the offer, and we are seeing days of intense street fighting."

Winston waved his hand. "That will be enough for the moment on Calais." He looked around the room. "Are we resolved about Dunkirk?"

A general spoke up. "We must evacuate". There were nods.

"So be it." And the order was generated and sent off.

He lit a cigar, swirled a cup of brandy, and hoped that at least some soldiers would survive the full weight of the German Army being thrown at it. He looked out a slit in the blackened windows at the streets of London, wondering how long it would be - weeks, months? - before the city would be the subject of intense bombardment.

\--

George Wallace stood up in the wee hours of the Monday morning, before a gathering of grim coastal seamen and boat owners, fathers, sons, brothers, all waiting for him to speak, all knowing what was coming. "Lads, the official request has come through, and they're calling it Operation Dynamo." He looked around the room, and saw determination, fear, courage, misgiving, pugnacity, defiance scattered on various weathered faces and some younger ones too – fathers, sons, brothers.

"Now I know some of you same as I have blood kin in the Armed Forces already, and before this war is over, more of us are likely to be involved officially, and this is probably where it starts." George took his hat off, folded it, held it, squeezing.

"Now me own son Eric is in the RAF, and yours and others like him will be out trying to help us the best they can. The situation is mighty grim in France right now, and at this point, any soldiers that we can manage to get back alive is one more soldier that can defend our homes, and wives, and children, and families."

A young hand rose up timidly.

"Yes Christopher, what's your question?" and the young man looked around, swallowed, coughed, and asked, "Well sir, so you're sure there's nothing in sticking together so to speak, with strength in numbers, all in a mass? That'd feel so much better" he said, and there were some grunts, voices of approval.

"Why yes, Christopher, by God I'd certainly be glad to have you right near me as any others of you, but we'd just end up making for easier targets, so you just need to think of them soldiers. We get in our boats, we hope or pray for the best, and then we try to get home."

A representative from Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay stood up, who was sitting next to George. George nodded.

"I want to thank you all on behalf of the Prime Minister, and I want to make a personal suggestion." The Navy representative looked with roving eyes that somehow contained compassion and steel in equal measure. George looked down at his feet.

"I know that some of you have been in combat in the Great War, two decades ago, and some of you have never been in combat before, and I think it's best to face the truth in this situation. I want to invite you to have hope, but also to face the worst case scenario. I want to invite you to accept that you're already dead." He said, and a there were a few surprised looks, but not from among those who had been in the Great War.

"True enough lads, and I'd second that notion." George sighed, thinking of Elicia. "Now there's nothing wrong with hope, but we can't really pretty up the situation. We've all got chances of getting in and out, but we're also going into a difficult situation. And when the firing and the bombing start – if we already accept death, then it will be easier to face those bloody German bastards." He looked solemn, still squeezing his hat. His voice wanted to break, but he knew he could help by being strong.

"Now as for me, I plan to go home to my dear Elicia, and make the best of what we have, and to enjoy each minute, and to get some my affairs in order, same as I did before I left for the Western Front." And he looked up into their searching eyes. "And I'll say one thing right here – I happened to be in the trenches with Winston Churchill, and I knows that he's got metal in him, he's got what it takes to stand up to Hitler, and I will follow that man wherever he leads us." There were some nods of approval, and a sense of defiance was in the room. George looked right at Christopher.

"Now it would be foolish to think you should not fear. Lord knows I've got fear. But courage is the choice to act in spite of that fear. Bravery is the choice to do our bit. And those lads over in France are getting hammered, and we need to help them." He was silent for a moment. No one seemed to want to break the silence.

"Any questions" George asked. There were none.

The representative from the Navy looked out into the room, humbled and with some hope.

We need all these shallow draught vessels be included for the operation, and here answering the call to aid are fishing boats, fire ships, paddle steamers, private yachts, and Belgian barges. Now the hopes of all the trapped Allied soldiers rest on this ragtag fleet, some of which will come from as far as the Isle of Man and the West Country.

\--

Eric lifted into the air from the early morning mist to join his temporary squadron for Channel patrol, and Clive Etheridge was their wing commander. Clive was generally quiet, a bit high-strung and somewhat unpredictable. Today he seemed as cool as a cucumber.

"Remember, above all else, we must stick together as best we can. Today is likely to get very messy, but try to stick with your squadron, and remember to break away straight."

Eric looked down at the English coast, as they passed above it, feeling highly alert.

"Now it's been secret, but I'm authorized to tell you that we captured a bf109 this past November, and the Spitfire is the best match at a lower altitude of around 4,000 feet, so we're pretty sure the Spit will do well in medium altitudes in a turning fight. We'll be coming in at a fairly high elevation initially, but you'll always need to watch for the bf109's trying to come at your from the sun. If you remember one thing, remember not to fly in a straight line, and remember to fire in short bursts."

Clive Etheridge thought of his collection of green pilots, sensing that the losses would probably be heavy. He decided not to even mention the concept of watching the fuel gauge. Better not add any more worries. _The ones that survive will survive, in our first significant contact with the Luftwaffe._

Eric continued to scan the horizon, and gradually the distant light of explosions were visible. A flotilla of boats was streaming across the Channel, the RAF and Luftwaffe were essentially converging on a single point, but there would be patrols everywhere.

_Just do one thing at time_. Eric told himself. He reached inside his leather jacket and rubbed the small medallion around his neck, which his father had given him the last time they were together, which had a simple engraving of a dragonfly set in pewter.

"2 o'clock high!" Clive exclaimed over the radio, and the melee began, as a swarm of bf 109's screamed down towards them, as they went through defensive maneuvers. Eric swerved off to the right, and he felt the airframe shudder, and dimly felt it take several bullets. He dived and hotly pursued a bf109, twirling, swimming in the air, trying to calculate its next movement.

"Eric, 9 o'clock dive!" and Eric glanced to his left and dived just in time to miss a fusillade from two bf 109's working in tandem. He regained site of his prey and continued the chase, and reminded himself to think like a hawk, riding the wind, thinking ahead of the next plane. Instead of following the plane in front of him, he broke away from his chase, circled around, and intercepted it in a swirling arc, waiting for the convergence point, taking a wild guess, and letting off a burst as her neared to within 200 yards.

His arc allowed him to let off another burst before breaking away, and he could see an orange ball of flame engulf the plane. He continued a corkscrew pattern, and saw more activity directly below, as the melee began working itself down towards the surface of the ocean.

Split second passed into second, second passed into minute, and all around was orange and red fire, black smoke, the ferocious roar of machine guns, and explosions of every variety.

A huge ball of fire opened up in front of Eric as he saw two planes collide, and he pulled for all he was worth to try to avoid the expanding ball of fire, and the mid-air wreckage flying in every direction. A piece of metal glanced off the cockpit and something had touched his propellers, but he was able to evade the worst of it, and he kept on scanning.

Looking below in a half second of calm, he noticed the line of boats underneath him, and now that he was close enough to see better, it looked like a methodical group of dive bombers and bf109s were working their away along the flotilla. Of course! Engage the Spitfires up above, and harry the boats below.

"I'm hit! Bailing out!" someone screamed over the coms, and there were various scattered communications. The formations had broken up, and the Luftwaffe and RAF planes were nested in a turning, whirling vortex of fire and steel, like a tornado from the underworld.

"Clive I'm going down to help the boats!" Eric piped in, not thinking of how many planes were down there.

"I'll join you!" said Clive. "I've got you in visual range, approaching on right"

And the two dived in a sweeping arc down towards a concentration of boats that were being preyed upon by dive bombers. Explosions dotted the ocean, but mostly the planes were strafing.

"Look out!" said Clive, as two bf109's in escort came in from their rear. Eric looked at Clive's plane breaking away and before his eyes it exploded as another set of bf 109's concentrated their fire. Eric continued his corkscrew pattern down as several Spits engaged the escort, and he dimly felt that one Spit followed him down to engage the German formation that was harrying the flotilla directly.

Eric had no idea of the way to take on a dozen planes at once but he figured that a mad corkscrew dash between a portion of them might serve, with a rapid turn to pull away in another direction.

"Engaging raiders of flotilla. Mad corkscrew dash through the lot of them and breaking away after engaging 4!" he said to no one in particular.

"Roger that" said a voice on the intercom. "I'm at your right wing and will do my best to follow and break away. My names Nigel, by the way"

And Eric and Nigel bore in on the planes attacking the flotilla and swerved in on the edge, concentrating their fire on a plane going away from them, bringing it down, and then breaking into separate corkscrew patterns. At this point Eric was letting out short bursts everywhere, dimly remembering to try not to fire downward at the boats. He tried to think of himself like a hawk, and firing wildly whenever there was enough concentration of more than one German plane close enough, as they swirled around each other.

"Break!" he said after 10 seconds, and Eric and Nigel broke away, both returning in mad dashes and bounds back to the point where they had begun, feinting, fighting, taking fire, gaining altitude when they had a chance. Nigel's plane went down in a burst of flames and Eric sighted more Spits joining their patch of ocean.

\--

George Wallace watched the carnage unfold before him grimly, and kept his eyes focused on the last remaining Pier in Dunkirk, which seemed to draw the brunt of all the bombardment from artillery and planes. He knew it was hopeless to try and evade a direct attack from a strafing plane, and so far he had been strafed once, but a Spitfire had engaged at the last moment and thrown his attacker off.

Boats had been sunk by every way imaginable, by uBoats, or dive bombers. But the flotilla kept on coming, dispersed, and their sheer numbers and small size were an advantage in some ways. George was glad that his boat was painted dark.

Then George had a slightly sad feeling, and clenched the helm of his boat. He thought in a fleeting instant. _It must be that my battle instincts are rearing up again, the same ones that could help me hear artillery on the Western Front, and know whether I'm a goner by the way the shell sounds when its coming in. Well Elicia, Eric, this is it. God be with you._

And a tremendous explosion heaved up the boat George was on, and when he landed, broken, he was conscious on the surface of the water for a few moments. All he felt was pride, as he looked up at the RAF fighting the Germans as best they could, and glanced at his fellow merchant seamen who were still going. _I go to a watery grave with pride, my son and countrymen._

\--

The next day, Winston Churchill sat in the Cabinet Room, listening to the news at Dunkirk.

"Day One, Sir, Monday, we got out about 7,700 men" the aide reported, and Winston was thinking about the other several hundred thousand stranded there. He sighed.

"And the numbers today?" Winston asked, wearily, looking at the aide.

"About 16,000 sir, and many vessels sunk." said the aide, as the commanders and leaders around the table absorbed the numbers.

Winston Churchill looked at the RAF commander.

"We lost 177 planes sir, and we think we shot down about 132 Jerries" said the commander.

"Don't look so dejected." Said Winston, taking a puff on the cigar. If we've been outnumbered 4 to 1, and our green lads are fighting against some who have been in combat since 1938, then I'll take those numbers as a good sign." He looked around in the gloomy faces, and sighed.

"But true enough, we should continue to throw everything we've got at evacuating those men, but I suppose I should also set a date for the possibility of announcing a military disaster." He waved at another aide. "Get me a time to make a speech a week from now, and I'll report to the British people on whatever happens." He looked around the table.

"What are we hoping for, lads. Out of 400,000 soldiers, can we say, 20 or 30 thousand?" he asked, into the silence. Some grim nodding.

"So be it." And Winston Churchill puffed on his cigar. _The whole root and core and brain of the British Army, on which and around which we were to build, the great British Armies in the later years of this war, seem about to perish upon the field or to be led into an ignominious and starving captivity_

He stamped his fist on the table, startling the commanders, and growled _._

I hope to God there is a miracle, and if not, then we will die to every last man and child defending these shores.

Chapter Seven

June 4, 1940

Speech given to the House of Commons by Winston Churchill

When, a week ago today, I asked the House to fix this afternoon as the occasion for a statement, I feared it would be my hard lot to announce the greatest military disaster in our long history. I thought-and some good judges agreed with me-that of 400,000 perhaps only 20,000 or 30,000 men might return.

The enemy attacked on all sides with great strength and fierceness, and their main power, the power of their far more numerous Air Force, was thrown into the battle or else concentrated upon Dunkirk and the beaches.

Pressing in upon the narrow exit, both from the east and from the west, the enemy began to fire with cannon upon the beaches by which alone the shipping could approach or depart. They sowed magnetic mines in the channels and seas; they sent repeated waves of hostile aircraft, sometimes more than a hundred strong in one formation, to cast their bombs upon the single pier that remained, and upon the sand dunes upon which the troops had their eyes for shelter.

Their U-boats, one of which was sunk, and their motor launches took their toll of the vast traffic which now began. For four or five days an intense struggle reigned. All their armored divisions-or what was left of them-together with great masses of infantry and artillery, hurled themselves in vain upon the ever-narrowing, ever-contracting appendix within which the British and French Armies fought.

Meanwhile, the Royal Navy, with the willing help of countless merchant seamen, strained every nerve to embark the British and Allied troops; 220 light warships and 650 other vessels were engaged. They had to operate upon the difficult coast, often in adverse weather, under an almost ceaseless hail of bombs and an increasing concentration of artillery fire. Nor were the seas, as I have said, themselves free from mines and torpedoes.

It was in conditions such as these that our men carried on, with little or no rest, for days and nights on end, making trip after trip across the dangerous waters, bringing with them always men whom they had rescued. The numbers they have brought back are the measure of their devotion and their courage. The hospital ships, which brought off many thousands of British and French wounded, being so plainly marked were a special target for Nazi bombs; but the men and women on board them never faltered in their duty.

The Royal Air Force engaged the main strength of the German Air Force, and inflicted upon them losses of at least four to one; and the Navy, using nearly 1,000 ships of all kinds, carried over 335,000 men, French and British, out of the jaws of death and shame, to their native land and to the tasks which lie immediately ahead.

A miracle of deliverance, achieved by valor, by perseverance, by perfect discipline, by faultless service, by resource, by skill, by unconquerable fidelity, is manifest to us all.

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.

The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

President Roosevelt sat in the Oval Office, and finished reading the words of Winston Churchill's speech, from the transcription of the telegram. He adjusted his glasses, and looked out the window onto the White House lawn, and muttered a silent thanks under his breath, for the miracle that had just happened at Dunkirk.

"Take this over to the Chief of Staff" he said, and handed the papers to a secretary.

"Mr. President, a representative from the upcoming election campaign is waiting." the secretary said, eyeing him. He waved absently "Yes, yes, just give me five minutes".

He sighed and re-arranged some papers on his desk. He felt privately sympathetic to the British, and he regretted having to turn down Winston Churchill's repeated pleas for help. The American public would not support it, he would lose the election, and he would lose his ability to help thereafter. But the words of Winston Churchill's telegram from May 10th stuck with him, the day he was appointed Prime Minister; he had left it sitting right there on his desk. He picked it up and looked at it again. _If necessary, we shall continue the war alone and we are not afraid of that. But I trust you realize, Mr. President, that the voice and force of the United States may count for nothing if they are withheld too long. You may have a completely subjugated, Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear._

President Roosevelt set the telegram down again, not seeing how England could survive.

\--

A few days later, Rudy sat in his parents' farmhouse in Iowa, reading the newspaper with an account of Churchill's speech to the House of Commons. He felt thankful that so many Allied soldiers had been spared, and he felt anger at the Isolationist sentiment in America. He threw down the paper.

"Dad blam it, what in the hell are we going to do, just sitting here on our, gosh Dang it!" and he pounded the kitchen table, sending his plate skittering, and his glass nearly fell off onto the floor, but he reached around to catch it at the last moment.

"That does it!" he exclaimed, and grabbed his jacket, and stormed out of the house, got in the pickup truck, and drove off, leaving a trail of dust. _I'm going to find a way to get to England, and I'm going to start the process today._

As he drove along the country roads, he calmed down somewhat, and he wondered what his cousin Rudy was doing, whether he had participated in the Battle of Dunkirk. He felt terrible about how the war pitched country against country, family against family. He thought of how difficult it would be for his parents to run things without him, about the harvest, and Bessie, and he pounded the steering wheel.

And he thought about how England was left all alone, how Hitler would never stop until he ruled the entire world. And he kept on driving.

\--

Eric woke up in a hospital bed, surprised. His mother was there, wearing black, and he sat up, wincing, as she started to cry. "Mother, I'm ok, what's wrong?" And he reached out to take her hand.

"Oh Eric! It's your dad. He died in the Dunkirk evacuation." She said, grasping his hand. "And I was somewhat prepared for that, and I had a day or two to deal with the shock. And when the government representatives came up again to our door, it was all I could do to keep standing!" and she burst into tears again, hugging him. "Oh Eric, your dad's gone."

The shock and the medication he was on dulled his senses, but he held on to his mother, and in the middle of the huge hollow place in his heart, he felt some pride. It was almost eclipsed entirely by the pain, the roaring ache in his heart. But it was still there.

I love you, dad

I love you too, son

Eric was not surprised at the reply, and realized he must be on morphine. He had no recollection of a crash, and even remembered a return trip and a landing, but nothing more than that. He looked over to the other side of the bed and saw Edith there, who was quiet. "Are you real?" he asked, reaching out. "I remember you . . ."

"Hello Eric" she said, taking his hand. "It's nice to see you. You had quite a tumble."

Eric realized he should be feeling fear and wondering what kind of injuries he had sustained, and he didn't feel anything physically, so he asked.

"So what happened to me? I can't feel a thing." And he detached his arms and was try to tap and pinch himself.

"Well Eric, you managed to get back to the airbase, but then passed out when you got there, and that's probably good, because you had already lost a lot of blood by the time you arrived. Everything is intact, but you had some burns on your leg." She said, and she wondered if she had said too much. Eric looked down at his legs, and thought of his father, and wanting to get back into the air.

"How long before I fly again?" he asked.

"Well they're not sure, but while your burns were painful, they were only superficial thankfully, so it's basically as soon as you're up for it – if you're up for it." she said, conscious of Eric's mother still crying softly. Eric thought about his mother, and the loss of his father, and what his father was fighting for, and how the only thing keeping Hitler from invading was the RAF.

"No, I'll best be in the air as soon as I bloody well can" he said.

\--

At the memorial service, a procession of black cars pulled up on the road by the small church in the parish at Carleton Coville – government cars, a protective detail, and the passengers got out to help the prime minister slip into the back pew during the service. They did it quietly, and no one noticed until after the service. An aide came up to Eric and Mrs. Wallace, and asked them quietly "I'm sorry for your loss, Ma'am. If you are feeling well enough to come outside and could spare a moment, the Prime Minister would like to speak with you, and also with your son. He served with George in the Great War, in France."

Mrs. Wallace looked a bit stunned, but nodded, and Eric followed the aide, who led them out to the car, as the government detachment was readying to depart, and opened the door to the main car. "If you'd be so kind as to spare five minutes" he said, and motioned them in.

Winston Churchill sat in the car, stifling his annoyance at how much of a row he had caused in breaking away from 10 Downing Street, and even having to raise his voice to aides and military personnel. The war could wait for a few hours, it will be there when we get back.

He watched the young RAF pilot get in the car with his mom, and looked into Eric's eyes, seeing curiosity, and the look he knew so well from his own time in the War – not so much a look, as an absence of light. He hoped the light would return again. He held an envelope in his hand, and extended his other hand to Eric.

"I apologize for these tight quarters, and I'm very sorry for your loss, for the both of you." he said, and they nodded and thanked him.

"As you know, I served with George in the Great War, and what you probably don't know is that we had a kind of agreement, between gentlemen, between a few of us who were in the 6th Royal Scots Fusiliers." He looked in their faces and saw blankness. Very well.

"So the agreement that we made, was that if any of us didn't make it back, so to speak, that the others would look in on the others' families from time to time, and do what we could do to help, that is, if we ourselves made it back. And it was an informal thing, but George gave it a name, and he called it the Order of the Dragonfly." And Winston Churchill handed Eric the envelope.

"Here, Eric, is an envelope, with my card, and some notes that George sent me about the Order of the Dragonfly. All the others have passed on, and you are to carry the torch forward, so to speak".

"Carry the torch, sir?" asked Eric, a little dazed.

"Well, you know how your father is, and I expect you've inherited at least some of his mettle from what I hear. Even though the Order of the Dragonfly was informal in our time, he said that it was his hope that it would be passed down, and developed into something that could be shared in your family, and also shared with others."

"Shared with others, sir?" asked Eric, not comprehending. Winston Churchill sighed, and looked at his watch.

"Well unfortunately I'm rather limited in time, but none of us knows what the future will bring, and I wanted to be sure to deliver this envelope in person. I can supplement it with some more conversation in London if you'd care to visit me at some point." And he looked at Eric's mother, and the both of them.

"And I want to extend my special thanks for all that the pilots of the RAF are doing." and Eric saw the sincerity in his face, and the weight of the war weighing down on it, and the steel and the defiance and courage inside, and his heart warmed.

"Thank you very much sir" he said. "And also for taking the time to visit, and to pass this along."

"And be careful and vigilant in the skies, young man." He said, and a slight smile came across his face, as he leaned in a bit. "And don't keep that young lady waiting too long" Then he motioned for the attendant to open the door, and he enjoyed the surprised look on Eric's face, as they ushered him back towards the church.

Winston lit a cigar, and puffed it on the way back to London, thankful that he had made it out of the trenches of France alive, thankful for the sacrifice of his countrymen, and thankful for the pilots of the RAF.

I hope that lad survives the war, to carry on his father's fancy.

_Liberet et Defendat_ , indeed. And he took out his pocket watch, and looked at the faded inscription on it, and the inlaid form of a small dragonfly, etched in the cover.

Chapter Eight

I am a grim gargoyle looking down upon the courtyard, centuries of students strolling in and out among the ivy covered walls, taking tomes to town and drinking down the barrel dregs of toasts to former times they fly to. I call forth the myth makers! Where are the seedling souls to sow rebellion, sparking, flaming, flying! Waving word swords forward, reaping flames in stone cold halls of self-absorption, setting minds on fire!

Most are scattered into graves by war, or worry living lives of quiet desperation delving down devoid of light, hidden there by bushel-weres, barrow-wights to tame the fevered fear of failure, talents tinder-dry to touch. Know thy gifts, you sleeping Kings and Queens, which heap like coals upon thy heads of wealth and comfort as the kingdom falls to ruin round you.

It is a tree-storm drawing nigh, which yearns to sink its roots into the disappearing past, and stretches for the sun to father futures filled with family.

Eric set down his fountain pen, struggling to find a way to honor the comrades he had lost, wondering how to capture the precious gifts they had to give to the world while they were still alive, and their lives snuffed out in an instant act of courage in the skies. He yearned to return to Oxford to his studies there, and wished the war had never happened, that the skies were not beckoning to him whenever he walked outside.

He looked around the hospital ward, cursing the infection that had taken root in his burns and sent him back to the hospital, and growing ever more irritated as the morphine slowly wore away from his system as they weaned him off of it. He was anxious, bursting for his ride to arrive, so thankful and humbled that his injuries were no deeper than the superficial burns he'd gained. The nurses quietly made their rounds, talking to soldiers and pilots, and the immensity of the price that would be paid for decades to come borne in upon Eric, pressing him down.

In anger, he walked around the grounds, cursing inwardly, cursing Hitler, cursing and blessing his father for being a courageous fool, cursing himself for being a courageous fool, wondering if the loss of so many men and women had made much of a difference.

He sat down on a bench, clutching his bag, no longer feeling the pain that throbbed at his shins where the bandages hung round tenaciously. He noticed a newspaper lying there, and spat on it, and breathed, and then calmed. He looked over, wary, and then took a deep breath, and picked it up. "The Bloody Miracle of Dunkirk" he muttered, and threw the paper down again.

A brightly-painted Austin Healey and a similarly garish MG pulled up to the drive in front of the hospital, and Eric's heart warmed a bit as he saw his mates from Oxford who had been in the RAF, come to take him for a visit back to the University.

"How do you do sir." asked Edgar Kain out of the front window, motioning for Eric to come over. "Let's get to it, shall we?" Richard Hillary, from Australia, was also there.

Eric felt better just being away from the hospital, hopefully for the last time, but he was fretting over his buttons on the clasp on his coat, muttering. Edgar and Richard looked back at Eric and looked at each other, and kept quiet.

"How are things, old boy?" said Edgar after a few minutes. "Ready for a jaunt up to Oxford?"

"Quite." said Eric, wondering if he really was, wondering if he could ever go back to University after the war. Eric looked at Edgar, and wondered how the war had worn on him.

"Edgar, Richard, I can't say I really know how things have gone for you, can you fill me in?"

"Well, Richard ended up going to 603 City of Edinburgh Squadron, and a bunch of us flying for the first time together were sent to France."

"Edgar is being a bit modest" said Richard, looking in the back and jerking his thumb at Edgar. "This here bloke claimed his first Dornier Do17 bomber in November, and took care of another Do17 just fifteen days later." Richard huffed, and Edgar drove on.

"And he's chalked up another 17 confirmed victories just prior to our little jaunt up to Oxford" said Richard, and became quiet again. Being among the company of brother pilots on holiday felt a bit surreal to Eric, as if their real life was in the sky, and wondering how real their life on the ground had become. Sometimes it felt like slow motion, and he was still getting used to switching back and forth, from being on duty, to off duty.

As the afternoon wore on, eventually they came to the stretch of the Thames river, Eric's favorite part of Oxford, between Folly Bridge and Iffley Lock, and Eric felt some of the scars of war ease into place above his wounds, remembering the sense of home he had felt at Oxford, and afraid of returning to a love of the area.

"Knowing as how you like your letters Eric" said Richard, "We've cooked up a literary lunch for you – well a rather late lunch." he said, looking at his watch. "We're to raise a glass with a few Oxford dons, courtesy of a friend who once studied with them – John Tolkien from Pembroke College and Clive Lewis of Magdalen". Eric had heard about these dons, and his hope had been to study with one or other of them, before the war drew him away.

"I daresay Tolkien is an expert in Anglo-Saxon literature and languages, yes?" asked Eric, wondering how the myths of Nordic and Saxon cultures had shaped the peoples of Germany and England, even the very soldiers who were now in pitched battles with each other.

"Yes, that's Tolkien" said Richard. "Lewis is a Tutor in English Literature."

"And they both survived World War One." said Edgar, "They were both in the Somme."

They rode on in silence, thinking about the last war, and the current one, and Eric was glad that some literary minds had survived the war. He hoped they would survive this war too, and teach and write and inspire new generations.

Then Edgar turned to Eric.

"I'm very sorry, Eric, to hear about your dad. It was a tight nip over there, and we've all the scars to prove it." Eric nodded, silent.

"The thing we thought you'd like is that Tolkien contributed to a new edition of Beowulf and he's to bring it to the pub" and Eric was intrigued in spite of himself at the thought of re-entering the Old English poem Beowulf, threads of his mind long dormant arising from the incessant training and fire and blood and death. He realized that he now had life experience, against which to measure the literature and poetry he loved. It was no longer a boyhood escape, but somehow deeper, recognizing the long arc of history and the swift short precious passing of life, like words on a page.

They parked the cars and the friends went this way and that, seeping out into Oxford, while Eric, Edgar and Richard made their way to the pub. Eric looked at the sign, "The Eagle and the Child", and saw the fire and light and life within, and realized that he was feeling somewhat alive again. However long or short life is, it's worth living.

"Ok lads, thank you for your kindness, we won't need to take long here, I know you're not so much into Literature, but at least let me buy you a drink." And the pilots went into the pub.

They came up to a table where several professor-looking types were sitting, and Richard nodded to his friend, and then said, "Mr. Tolkien, let me introduce a couple of my mates from the RAF, who are on leave and wanted to visit back to Oxford – Edgar Kain, and Eric Wallace." And several gentlemen rose from the table, setting down their ale, and came around to say hello.

Eric looked at Tolkien, who had a friendly face, wearing a comfortable jacket and tie, who cradled a pipe in one hand. He looked at the expressions of the men around him, and the people in the pub, who had grown a shade quieter. And he realized with a shock that the mood in the room was pride. And he stood a little bit straighter, in the company of men who had served in the last war and had stood up in respect of their own sacrifice. There was no light of glory or zeal on their eyes, no retelling what the horrors of the Trenches. There was only silent appreciation.

"Pleased to meet you." said Eric.

They spent a few pleasant hours talking with the professors, about literature, and Anglo-Saxon tales and language, and when Clive Lewis offered him a pipe, Eric lit it up and enjoyed blowing a few smoke rings, there amidst the deep brown wood, and lively talk, with the scent of leather and even the feel of a sheaf of papers was pleasant, which Tolkien had passed along for him to read, comments he had made for the new edition of the translation of the Old English poem Beowulf, an epic if there ever was one.

At the urging of another professor Charles Williams, Tolkien spoke of a set of stories he was working on, and how Beowulf had influenced them, about a ring of power, and a struggle between good and evil. They talked on into the evening about fairy tales, Norse and general Germanic mythology, and also Celtic, Slavic, Persian, Greek, and even Finnish mythology.

On their way back from Oxford, somewhat light-headed, Eric was thankful for his friends' kindness, and he realized that he was going through a process of inner healing, finding the person he had left behind when he became a soldier, starting over again, some things the same and some things different.

He felt himself develop a sense of identity, one that could outlive the war, and come back with him if he did make it back from the skies, but also in the legacy of that service.

_Liberet et Defendat_. He felt a sense of kinship with warriors of long ago, and the myths, but also the paradox of defense – valor not for the sake of glory on a battlefield – but for the sake of rescuing and defending the ones I love dear.

_That's how I will appropriate the myths_ , he thought.

He had a glimpse of a possible future, where peace might return to the world, but where there was still darkness, and calamity, and where there would be a need for those to face it, whatever form it took.

_I dare not become too attached to the vision_ , he said to himself, as he was brought back into the present by the reality of the skies he would need to face the next day, and the day after that. _Too much caution, too much attachment to the earth and I will make mistakes in the air and be unwilling to risk everything._

He carefully wrapped the vision in his heart, and stored it away for safe-keeping.

May I live to see the day when it is realized.

\--

Several days later, Eric was shocked, and not shocked, to hear that Edgar had been killed in an accident. Edgar "Cobber" Kain was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, and as Eric stood before the gravestone of his fallen comrade on leave from the squadron, against his better judgment, he brought out the vision from hiding.

"Here you go, Edgar" said Eric, and set a small pewter dragonfly on the gravestone to watch over Edgar. "You are hereby inducted into the Order of the Dragonfly, and I raise it up in your honor. I pledge to write poems, and to live a live worth of the motto. Rescue and Defend, brother, and perhaps I will see you on the other side."

And Eric walked back to the waiting car, willing the councils of war to be wise, in their plans and decisions, and hoping that peace would come again someday.

Chapter Nine

United States Naval Expansion Act, 14 June 1940

Washington D.C.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That the authorized composition of the United States Navy in under-age vessels as established by the Act of May 17, 1938 (52 Stat. 401), is hereby further increased by one hundred and sixty-seven thousand tons, as follows:

(a) Aircraft carriers, seventy-nine thousand five hundred tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of two hundred and fifty-four thousand five hundred tons.

(b) Cruisers, sixty-six thousand five hundred tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of four hundred and seventy-nine thousand and twenty-four tons.

(c) Submarines, twenty-one thousand tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of one hundred and two thousand nine hundred and fifty-six tons.

President Frederick Delano Roosevelt stopped reading the Naval Expansion Act, and tried to see into the future. He looked over at the sculpture of George Washington in the Oval Office.

"We ask ourselves, what would George do?" The sculpture did not respond.

FDR lit a cigar, and thought of Winston Churchill, and knew what Winston would want him to do – commit the U.S. irrevocably to the War. At least he had been able to get an act going to modernize the U.S. Navy. He still kept a special neat pile of telegrams from Winston Churchill and continued to shoo away secretaries who tried to remove them to make room for other papers. Finally they had given up and the pile of papers had gotten its own organizing box. FDR gazed at the box and thought of how it represented England, with the newspaper discussing the fall of France. Underneath the newspaper was a small memo detailing how England and France had been purchasing 90% of American aircraft production. And sitting on the desk today was a newspaper article discussing the war materiel and other goods that were starting to stream towards England in force.

Let's face it, America is already starting to enter the war.

\--

Rudy Mitchell stepped out of the taxi at the RAF base at Biggin Hill, clutching a simple bag with some of his things, and a small suitcase. The journey by sea to England had been eventful, with the sinking of several other ships in the convoy he was part of by German U-boats. Rudy had somehow managed to get their Congressional representative from Iowa to make a call to the British Embassy, and Rudy's first stop had been to Washington D.C., to volunteer for the RAF, present his credentials, get authorization, and find passage on a merchant vessel bound for England.

The farewells had been tearful, but Rudy was bursting to be involved and would not be swayed. He still remembered the resignation on his mother's face, and the pride in his father's. Both had been tearful when they had dropped him off at the bus station, and he'd asked Bessie not to come. Her picture felt warm in his shirt pocket, as he looked at his new surroundings, the similarities to America, the differences.

Only hours later, after setting his bag down, he was invited to an informal meeting in the officer's mess by the squadron commander.

Rudy came to the table and a pilot wearing a leather jacket motioned him over. He glanced down involuntarily at the pilot's legs – he'd been forewarned that the squadron commander had artificial legs – but was also an ace fighter pilot.

"How do you do, Yank." and Douglas Bader did a half salute. "You Yanks like shaking hands, don't you" and he extended his hand, looking intensely at Rudy, who didn't flinch, but shook his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, sir, Rudy Mitchell" he said, and reminded himself to not be so effusive as he usually was. He had read about stereotypes of Americans that English had, and he wanted to focus on fitting in, and not standing out.

"Well Rudy, it's very grand of you to show up here, and I just want to make absolutely sure you know what we're up against. You're already here, and no one is going to turn you away, based on the spot we're in – but there's a question of where to put you, and how much training you need." Bader said, and eyed Rudy, searching his face, looking for any telltale signs of nervousness, fear, anything that could be seen on the surface. _This one looks cool as a cucumber – on the surface at least._

"Certainly, I understand that." said Rudy. "All I can say is that I've flown hundreds of hours, mainly in biplanes, on the farm, and barnstorming at county fairs" he looked to see a slight smile cross Bader's face, and he plowed on. "And I had a cousin who worked at the Curtiss Aircraft company, so whenever I had the chance, I volunteered to help fly prototype aircraft, including the P40". _Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Limey bastard._ Rudy grinned.

Douglas Bader didn't bat an eyelash. "Then you'll be pleased to know that a representative from Curtiss aircraft has been here in Europe since May, with several cohorts, assessing the progress of German, French and English aircraft"

"Oh is that right? Who is it?" asked Rudy.

"Benjamin Kelsey, an aeronautical engineer."

"Ah, I've heard of him. He wanted to equip fighters with superchargers to be able to better fight in the European theater; I think he's from Buffalo."

"So, you flew the P-40?" asked Bader, putting his hands together thoughtfully.

"Yessir, it doesn't have a two-stage supercharger so it's not quite up to the mettle of the Messerschmitt Bf109, but it's still got a lot of bite, and it's a nice flyer."

Sometimes you had to make split second decisions in the air, and sometimes you have to make decisions with your gut. This Yank seems to be ok, and we don't really have time to waste. He's got hundreds of hours at a time when some go up into battle with less than 50.

"So I guess you've already burnt your bridges back in the States?" asked Bader, knowing that technically Billy had violated U.S. neutrality laws in coming here.

"Yes sir, and I'm prepared to face the consequences" said Billy. It had been a surprise at first, but the people who had passed him along to the British consulate had more or less said "you weren't here and we didn't have this conversation".

"Ok then, well then let's go ahead and get you up in the air for practice maneuvers, and whenever I say you're ready, you'll be free to go on patrol, and potentially be in combat. Officially we're a Hurricane Squadron but we have a few Spits."

"That will be just fine." said Billy, and felt his pulse rise. _I'm going to fly!_

And the next few days were a whirlwind of last minute training, getting used to the communications, controls and flight characteristics of the British aircraft.

Rudy paused one afternoon to write a letter, in case it should be the last he wrote back to the States.

Eric Wallace also wrote home, from the same base at Biggin Hill, and their letters were very similar.

Dear Mother,

Just wanted to dash off a quick note, to give you a sense of how things go by day.

The morning starts with the mist burning off by the sun, and the dawn chorus of the birds fills the air and then you hear the sound of roaring engines and the activity of the base.

The daily routine begins with a cup of tea, then jumping in a lorry to be driven out to dispersals at grass runways. Meanwhile armourers, riggers and aircraft fitters start the engines, checking on any repairs and loading up ammunition. The tanks are filled with high octane fuel, and you can try to make a bit of breakfast in a readiness hut, as long as you are within sprinting distance of the aircraft.

And then the waiting begins. We sit spending time reading popular magazines, such as Lilliput or Picture Post, playing dominoes or chess, and we try not to think too much what days like this will hold.

Then at times we practice a scramble, and run for our planes, and we're up in the air, for a real or practice patrol.

It won't be long before the routine becomes real. I think the waiting will become the hardest part.

More later.

-Eric

\--

Winston Churchill sat in the Préfecture in Tours in France, on the 13th of June, 1940. France was falling everywhere, and this was likely to be the last meeting of the Supreme War Council. Reynaud and his cabinet had been forced to leave Paris, the mood was grim, and wrangling had continued over the level of support from Britain. Weygand's catastrophic account of the military situation reinforced British pessimism. Despite assurances from Admiral François Darlan, there was now a palpable concern that the powerful French fleet might fall into German hands

Winston Churchill rubbed his eyes. When the French had stated that they would make a separate peace, against all prior agreements, the British had received the news with shock and horror. _We must fight, we will fight, and that is why we must ask our friends to fight on._ Reynaud called for British understanding, asking again for France to be released from her obligation not to conclude a separate peace now that she could do no more.

The only bright spot on the otherwise evil day had been to receive the news of America signing the Naval Expansion Act. _Thank God they are finally taking decisive action to prepare for the inevitable conflict ahead._

\--

Edith sat with her parents in their cottage, drinking tea, trying to re-assure them that their little girl was quite grown up now and doing just fine, and doing her bit. Her mother was hovering over, and it was almost smothering, but Edith withstood the attention and held back from shooing anyone away.

"I still can't believe why you don't leave the piloting to the men" muttered her mother, who open the oven where a tart had been baking, using some of the sugar that was becoming more dear, as the supplies dwindled and the effects of rationing were felt. The rationing of food had begun on January 8th, which unfortunately was her mother's birthday. "What a fine birthday present that was from Herr Hitler!" was her regular refrain.

It had begun with petrol, when Poland had been invaded the past September, and in January, they started rationing butter, bacon and sugar. Mother had the foresight to start stocking up, and felt no shame in it. "I'll not let the Gestapo into my kitchen just yet!" she had clamored, rising the occasion of any objection.

Her father looked at her over the newspaper, and winked, and looked back down, minding his own business. Edith knew they both approved what she was doing, in serving as a ferry pilot, and knew that she was stubborn enough to do it even if they didn't give her the blessing. But they occasionally made appearances if anyone raised an eyebrow. And father had bristled a few times. She gazed at father over her tea, marveling that the quiet bookkeeper would raise his voice at anyone, much less Mrs Greeves. "Now you listen to me, Mrs. Greeves, there will come a time when every man woman and child will need to take up arms or take up something, and there's no reason we shouldn't start sooner than later!" His momentary outburst at the bakery had been the talk of the town for weeks, and people had started showing a certain amount of deference to him, and this had increased with the invasion of Poland, and the dark days in France.

Slowly, gently, various women of the village had come up to her shyly when she had been back in town, squeezing her hand and thanking her for doing her bit, and deriving a certain amount of inspiration and backbone from her formerly scandalous actions.

Edith smiled. _Now if only the RAF would let me go up in combat._

Every time she took a Spitfire or Hurricane up in the air for a test flight or to deliver one to an airbase, she imagined that she had been in combat, and she skirted the regulations by doing some maneuvers that weren't strictly necessary, and which probably would raise some eyebrows. And she sometimes stared at the pressure plate on the trigger of the control stick, wishing that the planes were outfitted with ammunition, and found herself actually wishing that the Nazis were already over England, so that she could take revenge for the destruction they had brought into the world, and show them that women were warriors as well, and a force to be reckoned with.

Chapter Ten

June 18, 1940

Speech given to the House of Commons by Winston Churchill

The disastrous military events which have happened during the past fortnight have not come to me with any sense of surprise and I made it perfectly clear then that whatever happened in France would make no difference to the resolve of Britain and the British Empire to fight on, 'if necessary for years, if necessary alone."

We have, therefore, in this Island today a very large and powerful military force. This force comprises all our best-trained and our finest troops, including scores of thousands of those who have already measured their quality against the Germans and found themselves at no disadvantage. We have under arms at the present time in this Island over a million and a quarter men. Behind these we have the Local Defense Volunteers, numbering half a million, only a portion of whom, however, are yet armed with rifles or other firearms.

This brings me, naturally, to the great question of invasion from the air, and of the impending struggle between the British and German Air Forces. It seems quite clear that no invasion on a scale beyond the capacity of our land forces to crush speedily is likely to take place from the air until our Air Force has been definitely overpowered.

In the meantime, there may be raids by parachute troops and attempted descents of airborne soldiers. We should be able to give those gentry a warm reception both in the air and on the ground, if they reach it in any condition to continue the dispute.

I am happy to inform the House that our fighter strength is stronger at the present time relatively to the Germans, who have suffered terrible losses, than it has ever been; and consequently we believe ourselves possessed of the capacity to continue the war in the air under better conditions than we have ever experienced before. I look forward confidently to the exploits of our fighter pilots-these splendid men, this brilliant youth-who will have the glory of saving their native land, their island home, and all they love, from the most deadly of all attacks.

There remains, of course, the danger of bombing attacks, which will certainly be made very soon upon us by the bomber forces of the enemy. It is true that the German bomber force is superior in numbers to ours; but we have a very large bomber force also, which we shall use to strike at military targets in Germany without intermission.

Much will depend upon this; every man and every woman will have the chance to show the finest qualities of their race, and render the highest service to their cause. For all of us, at this time, whatever our sphere, our station, our occupation or our duties, it will be a help to remember the famous lines: He nothing common did or mean, Upon that memorable scene.

If Hitler can bring under his despotic control the industries of the countries he has conquered, this will add greatly to his already vast armament output. On the other hand, this will not happen immediately, and we are now assured of immense, continuous and increasing support in supplies and munitions of all kinds from the United States; and especially of aeroplanes and pilots from the Dominions and across the oceans coming from regions which are beyond the reach of enemy bombers.

What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.

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."

After listening to Winston Churchill's speech, Eric walked with Edith at the Air Transport Auxiliary headquarters at the White Waltham Airfield, watching the hive of activity, and the stream of new, repaired and damaged military aircraft. Eric took her hand and held it, but seemed lost in thought. She looked at his careworn expression, and railed quietly at the injustice of having to get to know someone in wartime, in wartime conditions. Knowing a bit already about how Eric's mind worked, she tried distracting him with details.

"The original plan was that in the ATA, we would carry personnel, mail and medical supplies" said Edith, "but then the pilots were needed immediately to work with the RAF ferry pools. "I got into the ferry pool by the skin of my teeth – they required female pilots to have 500 hours of flying time, minimum."

"Oh really?" asked Eric, surprised.

"Yes, and that's twice as much as a male ferry pilot would need!"

A lorry carrying crates of parts swung into a rut with a puddle and they leaned back in the nick of time, as a wide swathe of muddy water leapt into the air.

"Well that was a close call" said Eric, and then smiled slightly at the irony, defending themselves against mud when the entire country was under threat of invasion. "We mustn't be out of form for the invasion I dare say."

Eric looked over all the variety of planes at the airbase and paused for a moment.

"What has been your favorite plane to fly so far?" he asked, feeling an impulse to stop there with a ray of sunshine and see it dance on her hair and green eyes.

Edith raised her hand to shield her eyes and looked at the rows of planes.

"Well, I've been trained to fly in 38 types of aircraft" she said, and Eric coughed, in a combination of a gasp and sputter, which caused Edith to frown and then to grin, as she yanked on his arm, and then patted him on the back, as if she was burping a baby.

"There there, Eric, it's ok. Don't feel bad that you can only count the number of planes you've flown on one hand." and she smiled with feigned concern.

"Well I'll be damned!" exclaimed Eric, under his breath, admiring Edith.

"Well Hello Edith, what have you brought with you, there?" asked a friendly voice; they looked down and a short man looked up at them with his one good eye, un self-conscious.

"Hello John." Edith said.

"John, meet Eric. John is a fellow ferry pilot, and his favorite type of plane to fly is the de Havilland Mosquito."

"Pleased to meet you John. So I take it that they're flexible about eyes and legs and that sort of thing?" asked Eric, who had seen people there at the base who looked as though they were ferry pilots but were missing legs, or arms.

"Yes, yes – it's a unique feature here – as long as you can get the job done, we'll take you. Edith has said good things about you. So you fly with Douglas Bader's squadron? I've not met him but I believe he stands on two artificial legs, yes?"

"Quite right" said Eric. "And he's a devilishly good pilot too, and an Ace at that."

"Bahhh!" said John, thumping his clipboard. "Balderdash. Edith tells me that you've done a number on the Jerries yourself. As they used to say in the Navy – we'll thump it to them again and again!" He screwed his face up in what he presumably thought was a menacing glare. "It's too bad that we can't sail around to Germany in the old style ship with knives between our teeth and swords and pistols and go yardarm to yardarm with the Jerries!"

Edith shooed John away. "Run along now John and go and deliver some more planes before Gerard sees you dawdling."

"Who is Gerard?" asked Eric.

"Gerard d'Erlanger, who is in charge of the Air Transport Auxiliary. And I suppose it is a bit of a ragtag group of people. Gerard recruits pilots who are considered to be unsuitable for the Royal Air Force by reason of age or fitness. Some say that ATA means 'Ancient and Tattered Airmen.'"

"Ancient Tattered Airwomen, just to be equal" said Eric, nodding and then grinned as Edith stopped and frowned.

"Hrrrmmmph" she muttered, as they walked on. "The ATA also takes pilots from neutral countries and, notably, _women_ pilots." she said, with emphasis.

"So how does the training work, then?" Eric asked, as Edith stopped to scratch the ears of a dog that was no one's in particular, who was planted in the middle of a crossroads at the base.

"Do they let dogs fly?" he asked, and Edith pursed her lips.

"No. The training starts in single-engine aircraft, and you basically get experience in a single class of aircraft, flying any and every aircraft in that class. That way, you get to advance based on your own capabilities and not on any rigid timetable" she said.

"That sounds sensible." Eric liked the feel of the place, the activity, the way that there was always something going on – no waiting for the inevitable scramble. He took in a deep breathe, ready to bring to the surface what must have been bubbling down below for awhile in a compartment, now released. _Let loose the dogs of war, and love?_

"I think something in the early summer sun is getting to my head, but I find myself wondering, Edith, well . . . " and he stopped, and looked down at her in a particularly direct and lingering way, and her pulse rose a little, and she felt some butterflies nearby. _Easy does it dearie, he's just a man._

". . . well, what do you think you'll want to do after the war?" he asked, and took another breath, and felt as if a few cobwebs had been cleared away from his heart.

"I mean, here we are at an airbase, England is about to be invaded, we might neither of us survive the Summer, much less the war . . . but you're a wonderful girl." he said.

Edith gave him a measured stare, searching. _Now you're talking, you dim-headed poet pilot. Now you're finally talking._ She waited, enjoying his discomfiture.

"What I mean to say is, life is short, right?" Eric was surprised he was even talking this way. One minute he was listening to Winston Churchill talking about defending the Island of Britain to the death, and the next minute he was feeling the warm hands of a female ferry pilot and losing his head.
"Yes, Eric Wallace, life is short" she said. "And?" And she waited.

"Well, Edith, I wonder if you'd consider being my girl." he said, unprepared for exactly how to have this conversation, seeing as how it had come so suddenly. They had come to know each other reasonably well, as well as they could under the circumstances.

"Your _girl_?" she asked, warmly. _How is it that an Oxford-educated poet, who has faced death in the sky, could have trouble finding the right words for a conversation like this? Perhaps there is the boy inside the man._

"Ah, quite. What I mean to say is, would you consider becoming my wife?" asked Eric, and gulped, astonished, knowing that it was the right time, the right place, that it reflected where his heart was really at – and still it was a surprise.

"Now I don't have a ring . . . "

And Edith wrapped her arms around him and gave him a long, languorous kiss, which gained a few whistles and even a few claps and "Here, here!" and "Huzzah!". And Eric's surprised expression softened as her returned the affection, and then collecting herself after the kiss, Edith was surprised to find herself blushing. _Well, well, dearie, now that's better as a scrap of life to be savored than a 100 hundred hours in a Spitfire, I'll warrant._

Eric looked up in the sky as they walked hand in hand, thinking about the advice that he'd been given, about the risks of getting involved with someone on the ground that you started caring about, and how it could affect the amount of risk and caution you'd have in the air.

He looked at Edith, who was humming, their hands slightly swinging, as they walked the edges of the White Waltham airfield in the summer sun. _Edith knows what's at stake, and accepts it. Neither one of us can count on anything, but one thing we can do is to live each day as it comes, and live fully while we can. And if we survive this war, what stories we'll have to tell! And what a legacy we'll have to pass along. May it be so._

Chapter Eleven

The Leader And Supreme Commander Of The Armed Forces.

Headquarters, Berlin. 16th July, 1940. 7 copies

Directive No. 16

Since England, in spite of her hopeless military situation, shows no signs of being ready to come to an understanding, I have decided to prepare a landing operation against England and, if necessary, to carry it out. The invasion will bear the cover name 'Sea Lion'.

The aim of this operation will be to eliminate the English homeland as a base for the prosecution of the war against Germany and, if necessary, to occupy it completely. The English Air Force must be so reduced morally and physically that it is unable to deliver any significant attack against the German crossing.

Army: The Army will draw up the operational and crossing plans for all formations of the first wave of the invasion.

Navy: It will defend the crossing of the Channel on both flanks. Existing extra-heavy platform-gun batteries in France are to be enclosed in concrete in such a manner that they can withstand the heaviest air attacks and will permanently, in all conditions, command the Straits of Dover.

Air Force: The Luftwaffe will prevent interference by the enemy Air Force, destroy coastal fortresses, break the first resistance of enemy land forces, and destroy important highways. I request that suggestions be made to me regarding the employment of parachute troops.

I request Commanders-in-Chief to submit to me as soon as possible the plans of the Navy and Air Force to establish the necessary conditions for crossing the Channel.

Adolf Hitler

On July, 19th, Ernst Grunen sat in the back of the Kroll Opera House in Berlin, to hear Hitler give a speech to the Reichstag. On the surface, the government leaders all seemed to be overcome with a sense of historic drama, and the tragic hero figure of Hitler, who nobly offered to end the war, but who felt compelled by a sense of duty to bring it to completion.

Ernst gazed at the gothic splendor onstage, with the gold eagle emblem spreading its wings nearly 100 feet from end to end, two stories tall, emphasizing German history, the Fatherland, with carefully-planned light emanating out, directly and behind Adolf Hitler, and a huge Swastika nearly as tall also onstage to the right, against a blood red background, emphasizing the Nazi party.

The cast of the Nazi opera was assembled, the government ministers and Nazi party leaders behind their desks, and others in the audience. The Nazi party drew fully upon martial music, esprit de corps, the Teutonic legends, all to inspire pride in the Fatherland, and to justify the war because that pride and honor had been injured. Even now Hitler began to drone, and Ernst listened with part of his mind, and ignored the speech with the rest of his mind, listening to the tone of Hitler's voice rise and fall, as he raised his fist or shouted, with the particular guttural strength of the German language, the same language used in the operas of Wagner.

Ernst remembered as a child, being delighted to come to this very Opera House to experience the cycle of four epic operas by Wagner, the Ring cycle, and then pestering his parents constantly to go to the library where he searched for translations of the Norse sagas on which the opera was based.

Ernst's favorite moment was the beginning of Act 3, Die Walküre, The Valkyrie, and the delightful rolling anthem of the Ride of the Valkyries. He closed his eyes and stretched his mind back to the opera, cleansing the stage before him of Hitler and the Reichstag, and replacing it with his vivid memory of the opera. He traced out the eight minutes of prelude to the third act, hearing each note, the building of various threads of accompaniment, and his heart rose with the curtain, which revealed a mountain peak where four of the eight Valkyrie sisters of Brünnhilde gathered. There they were to prepare to transport the fallen heroes to Valhalla.

Ernst opened his eyes and his heart sank, looking out upon the Nazi party and soldiers and government leaders, knowing most were willing accomplices, and knowing some had their doubts. He felt as if he were looking at a room full of fallen heroes that would be taken to Valhalla, looking at a vast room full of people, but only seeing their skeletons. The pretense of honor was there, but he didn't feel an actual sense of honor, as Hitler railed on against real and imagined enemies.

He began to feel anger, as Hitler brought his speech to a close, after nearly two hours of pageantry and pride, speaking of how ridiculous and unnecessary the war had been, and the needless devastation and senseless misery it had already caused. Hitler spoke like a tragic opera figure, desecrating the genre, lamenting the destruction that would surely come if the Allies insisted in pursuing their senseless and unnecessary war.

Ernst was aghast as he sat in the seat, his eyes opening fully to the dark twisted propaganda of the words of the speech, as Hitler fed the Reichstag exactly what they wanted to hear. He could feel his muscles tensing with a moldering inner rage, as Hitler repeated his fear that the Allies would try to characterize his humble, sincere appeal for peace, as a sign of weakness, and use it to advance their war agenda. Hitler closed with a seemingly heartfelt appeal to the British for reason, sanity and peace, stating firmly that this time, the appeal was final. Ernst knew in that moment, fully, for the first time, that the Nazi regime was insane, and that he didn't know how to be loyal to the German people.

During the standing ovation, after doing perfunctory Heil Hitlers, Ernst filtered out slowly through the Kroll Opera House, wondering what would become of Berlin, if England survived and if America joined the war. As he walked down the streets of Berlin, full of life, he wondered how long before London, and then Berlin, would become full of death.

"Scheisse!" he cursed under his breath, seeing that there was a window of opportunity before the tide of war might turn, before the war would be brought back to Germany. What should he do? To even ask these questions was treason, punishable by death. But he was certain in his gut that he was not the only one beginning to ask such questions. He felt the spare box of Pervitin burning a hole in his jacket, the one he'd kept secret from everyone including himself, a powerful methamphetamine. He got the box out, looked at it, thought wildly that he should turn himself in to the Gestapo, and blame it all on his past addiction. But he was clear-headed now, and now he wanted escape. He put the box gently back into his pocket, as it lay there next to his heart.

"Damn the Nazis to hell!" he muttered inwardly, and in spite of himself, was shocked at how much the war had changed him already.

\--

Hermann Goering arrived at his hunting mansion and adored the decorations and the attentiveness of the servants as he came in. He made his way immediately towards his bedroom, where the extensive closets allowed him to change into new uniforms whenever he wished.

Two servants watched him, both from Bavaria, with a mixture of awe, and fear.

"I wonder why he changes uniforms five times a day?"

"Who knows? The man has extravagant tastes. I've seen the green leather jackets, medieval peasant hats and even boar spears."

"Ach ja? Well someday his enjoyment of all these things may corrupt his judgment."

One made his voice as quiet as a whisper.

"Is he still on morphine? I only had a small taste of what that was like after the trenches in Verdun."

"Yes. That is something you must never mention to anyone. You know the consequences."

They continued dusting and cleaning the hunting lodge, making sure all the right jewelry and medals were on display, and they marveled at the stolen art treasures that had appeared there over time. They didn't dare ask where they have come from, and didn't want to know.

"Admiral Raeder is coming, ja?"

"Ja."

Later Admiral Raeder arrived at the hunting lodge for a private discussion with Goering. He pretended to be impressed with Goering's theatrical furnishings, and inwardly despised him and envied him, the designated successor to Hitler. He wondered how much of the egomania was real, and how much was feigned.

"Admiral Raeder, thank you for coming to visit." Said Goering, motioning for him to sit down. Goering was flushed with the atmosphere he'd created here, and longed to go out in the forest and imagine himself as a Teutonic knight, but he also realized that things in England were a significant challenge. He felt a paradox – some hesitation about invading Britain, but also confidence. He had felt himself as caretaker of Germany, the brilliant mind behind Adolf Hitler, and his ego had swelled with every country that fell before them. And now he felt a bit petulant, and annoyed that Britain had refused the overtures of peace.

"These English sure are obstinate and bent on their own destruction, Admiral Raeder" he sighed.

"Hitler said something to me" began Raeder, never sure whether he could trust Goering or not; he had long ago given up trying to figure the man out.

"He said that the war has been won by us. That the reversal of the prospects of success is impossible. But you and I are less than sure." trying to discern whether Goering was a pragmatist, now that they were faced with the prospect of trying to invade Britain.

"Yes, and thirteen picked divisions were ordered to jumping off places on the Channel coast. The Army has plans."

Admiral Raeder shook his head. This is madness. The entire Kriegsmarine fleet had been either sunk or badly damaged in the successive attacks they'd made. He pounded his leg. "We are hopelessly outnumbered by the ships of the Royal Navy. How does Hitler expect us to support a land invasion!" he exclaimed."

"Ah, well, it comes down to the Air Force." Goering said.

"You're not in a position to cover a Channel crossing either!" Raeder exclaimed, and Goering felt his temper flare up a bit, but he was feeling benevolent. It was the same game he had played as a child with toy soldiers, except these Teutonic knights were flying in the air.

"No, not at the moment. But do you forget, Herr Raeder, how alone England is? We can send endless waves of bombers and fighters in, and hammer them down." he said with calm confidence. In the planning meetings, even though there had been losses, they estimated that they had a good chance of being able to wear the British down. It was not Poland, or Norway, or France.

"They would not fold like a house of cards" muttered Admiral Raeder. "They've got a lot of strength left in them, and they are cornered."

Goering sighed, and tired of man, deciding that it had been a waste of time to invite him here. If he can't see the war as a grand game of history, if he can't see the _fun_ , then so be it.

"Well, we are agreed that sometimes the Army can seem like a set of bumbling fools, wanting to rush into an invasion without the proper support, so let us agree to hold them back from doing anything premature?"

"Of course". Admiral Raeder had tired of the meeting as well. "You'll forgive me, the Fuhrer wishes to see me immediately".

"You're not staying?" asked Goering, who looked almost comical to Raeder, crestfallen.

"No, I'm sorry Hermann" he said, and left with his retainer to go back to naval headquarters.

Goering changed into a new uniform, and somewhat distressed, somewhat excited, he finally asked a few servants to go off hunting with him. He was mildly annoyed by the frill of the uniform he had just put on; it was frayed at the edges. He left to go off in a manly adventure to hunt in the forest and breathe the clean air, but the frill on the coat kept nagging at him. He hated any fabric edge that frayed, and over the last couple of years, he had started to hate it more. He stopped in his tracks, silent, gasping inwardly.

All the attendants immediately froze, not daring to speak, assuming that the master of the hunting lodge had sensed or seen prey. He was staring at the ground, so perhaps he had actually heard something with his keen senses.

But Hermann Goering was shocked by the strength of his revelation, taking all of his energy to suppress it from showing outwardly.

Is it that my mind appears to be fraying at the edges? Nonsense, I am superhuman, a perfect sample of the Aryan race. The Luftwaffe has flown to victory before, and it can be victorious again. We can fill the skies and do irreparable damage to the English.

Two little voices debated inside his head. One said that great destruction could be brought upon England by the Nazi war machine. The other said that victory was not assured. And then he realized that he had been standing there for over a minute with the attendants waiting.

"I thought I head something. No matter" and then he strode off, leading them deep into the forest, with the frill of his jacket continuing to fray, as they moved into thicker brambles.

Chapter Twelve

Creatures roam the ancient sky before they die to fossil fuel, rushing roaring towards the engines lost in dreams of gushing geysers, sleepless drilling, black gold treasure fierce explosions pushing pistons thrusting inward driving forward ever faster revolutions slicing speeding blades to push propellers spinning, urging onward fibers crackling, tendons pulling elevators, ailerons and rudders turn, wheels are rolling, wings in motion fueled by fire, birds of metal climb the sky, ever burning, helical pyre.

Down beneath the soil and water, rock and stone and molten lava, pressing harder, pressure building, molding forming over ages, epochs, eons, supernovas, endless orbit through the sky, ever changing deep inside, ceaseless digging, delving down to steal the treasure, mining deeper, fiery fever, drawing forth the ore and ingots, smelting fury on the surface, forming skeletons of steel, coughing choking gagging retching, stumbling rusting bombing dropping, as the darkling cloud draws nigh, ever burning, helical pyre.

And everywhere the fierce defense of access to these underworld events.

At the German High Command, Hermann Goering waited impatiently as a general pointed out the strategic necessity of either becoming allies with or conquering Romania, carefully explaining Germany's ever expanding need for oil and the limited possibilities of coal.

_Yes, yes, get on with it_. Hermann groaned inwardly, waiting for his turn.

"This summer there have been a series of territorial disputes, resulting in Romania's losing most of the territory they gained in the Wake of World War I. Therefore the popularity of Romania's government is plummeting, which reinforces the cause of fascism. We believe that a military coup will turn Romania into a military dictatorship under Maresal Antonescu, and that we will have them in the Axis within 90 days."

_What day is it anyway?_ Thought Goering, and looked at his watch, feeling a tiny degree of creeping change in his reliance on external aids to memory in some things, and not in others. _August 11_ th _, ok_.

He glanced up just in time seeing everyone glance at him. _Marvelous!_

Hermann Goering almost pranced up to the lectern, and waited as a team of attendants nervously but efficiently assembled a replica table, with a vast surface broken into grids, showing France, the Channel, and England. This was Hermann's masterpiece, in preparation for Adlertag, Eagle Day, when the Luftwaffe would swoop down upon England in successive waves and destroy England's defenses. Looking at the marvelous replica, so much like a complex game of chess, he couldn't decided which he liked more: the prospect of the actual invasion and planes carrying our their missions, or the chess pieces, the little planes that would be moved across the board to represent formations and battles and countermaneuvers. _Chess for air force commanders! La!_

He put his hands behind his back, and as the various commanders moved in and the participants took their place at small seats at the edge of the table, he couldn't wait to begin.

"As you see, gentlemen, the coast of England is within our grasp. The weather is unpredictable but the courage of the Luftwaffe never wavers." He motioned to a participant, who moved an air group towards the English coast in four groups.

"Tomorrow, the Erprobungsgruppe 210 specialist fighter-bomber unit will attack these four radar stations. blinding the English." Then he motioned to the remaining attendants, who used long sticks to move the remaining forces in various groupings towards the coast of England.

"Then we will attack the coastal airfields that the RAF uses as forward landing grounds, including Manston and Hawkinge." He said, as he clasped his hands behind his back, gripping tightly with excitement.

Ernst Grunen sat in the back of the room on the raised platform with other selected officers, his mind racing now that he was taking Pervitin again. At this point of the day he brain was churning like an engine. Attending these meetings was like combat, and he felt superhuman, highly alert.

He reflected on the RAF radar stations, and thought about raising his hand like a schoolboy, asking what he thought was an obvious question. He didn't hear Goering mention follow up attacks anywhere in the discussion, attacks on the supporting infrastructure of the radar stations – such as the phone lines, power stations, to render the radar completely useless. _Ah well, Goering knows best, and if he doesn't then I don't give a damn._

\--

On August 12th, Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding stood in Fighter Command, where the tension was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. It was a quiet tension, as they waited for Germany to act. He scanned the room, listening to the periodic communications from pilots and patrols reporting in, and watching staff members tracing their movements on the central dais that showed England and the coast, following the movements of the various fighter groups.

Winston Churchill stood next to him, surveying the people, puffing quietly on a cigar, hoping against hope that the Germans may just attack the radar stations without destroying all the infrastructure that supported them. _So much hung in a delicate balance. Would the pilots pull through when the dark cloud of the Luftwaffe fell upon England? Damn this waiting. But every hour gives us one more hour to prepare, and we'll never truly be ready._

\--

Rudy stood in the readiness hut out on the field, holding a small pan over a field stove and cooking a bit of breakfast. A pilot from Ireland sniffed the air. "By god, are you cooking rashers? I'd give my left earlobe for some rashers?"

"No but I am cooking bacon, and you're welcome to have some. I've laid up a good stock of it with some careful negotiation and trading of cigarettes, whiskey and playing cards."

"Bloody Yank traders" said another pilot. "Always up to something with your damn colonial attitude, taxation without representation. By God that smells glorious."

Eric was playing chess with Douglas Bader, and was about to put his Queen down for checkmate, when the alarm rang.

"Scramble! Scramble!" and they all leapt up immediately, some already wearing their Mae West flotation vests, strapping on their helmets, hearts pumping their adrenaline into their brains, as they ran towards their planes.

The fitter pressed the starter button on the battery cart connected to Eric's Spitire, as he raced towards the plane, grabbing a parachute and climbing up over the side at the rear edge of the wing and into the cockpit.

The propeller started to turn and jets of yellow flame leapt out of the exhaust pipes, and then streams of dark black smoke. Eric careened towards the take-off strip, cursing the limitations of the tail-dragging airplane, wishing that he could see better in front of him, blinded in a 70 degree arc in front of the plane until lifting off of the ground.

"Squadrons scrambled" uttered an attendant at Fighter command in a calm voice, as another staff member moved the figures representing the squadrons into position, while another moved the figures representing the German planes.

"Four German formations reported." mentioned another voice. Periodic updates were given and the room was deathly quiet. _So it begins_ , thought Winston Churchill, watching intently.

"Civilian observer corps reports dive bombers" said a staff member, and other periodic updates were given, figures were written in chalk upon boards, figures moved, as the forces drew together.

A staff member relayed a message to direct to the pilots. Eric and the other pilots listened through crackling headphones against the roar of the plane.

"Vector five zero, bandits 50 plus, angels one five"

Winston Churchill looked questioningly at Air Marshal Dowding.

"It means, head in the direction of 50 degrees, where there are more than 50 aircraft, flying at 15,000 feet."

Eric whistled under his breath as the formation came together, as they headed towards the coast to reinforce other squadrons. He looked over at Rudy Mitchell, who gave him a thumbs up and who looked almost cheerful. _I sure hope you survive, Yank, and that your bacon isn't burnt if we return._ He caught himself. _No, when we return, not if._ And he continued scanning his quadrant for any possible visual signals; he was on the edge of the formation and needed to be double alert for the first sign of trouble.

"We are expecting dive bombers, and an attack upon the radar stations." said Douglas Bader over the air. "It may be Junkers or Heinkels, escorted by bf109's. Remember to look for the tell tale vapor trails."

Rudy spotted a series of vapor trails somewhat below the formation

"Vapor trails, 10 o'clock!"

"Aces 3 o'clock high!" exclaimed Eric, and peeled off around in a swirling arc, as a hail of bullets began to fly.

Douglas Bader led a tightly packed formation towards the bombers, letting surrounding layers peel off and deal with the fighter escort, as the central spike weaved into position for a diving run on the dive bombers, who were starting to scatter.

"Group five, keep to the perimeter, gain altitude, and do not engage, repeat, do not engage, we need eyes on the bombers that break through!" he said, as a quiet voice from Fighter Command came crackling through.

"Be advised that Radar station no. 10 at vector 70 is the likely target of the formation you are engaging, over."

"Group five, gain altitude and keep on a vector of 70 at 20,000 feet until those that can support will join." said Bader, as they began their arc of dive, gaining speed, engines starting to whine and then scream as the velocity increased to a dizzying rush, as the airframes began to shudder above 300 miles per hour. Each pilot chose a plane and vulnerable point and pressed the pressure plates on the control sticks, and a hail of machine gunfire erupted just as another fighter escort broke into view.

Eric and Rudy and give other pilots were desperately trying to get off shots at the extremely close quarters without firing on a friendly plane.

Circle back. 3 bandits at 2 o'clock. Twist and turn to evade. Short bursts.

The staccato thoughts and command ricocheted back and forth in Eric's mind as the dizzying dance of death swirled around him as he fought against the gravitational forces and took shots wherever opportunity came, barely aware of the bombers but holding his spatial awareness in the highest focus, eyes rapidly darting from point to point, detached from the flames and explosions, tuning out voices except when relevant, tuning out occasional screams. He jerked instantly to swerve out of the way of the falling wreckage of collisions and explosions, always moving, twirling, and a kind of harmonic overtone of thought rose in his mind, sensing that he was in the zone, a killing zone where his movements were balanced, but aggressive, and suitably erratic, to minimize the chance of being tailed.

Eric realized he was in a perfect position to tail a bomber in a space opened up, as his eyes darted to identify swirls of opposing fighters, his mind cataloging the probable movements and calculating the probabilities all in a series of split seconds, and he pulled the stick over and descended in a rapid darting dive towards the bomber formation and flew at maximum speed, weaving downward, firing almost continuously, peeling off and rejoining, and wreaking maximum damage as he worked through the formation in the space of a few seconds, sensing that he had to break away in a corkscrew pattern, as a spray of bullets riddled the fuselage.

As he leveled off, he breathed heavily, looking inside the cockpit at his body, and felt a numbness in his left forearm, flexing his muscles and gripping the throttle and rapidly eyeing the rest of his body, knowing he could be in shock and then seeing holes in the fuselage. He rapidly glanced at the gauges, then scanned outside, looked inside again at the gauges, and then stopped, taking a deep breath, letting it out, and entering the zone again, willing himself to _feel_ the plane as a single continuous stream of consciousness, as an extension of his being, and it was ever responsive to his touch, and he was freed from analysis to rejoin the melee, calculating how much ammunition he had left and seeing two Messerschmitts close in on a comrade, noticing in a split second information on the plane that passed by too quickly to even register, and knowing that it was Rudy somehow.

"That's Rudy, damn you!" and he increased the throttle and brought the plane up and outwards in a rolling barrel arc and flexed his feet on the rudder pedals instinctually to compensate for slip, dipping the control stick to give the right angle, and closed in a sweeping dive across the vector of the closing planes. In concentrating on Rudy's plane, these attackers were providing a more continuous target, and Eric calculated the tempo, the percussion rhythm he would need to loose short bursts on each plane, his mind calculating a roll and dive that would allow him to fire on them without endangering Rudy any further, whose exhaust ports were streaming more smoke intermittently. At the last moment Eric closed in at blinding speeds, angry at an attack on his comrade and with the fleeting thought of recognizing he was strangely angry at the thought of the Germans depriving Rudy of his bacon. He pulled the trigger to let off and try to evenly divide what he calculated was probably his last bit of ammunition, and as he passed, he saw Rudy jump out of the plane.

As Eric circled around, his mind registered Rudy's parachute deploying, one of the German planes engulfed in an explosion and the other plane peeling off with smoke trailing from it, and then suddenly Eric's plane was wracked by a shuddering hail of gunfire, and in the few seconds that followed, he found that the rudder pedals played freely, and that the tail must have been shot up badly, the engine was still pulling but the elevators were damaged, and he made the instant decision to try and get into the air.

_Detach belt, put on goggles, remove cover, climb up,_ and he was looking at a gyrating vortex of planes and fire and the patchwork quilt of fields far below and feeling the howling wind, and he slipped and fell down to his knees, as the plane started to careen, and he gritted his teeth and felt the numbness in his left arm spread and pushed with his legs, straining against gravity. _Push from legs, pull with good arm, arm over edge, pull, hold, rest for a second, leg on clasp, get footing, get thumb in parachute ring, push out._ And he was tossed like a rag doll dropping into the void and pulled for all he was worth on the ring, feeling the jerk as if it were a an immense wave of water crushing him, and then after a few seconds, he was floating.

He looked around and was thankful that he had been at the edge of the melee, less likely to be fired upon, but he heard stray fire go by, and then picked up another parachute also descending, both of them carried along by the wind. _That must be Rudy._

He looked as he saw a German bf109 sweep out of the melee and dimly pass beyond his view. He was starting to feel dizzy and then heard the sound of a different approaching plane, and heard the sound of machine gun fire and an explosion. He tensed, and felt a searing punch, as his breath was taken away, and he went black.

A few minutes later, Eric woke up from the shock, still floating, and his back ached. He was somewhat dazed, but didn't feel as though he was bleeding, and he realized that a piece of a plane must have hit him. _But thank God, I'm still in one piece._

The ground came closer, he saw it was a dairy farm, and he prepared to land roughly and tumble. In the dizzy confusion, he felt himself land, roll, and then pass out again.

He woke up again, and looked up and saw Rudy smiling, who laughed when he looked up at him.

"Well damn you Limey for intervening at an opportune time." And Rudy shook his shoulder, with the excitement and delirium of being alive, and then shook his hand. "Because now I'm going to have to share some of my bacon with you, because you saved my bacon!" And then Rudy sat back and laughed, pinching himself, as they waited for their strength to return.

Chapter Thirteen

The Leader And Supreme Commander Of The Armed Forces.

Headquarters, Berlin. 7 copies

Directive No. 17

In order to establish the necessary conditions for the final conquest of England I intend to intensify air and sea warfare against the English homeland. I therefore order as follows:

1. The German Air Force is to overpower the English Air Force with all the forces at its command, in the shortest time possible. The attacks are to be directed primarily against flying units, their ground installations, and their supply organizations, but also against the aircraft industry, including that manufacturing anti-aircraft equipment.

2. After achieving temporary or local air superiority the air war is to be continued against ports, in particular against stores of food, and also against stores of provisions in the interior of the country.

3. On the other hand, air attacks on enemy warships and merchant ships may be reduced except where some particularly favourable target happens to present itself.

4. The intensified air warfare will be carried out in such a way that the Air Force can at any time be called upon to give adequate support to naval operations against suitable targets.

5. I reserve to myself the right to decide on terror attacks as measures of reprisal.

Adolf Hitler

Goering considered himself to be a jovial, benevolent commander who took the grand strategic view, but today he was very angry.

"Adlertag is kaput! The Eagle Day campaign has failed!" He pounded his fist on his desk, and the staff officers in the hallway and in the nearby rooms did not move an inch.

"We have had considerable losses over the last three days!" and he was tempted to fly into a Teutonic rage. He wished that he had a sword and could hew off Commander Kesselring's head. But he needed him, and he was a brilliant commander. He spoke quietly, with a continued menace in his voice, and the volume rose steadily with each word.

"In January I relieved the commander of Luftflotte 2 and appointed you in his place, to achieve total victory!" Kesselring stood before him, with a calm expression; he was used to Goering by now. Kesselring had brought him victory after victory, but was not a magician. Kesselring's Chief of Staff, Generalmajor Wilhelm Speidel, stood quietly, looking at the floor.

"Adlertag failed because there were not enough escorts, and because our intelligence assumed their strength was deployed in other areas." he said evenly, matter-of-faculty, and before Goering could explode again, he continued, trying to smooth the feathers of the injured pride of the falcon before him, the very powerful falcon who could take his life with impunity, the falcon who was rightly annoyed and distressed by the continued interference of the damned British radar system.

"Yes, Adlertag failed." he said. "Still, I know you understand and have the insight to see that the only sound strategy is to continue to send heavily escorted bombers to destroy British airfields." He looked at his chief of staff, who coughed, and spoke evenly, looking at some blank sheets of paper so that he didn't have to look at Goering, who he despised.

"Our intelligence report suggests that the RAF is down to just 300 serviceable fighters as of 17 August 1940 . . . "

"Based on what!?!" Goering exclaimed, fist pounding the table again.

"This takes into consideration German pilots' claims and our estimates of British production capabilities." the Chief of Staff continued, and trailed off as Goering developed a thoughtful look on his face. Kesselring continued to reason with Goering, to win him over to the idea of continued bombing.

Rudolf Jodl and Ernst Grunen stood at the back of the room, stock still, not moving an inch, not breathing, and even the Gestapo commander remained still. They listened impassively, staring at the far wall, waiting their turn. Ernst's mind was in a high state of functioning, darting rapidly, as a result of a carefully timed dose of Pervitin, taken just prior to coming to Goering's office. He knew he would need to be on his toes, but his mind wandered, listening to the claims of the intelligence about there being only 300 British planes.

_I've seen American factories when I visited Rudy, and Britain is no different. What if there are three times as many serviceable planes? Did intelligence consider planes that might in storage or at training units? What if from all sources, including factories manned by people who were fighting for their very lives – what if there were twice as many aircraft as there had been a month ago? Where would be then, Herr Kesselring?_ And he kept his mouth shut.

"So what is the plan, then?" said Goering, growing weary of the droning wasp standing before him, but respecting its sting.

"The Luftwaffe 's plan of attack will be simple." and Kesselring spread out a map before Goering, knowing he would enjoy it. He dared to take out plane markers from his pocket and put them on the map.

"German bombers will strike at RAF airfields situated in the south-east corner of England. The most important airfields in this region, No. 11 Group RAF, Kenley, Biggin Hill, Hornchurch, North Weald, Northolt, Tangmere and Debden."

"Very well, approved." and he waved Kesselring and his Chief of Staff away. No one even bothered to say 'Heil Hitler'.

"Next!" roared Goering, who was getting hungry, wishing he could sink his teeth into a nice boar meat sandwich with some kartoffelsalat potato salad on the side, and a large mug of beer. He reviled the Gestapo Commander as he came up with two pilots. _He looks like a snake, but snakes have their uses._

"Herr Goering, as you know, a handful of American pilots have joined the Royal Air Force and they are adding a significant propaganda boost to the British effort." He stopped and wondered if he heard Goering actually growling, and continued. "And our analysis of all the available photographs, coupled with some reconnaissance from assets we have in England, has revealed the location of the quarters of one of the pilots, where he is known to take leave, a Rudy Mitchell from Iowa."

Goering's eyes became cat-like, narrowing a bit, and Ernst felt as if he was purring.

"Continue."

"I have taken the liberty of recruiting volunteers, and I propose that a detachment break away from our main raiding forces and perform a lightning strike against that specific target, and then cover it in the newspaper in Berlin. It is of course not certain that we could get the pilot, but it is worth a try, and others may think twice. It will send the appropriate message". And the Gestapo commander held his breath and stood at attention. Goering looked thoughtful, playing with a pencil, and eyed the two officers, two of his best aces in the Luftwaffe.

Ernst stood stock still, his heart racing from the Pervitin, and his mind racing as well, seething with a hatred for Rudolf Jodl, and Goering, and the Gestapo commander. When the Gestapo commander came and mentioned the raid, Ernst had been momentarily astounded to hear the name of his cousin, and had stood in shocked silence for several seconds, in a daze, as he heard Rudolf Jodl immediately volunteer, and go up to the Gestapo commander, and whisper, looking back at Ernst. Ernst had walked up quickly in a cool rage and had put forth the best stage acting in his entire life, volunteering immediately and saying that his cousin had made a bad decision, and that he would go proudly on the mission and that it would be a propaganda coup for Ernst to speak to the papers. Ernst had been gratified to see Rudolf Jodl lose the sneer on his face.

_Why did I volunteer for this mission, to try and kill my cousin!_ he wondered, standing there before Goering, standing next to Jodl. The answer was hovering at the edge of his mind, but his mind felt as if it had been fraying at the edges.

"Very well! Incorporate the mission at your discretion. Tomorrow, August 18th, we will be throwing the entire weight of the Luftwaffe at England, mounting the largest operation in the history of the war, and we will pound them mercilessly into the ground. We may as well strike at the Americans specifically too." He said, and waived them out.

After speaking with the Gestapo snake, Goering dictated an order to attack aircraft factories on the 19th, and then got up and rubbed his hands together, looking forward to the boar's meat sandwich and potato salad and beer.

\--

August 18th began quietly enough at Biggin Hill, with everyone placed at the dispersions in the airfield, in their familiar spots, drinking tea, cooking a bit of breakfast at the readiness hut, and reading the magazines they had read before.

Eric was beginning to pen a letter.

_I have a feeling like it will be an eventful day he wrote_ , when the alarm came.

The daily routine of scrambling to the planes, lifting off in formation, and heading to battle was becoming a habit now, and Eric dropped his paper on the ground, along with the pen, and the paper fluttered away into the distance.

\--

The mood at the No. 11 Group Bunker was grim, with the communications gear ready to chime in and the map becoming filled with moving targets. As the voices of the various participants increased, there was a palpable sense of how something was different about this day. Edith Rose stood at the periphery, listening, on leave from being a ferry pilot, here to listen to the events. I hope that Eric will never find out, and I absolutely need to be here.

She watched as the pattern of the RAF's analysis, and the choreographed movements rose in complexity. Her friend Moxie, an attendant, was trying to recruit her, knowing of Edith's nerves of steel. Moxie spoke quietly.

"First, radar detects the aircraft" she said, pointing out the equipment where incoming messages from radar stations came in. "The filter room at Stanmore Park receives radar plots, which are dispatched by landline", Moxie said, counting the stages off on her fingers.

"Fighter Command Headquarters?" asked Edith, quietly, and Moxie nodded.

"At the filter room at HQ, they take the enemy plots and compare them with the known location of RAF fighters to validate identity."

"And that is to compare with IFF?" asked Edith, and Moxie leaned back and looked at her.

"Yes, dearie. Identification Friend or Foe signals help us to identify Bomber, Coastal and Fighter Command aircraft on radar screens." and she turned back to the center of the bunker and motioned at a section.

"Unidentified or hostile plots are dispatched by landline to fighter group or sector operations for plotting on maps."

"Situation maps." said Edith. She looked at Moxie. "I've been doing some reading."

"Well I suppose you have. Then we keep a status of each unidentified or hostile raid, and the state of RAF squadrons, and whether they are refueling, landing, in combat, or . . . . " and she trailed off, testing Edith.

"Or scrambling" said Edith, and in her minds eye she pictured Eric running off to the Spitfire she had delivered to him, and flying it at this very minute. Part of her wished she was in combat by his side, part of her wished to hear some news of him, part of her dreaded what news that might be. Moxie nodded.

"Fighter controllers at sector operation rooms choose which formations to engage and exactly how many squadrons to scramble, and word gets passed down the line."

"To satellite controllers?"

"Yes, then fighter controllers bring their squadrons to the field, and we deploy them loosely to try and prevent the Jerries from slipping through."

"And squadron leaders are then responsible for the combat engagement?"

"Correct."

Edith stared at the massive chess game in front of her, and imagined Douglas Bader issuing commands. Then, in an increasing state of tension, she listened to the news about their squadron engaging the enemy. The specific points were lost in a quiet melee, and the mood in the room darkened as minutes passed by, as it became apparent that the Luftwaffe was throwing everything they had at the RAF. Sometimes individual communications from fighters were patched in, and Edith's hands gradually gripped the rail as tight as a vice. She had no idea of how long she stood there, and try as she might, she couldn't pinpoint the exact status of Eric's squadron. If they knew she was to marry him, they would never have let her in.

In her mind, she saw the dread whirlwind of the various engagements, and bombing raids, and fighter engagements, and heard some of the thunder of the deepest explosions when they were not far off, in spite of the bunker. As the day wore on, and the tornado of chaos intensified, as fire and flame and death engulfed England in a desperate struggle, Edith was forgotten, as Moxie returned to her duties, and Edith looked on, transfixed, aching but not daring to move, listening keenly, watching the maelstrom unfold. _So many mothers' sons,_ she thought.

She wondered if Eric would survive the day, if his new friend Rudy would survive the day, and she tried to accept the very real possibility that neither of them might come back. She listened enough to realize that the fate of England hung in the balance this day, and sometimes she growled inside, remembering Winston Churchill's pugnacious defiance. She wished she was at the helm of an anti-aircraft gun, blazing a hail of fiery bullets into the sky to bring as many fighters and bombers down as she could. She saw them bearing down on her, bearing down on England, and she knew she was fainting, and as she sunk to the floor, she held on tightly to the image of fierce defiance. _Give em hell, lads and lasses`. Give em hell._

Chapter Fourteen

When you hear the warning take cover at once. Remember that most of the injuries in an air raid are caused not by direct hits by bombs but by flying fragments of debris or by bits of shells. Stay under cover until you hear the sirens sounding continuously for two minutes on the same note which is the signal "Raiders Passed".

Air Raid Warnings, 1939

Tommy entered the Vickers Supermarine factory on August 19th, 1940, and the air raid sirens started wailing as soon as he entered the building. Tommy had been in war, had encountered death, but he was afraid. The sirens were extremely loud, slowly rising in pitch to blanket an entire city with a piercing, deafening wail.

"Ok there, let's just have your identification then and you can be on your way." said the guard. "Unless you'd like to go straight to the air raid shelter, which I'd recommend."

"I'll be off to the air raid shelter then" said Tommy, and joined the flow of people coming out of the factory. Then on impulse he decided to make a run for it in his car. He started breathing faster and trying to think about how long he could spare – he had no idea of how much warning they would have, but he thought about the radar, how close they were to the coast, and he thought he could spare five minutes of driving, and try to get as far away from the factory as he could.

He drove sanely but as fast as he could, dodging obstructions surprisingly little traffic was on the road, and tried to head directly away from the factory; he managed to slip onto a main road and accelerated, and as the road cleared, he accelerated more. Then his instincts told him not to play with fate any longer, and he parked the car, and ran towards a heavy looking stone building that people were streaming towards. As he came up to the door, he saw a mother struggling with four kids, all of whom were crying, and as he heard the distant tell tale explosions begin, he scooped up two of the kids.

"C'mon now! Inside!" shouted an air warden. "On the double!" And the bewildered mother looked thankfully at Tommy, and picked up the smallest two of the children bodily, and they went into the building, as the pace hurried, and followed people down several stairs and into the bottom of the building. The methodical _foom, foom, foom_ of the bombs exploding began to get louder. _We're not deep enough_ , thought Tommy. I can hear the wail of the bombs dropping now. _If a stray bomb hits us, we're goners._

A calm officer in one of the hundreds of bombers thousands of feet in the sky calmly looked through his eye piece, carefully checking off coordinates, and meticulously marked and confirmed the appropriate quadrant, checking wind direction, and looked down into the eyepiece of the bomb sight, with dispassionate intensity. He vaguely wondered if the war might come back to Germany, as he depressed the trigger to release bombs, and triggered a camera to take movie footage for propaganda purposes.

Tommy tried to calm the children, but there was no use, so he just hugged them, and as the wailing got louder and the explosions got nearer, he said a silent prayer and gathered the mother and four children around him, and covered them as best he could. He tried to comfort himself by thinking about the technical details of the bomb. _One in every ten is a dud. One in every ten bombs is a dud. Maybe the dud will hit this building._ But then he remembered that some bombs had a delayed reaction fuse. He stopped thinking about bombs.

The ground started shaking and the sound from up above permeated the stone building. He wondered how many levels down they were from the surface. It must have been at least two or three. He found himself calculating what type of bombs the Germans were using, and wondered what it would take to get down this far. His last thought before the bomb hit, was anger, at Hitler, for destroying his beautiful car up on the street above.

\--

Eric knocked at the door of Edith's parents' home, and her mother opened the door.

"Eric" she asked, and before she could continue, Edith gasped behind her.

"Oh my god." Edith exclaimed and her hands flew to her mouth. Then she rushed at him and hugged him. "Oh thank God you're ok" she said "I thought you were dead".

She squeezed him tightly, and he stood there, weary, accepting the embrace, and reached a hand up to run his hand along her hair, as she buried her head in his chest.

"I thought I was too." he said, and after a few minutes, he spoke again. "And that's why I've come to see you at your parents' house." Edith's father came out from the kitchen.

"Well, lad, it's certainly good to see that you made it through that battle." he said, and looked at Edith. "Edith confessed as to how she snuck into fighter command with a friend and witnessed nearly the entire thing . . . and then fainted!"

Eric looked at Edith, surprised, but not angry or shocked. He ruffled her hair again. "Ah well, it doesn't surprise me." Collecting himself, he looked at Edith's father.

"Well sir, seeing as how life is short, and shorter still, I've come to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage.". and Edith looked at Eric, and squeezed his hand, and then at her father. And he didn't speak for a moment, but his face showed that he was touched, and he breathed in.

"Well, well." and he stopped, not knowing what to say. "I'm not much of a man for words, Eric, but I'd say the best I can, which is that I'm honored to have you cross the threshold of this house." and he felt some strength rising in him. "And for however long or short this war is, and for however long or short our lives are . . ." he looked at his wife and then back. "I can speak for the both of us and say – welcome to our family, Eric, and not a moment too soon." And he took Eric's hand and put the other hand on his forearm, and he looked him in the eye. "Now you take good care of her, then. I trust you will".

And Eric breathed in and sighed, and took Edith's hand. "Well that's that, then." And smiled, and spoke to Edith's mother.

"Now one thing that sustained me, quite honestly, was the thought that I might come by and enjoy some of your cooking. And I wondered if I might be so bold as to invite my mother over, and we have some sort of dinner, and if you have some sugar left, a cake of some kind?"

"I'd be glad to have your mother over, and yes please let's have dinner."

"Edith, I've spoken to a sympathetic parson, and if you're willing, given the circumstances and the very small amount of leave I have, I'd like to marry you tomorrow, if that's ok." And Edith felt like she was in a daze, but she had the wits to at least prepare somewhat for the possibility. I've something to wear, I've a little bouquet of flowers, and Edith Rose, there's no need to stand on ceremony. And she looked up at him.

"I do", and then opened her eyes wider, realizing what she said.

"Oops, that was premature" and she laughed, and Eric smiled. _The pretty ferry pilot and the fearsome flying fool, what a couple we make, indeed._

"That was a rehearsal." he said. "And though you may be surprised, I managed to think ahead and I was able to obtain the correct rings, so we can at least do the engagement properly one day, and the wedding the next". And before Edith knew it, Eric was kneeling there in the front hallway before her, as Eric's mother came gently inside, smiling and nodding at Mrs. Rose, and they all bloomed a bit as Eric opened the little box and took Edith's hand, and looked up at her.

"Now this modest diamond was actually my grandmother's ring, passed down to my mother, who wished that I use it once again." he said, and added "and it is sized accordingly", with a significant look at Mrs. Rose, who just smiled.

"So, Edith Rose, will you do me the honor of marrying me?" Eric asked.

"Yes Eric." She said, and he slipped the ring on her finger.

The next day, they were married in a brief, simple ceremony at Carleton-Coville, with a handful of people present. It was relatively early in the morning, and they were off after that. On their way to their one day honeymoon, they stopped to pay their respects to Tommy Cranshaw's parents, and marveled at the size of the estate. They grieved with the parents, and were humbled with the gift that Tommy had left them – the large Rolls Royce that he had modified.

"Aye, that lad had more cars than he knew what to do with, and it was one of the others that got him close to the shelter, and of course it was wrecked. I knew something was up when out right told me, 'if something happens dad, I want Eric Wallace to have the Rolls Royce', and I was a little shocked that he'd say something like that, but maybe he had an intuition. And I also want to say that we've only the one son and three daughters, so if you'd ever have the time to do me the honor, we'd appreciate if you'd come round and tell us some stories of Tommy and what he did at the RAF. He was quiet about it but I knew he loved the work."

Eric looked at Tommy's father and didn't know what to say. "Tommy was the best, and will be sorely missed, Lord Cranshaw."

They spent the night and were able to detach themselves for the duration from the world, in a gentle frenzy of savoring each other and the precious time they had together. They both yearned that there would be another day, and another, to discover a new life, and they both tried to keep that hope on a leash, in light of the grim reality unfolding every day.

\--

Rudolf Jodl and Ernst Grunen cruised at near altitude, breaking away with the dive bomber and streaking at low altitude, covered by a mass of bf109 fighters who attacked from the opposite direction into the day's melee of bombers and fighters. As they converged upon the point where the bombs would be dropped, Ernst came to realize why he had volunteered for the mission. I am going to end the mission.

And before Rudolf Jodl knew what was happening, Ernst had fallen back and let loose a roaring storm of machine gun fire, and Rudolf's plane exploded. The dive bomber peeled away from their flight path, but didn't realize it had been Ernst for a split second, as Ernst honed in. The dive bomber weaved back and forth and neared the convergence point, and dropped its bombs. Ernst briefly thought about ramming the bomber, but decided that he may be better use in the war as a prisoner of War of the English. The dive bomber managed to swing around and loose off some shots before it trailed towards the ground, badly damaged. The gunner happened to be good, and Ernst's engine started to sputter, and he had lost control of the ailerons. _But the rudder and elevator still work._

And he guided the plane to a landing in a farm field, exited the plane, and sat on the wing, waiting. When no one came, he gathered his things, made an improvised truce flag from a branch and some material cut out from his parachute, and walked towards the nearest village. _And now a new adventure begins._

Chapter Fifteen

Luftwaffe Command

Directive issued August 23rd, 1940

Continue the fight against the enemy air force until further notice, with the aim of weakening the British fighter forces. The enemy is to be forced to use his fighters by means of ceaseless attacks. In addition the aircraft industry and the ground organization of the air force are to be attacked by means of individual aircraft by night and day, if weather conditions do not permit the use of complete formations.

Concentrated attacks should continue on airfields, with attempts to lure RAF fighters into the air. They must be destroyed if we are to succeed. Fighters are to stay close to the bombers to give them full protection.

Hermann Göering

It was very late at night, on the evening of August 24th, 1940. Many significant waves of bombers from Germany had engaged the RAF to attack airfields and factories. Franz Scherig was at the controls of a Heinkel 111 bomber, and he was resolute, but afraid; it was his first time on a raid over England. He was very tired, and the anti-aircraft fire popping all around him stretched his mind like taffy, almost to a breaking point, explosions and flashes and flames. He flinched as an explosion took hold of a bomber in formation in front of his plane, and lower, and he watched in horror as the wings detached and the plane dived towards the earth below. He looked around the inside of his plane, and felt nervous in spite of his extreme weariness, knowing the Heinkel 111 was weak on defensive armament.

Franz just wanted to drop his payload and get home. He pondered the 4,400 pounds of explosives in the main internal bomb bay, and the damage they could do, and he lamented the fact that he was not a fighter pilot, wishing to have more direct combat than fly over hostile territory with anti-aircraft guns trying to bring him down. The plane shuddered, and he cursed the extra weight they had loaded him down with. _As if 4,400 pounds of explosives is not enough! They must add another 7900 pounds in the external bomb bays!_ He fought with the controls, fuming at the increased weight and drag, feeling injured that the performance of the aircraft was so affected, amazed that they would maniacally pack so much explosives on the plane that it had required rock assisted take-off!

He thought about Berlin, and walking through the busy, lively streets, and looked forward to his next leave. He thought of the bar he liked to go to, and the fried potatoes they had there, and he found himself shaking his head, and realized he had been in a reverie. He was so tired that he didn't realize he had veered off course, and neither did the bomber, who naturally assumed that the pilot knew what he was doing, and proceeded to let the bombs go. Franz felt a sense of relief as the plane responded more nimbly to his controls, now that it had been relieved of over 12,000 pounds of explosives. Neither of them realized that they had just bombed London's civilian population for the first time, in direct violation of Hitler's orders.

\--

The advisors and members of the War Cabinet were silent, and Winston Churchill was furious. _How dare they attack London!_ He balled his fist and struck the table, and growled. He looked around the table.

"There's only one thing to do." he said. "We must respond in kind. Options?" A representative from the Air Ministry circulated a short memo, and they all felt like the entire world was crossing a threshold. Bombing itself was still leaving them in a daze – the destructive force was beyond anything the world had known. There had been so many bombers, more than they could cope with. The effects on Birmingham had been devastating. But to bomb civilian targets!

Winston Churchill reviewed the memo and looked around the table again; there were nods. "So be it. How many bombers will go, and what type?"

"It will be 80-odd Hampden bombers"

"Send them to Berlin." Said Winston Churchill. "Tonight".

\--

Elicia Wallace was aghast as she listened to the radio, talking about the bombs that had been dropped on London the night before.

"There's no point!" she muttered, under her breath, talk as she sometimes did to the radio. She set down her knitting needles, and was thankful that she now had a daughter in law. She admired Edith, her courage in ferrying planes about, and wished she had courage.

Elicia gazed at the pictures of her departed husband that were lined up in a row on the dresser, and she decided that the time for mourning was over. She felt restless and alone, and she picked up the paper, reading it aimlessly until she came across an advert seeking air raid wardens and ambulance drivers to work in the East End. Her eyes sparkled a bit and she thanked the stars that she had experience driving. In her usual habit, she began to dismiss the thought as a fantasy, always the domain of others, falling into the familiar sense of inadequacy. _I'm not the type_ , she thought to herself.

But later the thought was still with her. She felt the ache of the empty space in the bed beside her. She was thankful that they had a full life together, but she honored and loved her husband, and she felt as though she needed to honor the spirit that had driven him to risk everything. _Even if I feel like a wee little mouse in a wide wide world_.

The next day she left a note for Eric, in case something happened to her.

Dear Eric,

Well you'll be as surprised as I am to find that I'm off to see what I can do in terms of driving ambulances around in the East End, for potential air raids; I saw an advert today, and I want to go help out, and honor the memory of your father. It's strange times we live in, when widows leave notes for their sons, and don't know if the notes will ever be read. But if you do come by this note, know that I love you, Eric, and have always been proud of you. Do take good care of the Order of the Dragonfly.

Mom

And a spirit of creativity came to her – _my, my, it's been a long time since I've done any drawing_. And as a grace note, she sketched a little dragonfly on the note.

She smiled, pleased, and tidied up a bit, re-arranging a few things here and there, and making a note to get more sugar, when it would be available. Then she gathered her bag, reached into her tin of savings and brought out some crisp Bank of England notes and various coins, took one last glance inside, and then shut the door, heading off to get a ride to the train station.

\--

Eric and Edith arrived at the hospital a few hours after they heard where Rudy had been brought to. He was sitting there, grinning, with part of his hair singed off, and his arm in a sling. He looked up and waved.

"I'm finding it quite humorous that a well-meaning set of ladies from the local parish church brought me some cookies they had baked, and then this pile of Picture Post magazines." He gestured at the pile strewn about his hospital bed and the chair. "Because I've read almost all of these 100 times at the base, waiting there at the airfield." And he looked up at Eric. "But I'm still glad to read them again, because I'm glad to be alive, you know?" and his cheerfulness was a welcome relief from the shadow and horror of the month of August.

"Well Rudy, I'm humbled, because I came here to see if I can cheer you up, and here you go dashing into conversation and you're the one who has cheered me up." said Eric, and looked with an uncertain expression at the book in his hand. "All I've got is a book of Persian history, and I don't know as it could ever measure up to Picture Post". He opened the book and thumbed through it a bit, and then smiled. "But it does seem to have pictures"

"Give it here, Limey, what is it?!" and he reached for the book, completely unselfconscious, with some ugly looking patches on his skull and bandages. Edith smiled in spite of herself. Dear Rudy.

"Hi Edith, you're looking marvelously married." said Rudy, as he opened up the book.

"It's a book about Persia, and Gryphons" said Eric. "When I was at Oxford, talking to that Professor Tolkien and his pals at the pub, we had a long conversation about myths and history from different cultures, and at one point we talked about Persia, and Gryphons. I remembered that you liked a picture of a gryphon you saw, so I thought I'd bring you a bit of the history."

"Ah well that's grand. I've been considering making it my emblem, having one painted on my plane."

"Well someday we'll have to go to Persepolis, in Iran. They have some significant gryphons there."

"What?" asked Rudy. Edith nudged Eric.

"Ah, quite" said Eric, remembering to try and come out of his own head and realize not everyone had the same enthusiasm for history and myth and poetry and symbolism. "Persepolis was the ceremonial capital of the Achaemenid Empire" and he looked thoughtful and drifted off, but then caught Edith's eye, which seemed to say, _come back to earth, fly boy_. And he patted her knee.

"Ok, let's say the Achaemenid Empire was around 550–330 BC". And he opened the book and found a map, knowing how much Rudy liked them.

"Let's seem, Persepolis is situated 70 km northeast of city of Shiraz in Fars Province in Iran."

"What's the Achaemenid Empire?" asked Rudy

"The Achaemenid Empire was founded by Cyrus the Great. It was also called the First Persian Empire or Medo-Persian Empire, and it was in Iran." He felt like he was pushing his luck with the look Edith was giving him, and he finished quickly. "So there you have it."

"Well thanks, Eric, that's mighty grand of you." and he looked up at them, and smiled at the way they were holding hands unconsciously.

"How's married life?" he asked, with a bit of mischief that both Eric and Edith recognized. Edith blushed. _Here we all are, facing down death, and here I am. like a schoolgirl. Married life is just fine, thank you very much, and all the more precious knowing each day might be our last together. And I'm very much hoping to become pregnant if at all possible, and to survive this war._

Edith stood up, taking her husband's hand, smiling, as Rudy continued grinning.

"And on that note, we must be away . . . . to married life." and she led Eric away.

"See you later, mate" said Eric. "You never know with these ferry pilots."

Chapter Sixteen

Hastings by the Sea Reporter

Obituaries

ELICIA WALLACE - 1888-1940

Elicia Wallace of Carlton Coville died on September 7th, 1940, as a volunteer ambulance driver, working in the East of London during the first significant bombing raid on civilians in the Blitz. She was married to George Wallace, who served in the Great War alongside Winston Churchill at Ypres with the 6th Royal Scots Fusiliers, and who died volunteering as a merchant seaman during the Dunkirk Evacuation. Elicia and George are survived by their son Eric, an RAF pilot, who recently married Edith Rose, who serves as a ferry pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary.

Hermann Goering sat in his hunting lodge, burning with injured pride, constantly reminded of his claim that the British would never be able to bomb the city. _But they had!_ And to add insult to injury, when Goering made the claim, he made an anti Semitic joke, saying that if it ever happened, people could call him "Meyer". _And now some people were calling me Meyer!_

The British attack had been ineffective, as ineffective as the mistaken bombing run on London on the 24th, but it had a powerful symbolic value. _They hit us in our most vulnerable spot – Hitler's ego!_ The attack had enraged Hitler, who immediately ordered retaliation. Goering and the generals had gone so far as to argue with Hitler, even to plead with him, but he went against their advice, and had ordered Goering to begin a relentless full scale bombing campaign against London.

Goering felt himself beginning to lose the Fuehrer's complete trust. He looked up at the walls, with an uneasy feeling. _It must be the stress has reached new heights._ He tried to console himself by strolling past the collection of stolen art on the wall, and even that made him uneasy. He stopped in front of a series of mid 19th Century works taken from France, by the artist Gustav Dore, created for editions of Tennyson's Idylls of the King, and Dante's Inferno. He looked at a picture of a noble King on his horse, and it no longer gave him pleasure. He glanced at the other engravings, and they all seemed to speak of death and disaster. He decided to have them burned.

\--

Eric and Edith stood in front of his mother's grave, silent. Eric had been numb, beyond weary from incessant fighting. They stood there with one arm around each other, and Edith thought to herself, _I'll support him as best I can_.

"Well, I guess we best be going." said Eric weakly, and Edith felt concern amidst her sorrow, not just about Eric on the ground, but what it might do to him in the air. His mannerisms, his motion, all seemed to speak as if he had aged 100 years.

When they got back to the car, before Eric started it up, Edith put her hand on his arm gently.

"Eric"

"Hm" he said, looking listlessly at the rain beginning to patter on the windshield.

"Eric, please look at me" and he turned his face and looked, with weary sorrow. She squeezed his arm. "I just want you to know, that whatever place you go to inside, however long you're there -- that I'm there with you. If it's a place of detachment, of shadow, of weariness, of anger, worlds or galaxies removed, I'm _there with you_. You'll never have to come back until you're ready." Eric looked back at the windshield.

"Thank you, Edith. I hope we survive this war, inside and out."

They drove back through the light rain, silent, and after about an hour of silence, Eric reached over his hand, to take Edith's, and squeezed lightly, without looking at her.

"I want you to know that if it weren't for you, I don't think I would have survived." he said. "I guess that daring can bring death. And death can bring darkness. But we're still here. And I still love you."

And they drove back to Biggin Hill RAF base, and on impulse, Eric turned and asked Edith, "care for a small drink"? And they went inside, and when the officers inside turned round, each of them stood up and came round Eric, and gave him quiet condolences. Eric looked round at them, thinking of what his father and mother had died for, what their fellow pilots had died for, and he remembered a little toast they made up at Oxford, when Tolkien was talking about a gathering of warriors after a battle. There had been grieving, sure, but then a celebration, and a particular saying. Eric cleared his throat, and everyone listened attentively, raising a glass.

"I'd like to make a toast in honor of my mother, and father, and to our comrades in arms who have fallen in battle" he said, looking around the room. "It comes from a story of warriors, a professor at Oxford I met who also had fought at the Somme, and survived. The toast happened to be after a victory, and I want us for a moment to think with hope, that we will be victorious in defending England. So let us say the words of this toast." and Eric raised his voice, and raised the glass higher, opening up his throat and chest in a roar that surprised Edith.

"Hail the victorious dead!" and a hundred voices responded. "Hail the victorious dead!"

And then the gathering went on in small talk, and later that night Eric and Edith lay in each other's arms for comfort. "That was a nice toast you made, Eric. I'm not one for seeking glory or anything like that, but it seemed just the right thing, to think forward with hope, at a time like this." And they drifted off into sleep, hoping that they would survive the next day.

\--

Ernst Grunen sat in a jail cell, wearing his prison clothes, sweating, and shaking, going through the inevitable, terrible withdrawal from Pervitin. The military officers who talked to him had been surprised that he knew English so well, and when they requested information, he held nothing back. At first they were suspicious, thinking he might be a spy, and a plant, but have gave extensive details about the planes involved, their actions, information about the likely equipment and personal effects, air groups and identities, and he spoke with plain utter sincerity, explaining how he had visited America, and how he grew to utterly despise the Nazi regime. When the symptoms of withdrawal had begun, he knew from the past that they would come in waves, both psychological and physical, and he had asked for a doctor, described the medication, and the doctor had actually offered to ease him off of it, since British pilots has sometimes taken something similar. But Ernst had shaken his head, and now he was cursing himself.

The anxiety was terrible, and his body and mind had revolted. Thankfully it was not a complete surprise, and in his mind, in the midst of convulsions, tremors, and a period of hallucination, he kept on repeating the same statement over and over again. "Not as I am, but as I will be. Not as I am, but as I will be.". And he rocked back and forth on his bed.

On the third day of coming off of the drug, still sweating, with a fever and occasional tremors, a knock had come at his cell. He looked up, blearily.

"Go away!" and he fell back to the bed. But the door opened, and two men entered; the usual attending officer, and another man, who looked like he was dressed as a pilot. The facial expression of the attending officer was grim and non-committal as usual, but the other man had a look of concern on his face.

"Cousin Ernst?" asked Rudy, and he was shocked, even as he recognized the physical suffering his cousin was going through, all grown up. He felt a hundred things at once – before he had felt a mixture of anger and betrayal – how could cousin Ernst participate in such an evil regime? And he remembered his thoughts in America, which seemed like 100 years ago, when he had thought that they might meet in the skies some day, in some noble way. But now, looking at Ernst, and thinking of all the death and fire and smoke – he was not sure there was any nobility anymore. Now, looking at his cousin, he just felt sympathy, in spite of himself. Two boys grown up to be thrown into battle in the skies.

Ernst looked at him, not comprehending. And then when it dawned on him, tears came at the corner of his eyes. The crushing weight of his suffering overcame his embarrassment, and he reached out in a pitiful pleading gesture. "Cousin Rudy?" And the attending officer was surprised when they hugged each other. _Two grown men crying, a Jerry and a Yank, what will we come to next in this war._

They both forgot for a few minutes, how Ernst had shot down Rudy's comrades, and how Rudy had done the same. Rudy sat with his arm around Ernst's shoulder, and they stared at the floor, both having the same million thoughts, thinking of battle, and death in the skies, and death down below. Rudy felt Ernst's tremors underneath his prison garb, and ignored them, not wanting to embarrass his cousin anymore – the officers had told them what they knew, and the surprising fact that the had shot down his fellow pilots. Rudy looked at him and tried to imagine the awful decision Ernst had made, to take a stand against Hitler, which meant having to hurt people that he had fought with. There was nothing to be said. Maybe later.

"Well, I guess it's nice to be alive at least." said Rudy.

"Yes, cousin." said Ernst, thinking that this exchange was probably worth a thousand conversations.

"Well, cousin" Rudy got up, and pulled a book out from his jacket, and offered it to him. "I brought you a book about Persian history, which I thought you might be interested to read, which a friend had given me. Take good care of it." They looked at each other, and both knew they might see each other again, or never see each other again.

"If I can I'll come visit you again, Ernst"

"That would be nice. Thank you for the book."

Ernst read the book, and it gave him something to take his mind off the suffering, as the waves of nausea and anxiety and tremors began to have less strength. He knew it was only a matter of time before they would be talking to him again.

When they came back, he decided to make an offer, no longer caring whether he lived or died. If they accepted his offer, he was very likely to die. He felt some sense of calm, having been reunited with his cousin Rudy. He hoped he would be able to tell Rudy about his story someday. Perhaps he could write it down.

"I have an offer for you" he said to the attending officer, as they sat once again in the 'conversation room'. "I am willing to go back to Germany, and serve as a spy for British Intelligence, but I have one condition" he said, evenly.

"Which is?" said the attending officer, taking notes without looking up.

"I would like to speak with Winston Churchill" said Ernst, knowing they would eventually take him up on his offer, because of what it would contain.

"No chance" said the attending officer, but he had stopped writing, and he looked up at Ernst. "But just for the sake of conversation, why don't you tell me this plan of yours" he said, "and while you're at it, convince me of why you're not a double spy".

Ernst smiled.

"Certainly. But first, let me tell you about the Kroll Opera House in Berlin."

Chapter Seventeen

COCKPIT ACCOMODATION AND EQUIPMENT

25. Pilot's seat control - the seat is adjustable for height by means of a lever on the right hand side of the seat.

26. Safety harness release - in order that the pilot may lean forward without unfastening his harness, a release catch (73) is fitted to the right of the seat.

27. Cockpit door - To facilitate entry to the cockpit a portion of the coaming on the port side is hinged. The door catches are released by means of a handle at the forward end. Two position catches are incorporated to allow the door to be partly opened before taking off or landing in order to prevent the hood from sliding shut in the event of a mishap.

Pilot's Manual for SUPERMARINE SPITFIRE IIA and IIB

Very early in the morning of September 15th, 1940, Eric couldn't sleep, and at last, exasperated, he took Emma the Mutt on a walk around the airfield, and he finally settled in a chair as the light began to show, feeling restless. He looked around at the various magazines and books and finally picked up a copy of the Pilot's Manual for the new Spitfire Mk II. Rudy quietly came up, and drifted listlessly towards the readiness hut, rubbing his eyes, and called out "good morning old chap" over his shoulder as he set a burner going, and pulled out several eggs from his coat pocket.

Emma the Mutt sat expectantly, looking up at Rudy.

"Well I know you don't like eggs, so what are you looking at?

Emma continued to stare, cocking her head. Rudy spied the remains of a loaf of bread that had been left the night before, and looked dubiously at monstrous electric toaster that an Aussie had brought to the base, which had been rigged up with an inverter to a lead acid battery.

"Ah well, I suppose we might have a bit of toast"

"Don't burn it" said Eric, absent-mindedly, gazing through the description of the Spitfire Mk II's features.

"Ah, the Spitfire Mk II" said Paddy McDugan, who yawned and plopped down into a chair.

"What's it got that our Mk I's haven't got?" asked Eric, yawning. "Damn you, now I'm yawning."

"Well the top speed is a bit better, with an improved climb rate." said Paddy, rubbing his eyes. "So from what I hear, maximum speed performance is a bit lower, but combat capability is . . . . . "

"Scramble! Scramble!" came the call, and Eric and Paddy threw their caps on, and Rudy held his newly cooked breakfast, looked momentarily at Emma the mutt, who was nonplussed by the alarm

"Ah, damn!" and Rudy, and dropped the plate on the grass, and sprinted after Eric and Paddy.

\--

Winston Churchill stood next to Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, at 11 Group Headquarters at Hillingdon House at RAF Uxbridge, deep underground in the bunker housing the Group operations room.

"Dowding is at Fighter Command Headquarters today?" asked Churchill, looking down at the tabletop maps.

"Yes." said Keith. The mood was intense. Keith kept checking and re-checking, waiting for the inevitable, looking at the placement of the squadrons. In order to survive any intense attack from the Luftwaffe, he had re-arranged and re-shuffled all the squadrons.

"We're placed to provide the best possible defense of London that we can, Winston."

Winston Churchill nodded, looking at the map. _Today would probably be the day when the future of England and the war was decided._

"The pilots have no idea of the scale of the attack?" asked Winston.

"No sir, the details are known only to a few in radio interception, in the Air Ministry, Dowding, you, and myself" he said, quietly. "The pilots will think it's just a typical relief of squadrons."

They stared at the operations room, lost in thought. For the first time in a week, an attendant had brought him notification that there was a massive buildup of German formations along the enemy coast. Keith spoke quietly again.

"This, I think is what we have been waiting for" he said, "I think that it is about to happen."

"The weather?" asked Churchill for the third time, and Keith handed him the latest report.

\--

Heavy cloud and rain are expected to clear. The forecast is fine for the day with patchy cloud. No rain is forecast but shows may develop in some areas. The cloud is expected to clear away this afternoon giving way to a fine and clear evening.

\--

Churchill grunted and passed the memo to an attendant, and as he looked over, he noticed someone familiar in the Group Operations area; he squinted a bit and then saw it was Edith Rose; he walked over to where she was.

"Ms Rose?" he asked, and Edith turned, surprised.

"Prime Minister" she said and thought how foolish it would look if she were to curtsy.

"I take it you're well? And Eric?"

"Ah, well since you were kind enough to visit Eric's father's funeral, we've been married" she said. "and Eric's mother passed away".

"Ah" he said. "Sorry to hear that. Congratulations and condolences then." And he looked at the Group Operations room, gesturing with his cigar. "And what brings you here?"

"Ah, well, I had a feeling like today might be an important day" she said, tentatively, and looked down at her feet, and then up. "And I took some leave from the ATA to spend the day here, courtesy of a friend Moxie, who works here, who is trying to recruit me."

"Quite" he said, and debated whether to tell her that hundreds of bombers were on their way, and that the very fate of the war would probably be decided this day.

"Well, Mrs. Wallace" he said "Over 1500 aircraft are expected to take part in the battle today. It will likely be decisive" he said, and Edith thought about her vision of the anti-aircraft gun, and a scowl developed on her face.

"I wish I could stand at an anti-aircraft gun and blast those bloody Nazi bastards right out of the bleeding sky" she said, and gripped the handrail, staring down at the Group Operations room with a defiant look. Winston almost smiled, thinking of the pictures he'd seen of a protective tigress. _Well, if the Nazis manage to invade, then they'll certainly have hell to pay when they come onshore._ And they both looked out silently as reports started coming in of engagements.

\--

Douglas Bader made an announcement as their squadron neared the conflict area, which was gathering intensity, like a storm.

"Lads, the bombers are coming in towards London from the south-east." and then he broke off as they saw the group of bombers off in the distance.

"Holy mother of God" said Paddy Dugan, and cross himself with a free hand, as the squadron each opened up their throttles to climb up towards them.

"We'll aim for a point well ahead" said Douglas "where we can expect to join them at their own height."

Eric looked at the bombers and noticed other squadrons of Hurricanes and Spitfires were joining in. As they neared position he looked down and noticed they had reached central London.

"We've gained some height on them, so when I give the order to attack we can dive on them from their right" said Bader "Everyone select your target"

The squadron bore down, increasing in speed, and Rudy shook his head, thinking about how an ancestor had fought the English in the Revolutionary War, and how his cousin Ernst was fighting on Germany's side, and how German mercenaries had fought on England's side. _War his hell_ , he muttered, and opened up the hail of bullets on his target, a Dornier bomber. His burst lasted several seconds as the Dornier began to turn away from the formation. White smoke started streaming behind him.

Eric's eyes darted between several bombers on the perimeter, and he weaved in a criss cross pattern, loosing off several seconds of a burst on one plane, and rolling towards another. As he made a steep climbing turn, he looked down and saw the river Thames directly below him, through a hole in the clouds, recognizing the bends and the bridges, wondering where they were. Then he saw the Kennington Oval, and thought to himself, _this is where they play cricket_.

Rudy saw a Do17 bomber trailing white smoke, which had been hit by a Spitfire and Hurricane, who were following it closely. He looked around and didn't see anything else to attack, so he climbed up above the bomber to make a diving attack. "Take that Nazi bastard for ruining my breakfast!" and he increased his throttle into a screaming arc. As the distance between his plane and the bomber narrowed rapidly, he saw a red light in the rear-gunners cockpit. _Must be fire._ And he let a burst loose on the plane, noticing as he passed that the inside of the plane was a smoldering inferno. The bomber went into a spin as the wing sections beyond the engines broke away and then the tail broke away, and the fuselage fell towards the earth.

Eric felt a sense of becoming a hunter, trying to take down as many bombers as possible, wondering how many people the bombers would otherwise kill. He saw a grouping of three bombers, and let a burst loose on one, yelling "That's for Tommy you bastard!" and then cursed, as a spray of black oil covered his windscreen and he was enveloped in black smoke. He squinted and accelerated towards a second bomber ahead, lined it up on his sights, and yelled "That's for my George!" and let another burst loose, and smoke and flames jetted out from the bomber as it veered away. As he neared the third, he yelled "And that's for Elicia!", but then his plane shuddered and he started to go into a wild spin. _I must have clipped the third bomber_ he thought in passing, as he struggled.

_Pull the safety harness, lean forward, release the hood._ But the spinning, gyrating plane and the G forces were making it difficult and he cursed. He managed to free himself finally and jumped, pulling the parachute ring, and the parachute billowed open as he plunged towards the earth at a dangerously low altitude. He blinked his eyes and he noticed the rooftops of houses coming up at him fast. _Is this Chelsea?_ He thought to himself, as his backside hit the sloping roof of one of the houses, and he began to slide down the side, over the guttering, and landed in the garden below, and into a garbage bin. He was stunned, breathing rapidly, and then started laughing uproariously, smacking the sides of the garbage bin. _Rudy is going to give me a hard time about this one, the Yankee bastard._

About a mile away, one of the bombers Eric hit came sweeping down in a blinding blur, crashing into the forecourt of Victoria station, demolishing a small tobacconist's shop.

\--

Keith Park gave Winston Churchill an operational report.

"The bf109's are being held over the northern area of Kent and it appears that only a few are managing to escape from the onslaught by the Spitfires."

"What's the array of the bombers?" asked Winston Churchill, reviewing the typed update.

"He111's, Do17's, Do215's" he said. "Some are dropping their bombs at random, others are trying to make it to their targets in vain".

\--

Otto Spaeder was at the controls of a bomber, and knew that the mission was in disarray. He looked around him and saw that only about a third of the bf109 escort was still there. He saw them peel away one by one, and then realized that in front of that a mass of 5 to 10 squadrons as closing in.

\--

Rudy, Paddy and Douglas and others reformed, and then dived to go after a pack of Me109's that had dived down on them. Rudy cursed and couldn't get his sights on any of the planes, and he pulled out to fly south, climbing. After a few minutes he saw six Me109's flying in a line just above him. _Well thank my lucky stars, this Gryphon will get you bastards._ The Me109's saw him and attacked, and he rolled to get behind two of them, and they rolled away, and the rest flew off to the south. Rudy turned and saw the remaining aircraft attacking him head on. The planes converged on each other in a split second, and the Me109 passed above him in a blur and then climbed. _Gotcha!_

Rudy climbed, turned, climbed steeply, came up underneath the enemy aircraft and gave him a couple of bursts, and stalled, as the plane reached its limit of vertical climb. Rudy looked around and saw the Me109 in a glide, which gradually became steeper, as it disappeared into a cloud. Rudy entered the cloud, circling in a wide arc, and he saw a fire just beginning below, from the wreckage.

\--

After their scattered sorties Bader reformed the squadron again, climbed for altitude and were cruising at 25,000 feet. They closed on the western boroughs of London, they saw bombers 3,000 feet below, and were about to make an attack when a formation of bf109's came out of the sun.

"Aces 2'oclock! Spitfires of 19 and 611 squadrons, take on the German fighters" and the attending squadrons scattered the bf109's, who flew off to the south east. Then Hurricanes of Martlesham and Hendon squadrons closed in to attack the bombers. Bader waited for them to complete their sweep.

"Hurricane squadrons, fall into line behind and prepare to attack"

Douglas and the others came in on an almost vertical dive, pressing the planes to their utmost limit of speed. Douglas aimed for the center bomber, with Paddy aiming for the left-hand and Rudy aiming for the right. Bader's first burst caused his target's wing to burst into flame, and he pulled up to attack a Dornier ahead, but a Spitfire was in his way and he broke off, constantly watching for other fighters. Ahead, a Spitfire smashed into a bomber and the two fell earthwards. He cursed at the lack of coordination – either the Germans were vastly outnumbered or the British had committed too many fighters. It was a chaotic melee. _At least we're bringing the German bombers down_ , he said under his breath.

\--

Rudy returned from the mornings operations, dead weary, and watched as the planes were refueled and re-armed. He didn't see Eric, and wondered if he was ok, but he was too tired to think, and sat with Paddy on the airfield, exhausted. The intelligence officer came around to ask for their operational report. They sat in the midday sun, lolling for nearly an hour, as the scramble came for the next wave of enemy aircraft.

_It's going to be a long day._ thought Rudy, as he ran towards the plane once again. _Business as usual, but when am I going to get my damn breakfast!_

Chapter Eighteen

London Daily Telegraph, 9/15/40

There is no doubt, that again the Luftwaffe were their own worst enemies on this mornings raid. Too many aircraft being dispatched from a rather enclosed area of Calais, the manner in which they organized their formations over the Channel, it was too cumbersome and too slow, and again, Göring did not value the worth that radar had for the British. All the time the enemy bombers and their escorts were forming up, Fighter Command had a birds-eye view of the proceedings that was going on across the Channel. It allowed Keith Park the time he needed to organize his squadrons, paying particular attention to which squadron was to be vectored where. Of course, it also allowed him to call on the 'Duxford Wing' giving them more than the time required to form and be in the right position at the right time when they made their interception.

The meeting was highly secret, and some people who attended had agreed to be blindfolded. They only knew that they were somewhere in Germany or France, and as all 10 of the participants sat down around the table, recognition dawned, and they searched each others faces, knowing that any one of them could betray all of them, and that any hint of their meeting could result in all of them being shot. The gravity of what they were doing reached all of them, as their identities were unveiled, members of the top echelons of the German military structure, without their uniforms. And notably, not a single Swastika on display. They all carried a death sentence, imprinted as surely on their hearts as the tattoos on the Jews who were being sent to concentration camps.

"Welcome, brothers, to Schwarze Kapelle, the Black Orchestra." the solemn voice said, and he looked into eyes that he knew so well. "It was not so long ago that we all sat in the Kroll Opera House, listening to Herr Hitler, and now we see what has become of the supposed invasion of England".

"Dumkopf!" a voice hissed, and a hand struck the table. And in a more measured voice. "That idiot Goering lost control of the Battle of Britain!" The host of the meeting nodded.

"Yes, he was ever so confident he could drive the RAF from the skies and secure the surrender of the British by means of the Luftwaffe alone."

Another voice chimed in, a senior commander of the Wehrmracht, the unified armed forces of Germany.

"What do the British say about Schwarze Kapelle? How were the overtures received?"

The moderator sighed.

"The Venlo incident has made them highly suspicious."

"The Venlo incidient?" asked another voice.

"Yes – I suppose given the circumstances it does no good to pretend there are any secrets among us. Yes, the Gestapo damn them! They made false overtures to the British government, and lured two British Secret Intelligence Service agents to the outskirts of the town of Venlo, Netherlands, in November of last year."

"What were the SIS agents told?"

"That members of the German military wanted to overthrow Hitler!"

They all sat in silence, thinking about how very dangerous the game they were playing was. A powerful commander from Abwehr, Military Intelligence spoke up, who had no love for the British.

"Do the British realize that we have no intention of surrender once Hitler is overthrown, that we merely intend to consolidate our gains?"

"We have to assume that they either know this, or suspect it, but that we must continue to try and make overtures – but not assume we will have any help."

The host looked up. "Gentlemen, our time is short, so we must discuss the task at hand. I think we are agreed that Hitler made a fatal, strategic error when he insisted on switching to massive night bombings of London. Are we agreed?" Patriotic generals and commanders stared into space, and nodded.

"Very well, we must talk about Russia." and the mood became grimmer, if such were possible, as they looked at a map of Europe and Russia before them.

"As you know, we face significant challenges in procuring raw materials, combined with the potential collision with the Soviet Union over territory in the Balkans."

"Oh please dispense with the pleasantries! It's not a challenge, it's a crisis!" exclaimed another general.

"Very well. And it appears that in spite of our pact with Stalin, only an invasion of the Soviet Union will satisfy Hitler's demand for more raw materials."

"The madman must be stopped" said a quiet voice, who had not spoken before, and they all turned to him in deference. "In June, Herr Hitler told me that the victories in Europe had finally freed his hands for the real task – the showdown with Bolshevism".

"So that has been his plan all along? Betray Stalin, invade the Soviet Union, and spend the blood and steel on a hopeless quest to invade the Soviet Union?!?! By all the heavens and fire on earth below" and a hand smacked down on the map "have we not learned from Napoleon?!?!" and they all involuntarily looked at the vast, large territory of the Soviet Union, stretching ever eastward, and they each shuddered inside, thinking of how as boys they had learned of Napoleon's quest to conquer Russia, and how the Russian winter had conquered Napoleon, as his supply lines had stretched ever further. Another voice chimed in, quietly.

"We can occupy Western Russia, at least. And we told Herr Hitler that occupying Western Russia would create more of a drain than a relief for Germany's economic situation. But Hitler is not content to consolidate our gains. He will inevitably try to invade Russia, and victory is far from assured."

"Victory is impossible!" exclaimed another voice, the most senior commander at the meeting. "Does anyone here seriously doubt that America will eventually enter the war?" No one spoke. "And when Herr Hitler forces us to invade the Soviet Union, does anyone doubt that America will end up supporting the Soviet Union?"

"There are the isolationists . . . I have friends in high places in the Nazi party who have visited New York City and spoken with manufacturers there who were friendly . . ."

"Bah! Japan is likely to attack America."

"Japan? Surely not."

"Surely so, because Japan is being squeezed in the same way we are – we are running out of oil!" And the host broke in again.

"Gentleman, are we agreed that England is a lost cause?" There were nods.

"We should have continued striking the airfields, when British defenses were reeling from losses in the air and on the ground. We should have finished them when we had the chance. We have now given them time to recover!"

"And now we need to fortify our defenses in France. How many years before the Americans invade Europe? Anyone?" and the host looked around the room, and put his finger down on Normandy to bring the point home.

"Within four to five years."

"The losses in the Soviet Union will enormous. And when the Russians come back to Berlin, they will descend on the city with savage fury."

"With England as a forward airbase, the U.S. will bomb Germany without mercy, both military and civilian targets". The host looked around the table, and felt the time was right.

"We are agreed, then. We must try to kill Adolf Hitler."

"How? When?"

"It will take years, perhaps. And it will become ever harder for us to communicate, and ever more dangerous. Perhaps an opportunity will be present itself. But most likely, a bomb."

"One of us could just shoot him." Suggested another person.

"Would anyone like to volunteer for that?" asked the host. "With a guarantee of instantly being shot yourself, or tortured, no guarantee that he will die, and also lose your place to try and influence the war?" There were no volunteers.

"A bomb, then. And in the meantime, we have no choice but to invade Russia, throwing all of our weight and fury, in the attempt to destroy the Soviet Union. Destroy the Soviet Union completely, or we are destroyed. Destroy Hitler, or we are destroyed." The host looked around the room with finality, wondering if any of them would survive the war. "And now we must go".

\--

Ernst Grunen was gratified to receive the envoy from Winston Churchill. He had been blindfolded, escorted from the prison camp where he was being held, and judging by the time, taken to a location within several kilometers of the prison camp.

"So you were saying, Mr. Grunen?" asked the attendant, taking notes.

Ernst sighed, realizing that he would have to take the risk, and that the lives of so many people would be placed within the hands of this young clerk. He deserved at least to know his name.

"What is your name, if I might ask?"

"Nigel. Just Nigel." said the clerk.

"Nigel, do you know who Erwin Rommel is?" asked Ernst.

Nigel Hawthorne remembered reading an article about Erwin Rommel, one of Hitler's top generals, a tank commander who had made rapid gains in France. He was one of the most highly decorated German military commanders, but uncharacteristically, he was known to be humane in his treatment of prisoners.

"Of course" said Nigel, making a note.

"Well if your intelligence service hadn't made the connection, I can tell you that Erwin Rommel is my cousin." said Ernst, watching the man's face carefully, which registered some surprise. Ernst sighed. _This will not be enough. I will have to risk my life, and the life of a hundred other men, by mentioning the trump card that Erwin had given me, the last time we met._

Ernst remembered going on a trip to the Bavarian Alps with his relatives, including Erwin Rommel, and they had taken a liking to each other. Out under the sun, the crisp air, the challenging hike had given them a sense of camaraderie. Ernst had adored Rommel, a brilliant man, but also reasonable. He had been an influence on his wanting to become a soldier, and had been an early encouragement on his learning how to fly.

And then, in the midst of the battle of France, Erwin had looked carefully at Ernst for a long time, and had astounded Ernst by telling him that he was placing his life in Ernst's hands, and how he was beginning to have some doubts about Hitler. He had given Ernst a trump card, to present to the English if he should ever find himself a prisoner there. 'Try and speak to Churchill if you can." Erwin had said. _And here I am, speaking to and attendant. Such a delicate conversation._ Ernst sighed.

"Ok, Nigel, life is short and every day counts. Go and talk to Winston Churchill, and mention these two things. Please look at me for a moment, this is very important" and Nigel looked up, and noticed how earnest the expression was. "please do not mention these two phrases to anyone, and please do not write them down"

Nigel thought for a moment, looking at Ernst, and instinct told him that they should probably speak alone. He waived the military guard away. "Please give us a moment" and the guard left the room.

"You have my attention" said Nigel, who put down his pencil.

"Just mention these two phrases: Schwarze Kapelle, and the Invasion of Russia". Nigel, being nominally an attendant, but also being a member of British Intelligence, knew the importance immediately, and wondered if it registered on his face.

\--

A few days later, Winston Churchill sat in front of the young German pilot, smoking a cigar, and surmising him. British intelligence, the military, and every other official he had spoken to in meetings had advised against meeting with Ernst, claiming that Ernst could be a spy, that he might have a bomb implanted in his skull – any number of fantastical plots. They were even suspicious of Rudy Mitchell, like the good attack dogs they were, wondering if Rudy Mitchell was some kind of elaborate plant from the Gestapo. _They had a right to be paranoid, god bless them, after the Venlo incident._ But Winston had spoken to Eric Wallace, a friend of Rudy Mitchell's, and Winston had sat with the both of them, and the conspiracy just didn't fit, and besides, they'd scanned Ernst with an xray machine, probed every part of his body.

"So, Erwin Rommel told you about Scharze Kapelle, and you claim to be neither part of German Military Intelligence or the Gestapo?" asked Winston.

"Mr. Churchill – I volunteered for the mission to bomb Rudy's house because I wanted to try and stop it, and I did. And I am volunteering to go back to Germany and try and kill Hitler." he said. "Erwin told me about the Venlo incident, how your agents were taken by the Gestapo, but you have nothing to lose here – I am willing to go myself. I have come to despise the man, what he stands for, and furthermore, I believe he insane. I also suspect Goering is insane."

"Oh? Goering"

"Goering is brilliant in his own way" said Ernst, aware that every word was being recorded. "Yet another thing you might wish to know is that he is constantly on morphine, and has been since 1923" Ernst let this sink in, but he could not read Churchill's face. "And I believe, actually I know, and have seen signs . . . that it has affected his mental state" he said.

_Well, well, it does not surprise me_ , thought Winston Churchill.

"I don't suppose you can corroborate this?" asked Winston Churchill.

"No, but Erwin Rommel also gave me the name of Hitler's private doctor Morell"

"We know about Morell"

"Yes, of course, he is publicly part of Hitler's circle. Goering thinks he is a quack. But what Erin told me is that each morning, Morell gives Hitler a vitamin preparation he calls Vitamultin, and that a contact in the SS took a packet, had it tested, and it tested for methamphetamine." And he let that sink in for a moment, seeing if anything would register.

"Methamphetamine, quite." _The whole bloody Nazi fighting machine on drugs_ , Winston thought, _and now the leadership, God help us_.

"Well sir, along with many other pilots and soldiers, I myself have taken Pervitin, and when Erwin spoke to me about it, he said that between April and July, 33 to 35 million doses were manufactured by the army and air force."

"So basically, you're warning me, telling me that both Goering and Hitler are drug-crazed maniacs?" asked Winston Churchill, wryly.

"Yes sir. I believe both Goering and Hitler exhibit . . . symptoms . . . that I myself have personally experienced. And I've been up close around them both."

Winston sighed.

"About the Soviet Union, then?" the mention of the invasion of Soviet Union had at once filled him with hope that England may yet survive, and also dread, thinking about the Nazi war machine descending on Russia. The thought did not shock him, but he was curious enough to speak to this young German pilot who wanted to kill Hitler.

"Yes, sir." and Ernst felt a curious sensation that by talking to Winston Churchill, he was being loyal to the future of Germany – not its present leadership, but the people of Germany, and to all those whom Hitler had been persecuting. Ernst knew that Churchill had fought against Germany in the trenches, but he also knew that he didn't hate Germans, just Hitler. And he didn't have the appearance of hate – looking at him, he had the appearance of pugnacity, defiance, and realism, as well as courage. Ernst thought forward fifty years, thinking about Communism in Russia, about Stalin.

"Sir, if I might ask you for your perspective – do you think that someday people in Russia will be free from Stalin and Communism, and that Germany will be free from Hitler and Nazism? How long will that be?" he asked, and Winston found himself liking the pilot in spite of himself, as he thought back to the Great War, and Christmas Day of 1915, when they had heard the Germans singing the Christmas carol "Silent Night" 100 meters away, and they had responded by singing "Good King Wenceslas".

The killing had been savage and horrific on both sides, hundreds of thousands had died up until that day, and millions would die thereafter, but by some miracle of sanity, or insanity, a small group of soldiers from both sides had stepped up beyond the deadly zone of the trenches and actually played football!

"Perhaps, if we're lucky. How long do you think it will be?"

Ernst thought for a moment, and said hopefully, "100 years?"

"Let's make it 50" said Winston Churchill, marveling at the unassuming audacity of the young pilot. "Now, where were we?"

"Sorry, sir." said Ernst, feeling the freedom of being wiling to die. "Erwin also spoke to me in France about the dire situation Germany is facing with oil. And one of his contacts in the German Military High Command told him that Hitler mentioned his ultimate goal is to destroy the Bolsheviks. Erwin told me about Schwarze Kapelle, and how he wasn't sure he agreed with them, but he also mentioned Hitler's zealous madness for power, and how it reminded him of Napoleon".

"So you, and your relative Rommel, and others, presumably, believe that it's only a matter of time before Hitler invades Russia."

"Yes, sir, and Erwin was a bit of a cynic about England. He was afraid that Hitler would make bad or erratic decisions about England, and when I as forthcoming about my impressions of Goering, we both weren't hopeful. I do have to admit that we both had been drinking, and so our guard was down. After that meeting I didn't think much more about it, because I was afraid the Gestapo would find out somehow and I would be shot, so I bottled it up inside." and then he was quiet, thinking about how he had gone from being one of Germany's top fighter pilots, to an enemy of Hitlers.

"And then you began to have doubts?" asked Winston, gently.

Ernst nodded. "Yes sir, and admittedly, the Pervitin was taking its toll – I was off of it, and then on it again, trying to escape from my doubts. But when I was in the Kroll Opera house, sitting there listening to Hitler and his 'Last Appeal to Reason', I became convinced that while the German military may be loyal and noble, Hitler and Goering and the Nazi war machine had collectively become insane. They are all insane, Prime Minister."

"Agreed" said Winston, and he was convinced of the pilot's sincerity. He stubbed out his cigarette. It's going to be a long war.

"So, I can tell you, that you won't get anywhere trying to convince me or British intelligence to overtly support a plot against Hitler" and Ernst looked crestfallen. _I'm trying to save your life, young man._ He sighed. _Blood and glory, is it?_

"What if I was to escape somehow?" asked Ernst.

"Well the truth is, only one prisoner of war escaped from England in the last war, and we don't intend to let any escape in this war, and the Gestapo also knows this. You'd almost certainly be shot if you went back to England." he said, wondering what to do with the young man.

Ernst thought quickly. _Ok, let's go to plan B, here goes._

"Ok, how about I try to take a bomber to France, and kill Goering in his headquarters? Maybe a captured German bomber, escorted by some captured German fighters? I know the protocols. It would certainly be a suicide mission, but I do believe Goering is insane, and so is Hitler"

Winston sat there, admiring the pluck of this pilot. The risks were enormous, the propaganda value would be great if it could be carried off, but Goering was erratic to begin with, and his star was no longer rising. If Hitler turns to Russia then Goering might be a lost cause anyway. He may be of more value in a trial for war crimes, after the war, if he survives. Then again, Hitler might be shaken by the death of one of his inner circle – or enraged.

"I find myself in the strange position of wanting to ask the Queen to give a knighthood to a bloody German pilot who has probably killed my countrymen." Churchill said, staring at Ernst, who lowered his head. "I appreciate what you're offering, and I believe the risks are too great and the likelihood of a return too small. But I'll think about it." he said.

"Yes sir, I understand. War is hell."

As the small convoy took Winston away from the prison camp, he thought deeply, and reached inside his coat pocket for the little stopwatch, gazing at the Dragonfly, and the emblem, _Liberet et Defendat_. He thought about how if the Allies won, Germany would need to be rebuilt in a better way after this war than the last, and that minds like Ernst's would be sorely needed. _I have half a mind to mention Ernst to young Eric Wallace as a potential recruit for the Order of the Dragonfly_ , he thought. Winston began humming Silent Night, and then glared at an attendant, who was looking at him from over the top of some papers. The attendant ducked under his paper. "Sorry sir". And Winston looked out the window, and lit a cigar, and hummed King Wenceslas, as they rode back towards London.

Chapter Nineteen

Hastings by the Sea Reporter

OBITUARY

JOHN ROSE, 1888-1940 – ALICE ROSE, 1887-1940

John and Alice Rose were killed in an air raid when they were visiting relatives recently. John was a bookkeeper in Hastings, and served with distinction as a pilot in World War One. Alice Rose was an accomplished pianist, and award-winning gardener, gaining several awards in yearly Hastings First Bloom flower show; she also volunteered regularly at that Veteran's Hospital. The couple is survived by their daughter Edith Wallace, a ferry pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary, recently married to Eric Wallace, a pilot with the RAF.

Edith was numb, as she sat in her parents flat in Hastings, several weeks after the funeral, going through their things. She was determined to sell the flat, and try as best she could to move on. Her grief had been deep, taking her breath away, in spite of all the death and destruction that surrounded her.

She sat at the kitchen table, looking at some of the books she'd kept, and found that she wasn't quite ready to part with everything. Edith picked up a small green volume, which had been given to her grandmother with an inscription inside:

To Martha Woolsley, on the occasion of Alice's birth

It was a copy of Alice in Wonderland, and Edith vaguely remembered her mother reading it to her when she was a girl, and the images of the Chesire Cat, and the rabbit always running around with his timepiece. She felt a sense of childhood reach out to her, so far away, like a distant land, and she put her hands on her tummy, thinking about the new life that had recently started there. She thought about the argument with Eric, the first real row of their marriage, about her insistence on continuing to fly for the ATA. There had been some heated words, but finally Eric had backed down, saying "well, at least our child will learn how to fly in the womb", and he was consoled with her agreement to quit eventually.

Edith looked up at the Calendar – it was October 31st, 1940. She thought that might work out to a birth around the beginning of June in 1941. She hoped earnestly that Eric would survive the Blitz, and she looked outside, noticing that she hadn't heard any telltale signs of battle so far that day.

As she stood up in the early morning sun, she felt a pang of nausea, and stood over the kitchen sink, feeling heavy. _So this is what my mother must have felt like._ When it passed, she made herself a cup of tea, and was adding honey and milk, when she heard a knock at the door.

She looked out and saw a smartly dressed, official looking man. For a moment she felt her mind dart between panic, at the thought of a government official coming to tell her of something happening with Eric – and then realized that he wasn't wearing military dress.

"Hello, ma'am" he said. "I'm George Tenney, in the service of Her Majesty" and he gave her a card that had 10 Downing Street on it. "Might I have a word?"

"About what?" she asked flatly, and noticed that he appeared concerned, glancing up and down the street. Another figure waited in the car.

"Well that's it, ma'am, it's a government matter, and Winston Churchill sent us" he said apologetically. "Ah! And he said it was to do with the Order of the Dragonfly" And Edith raised an eyebrow, and let George in.

"Cup of tea?"

"No ma'am"

"Well, get on with it"

"Yes, well, we wondered if you would be interested in getting some training on being a fighter pilot and then training others?" and Edith sat straight up and her heart began racing.

"Really? You're kidding." she asked, holding her breath.

"No ma'am – I realize it's a bit out of the ordinary" and he stuck his finger in his collar, pulling it loose a bit. "And I should say we're not asking you to go into combat" Edith frowned.

"And who am I to learn tactics from?" she asked incredulously.

George Tenney looked around the flat and asked in a whisper "is anyone else here, ma'am?" and it seemed so comical that Edith wondered if he was a looney. Her face lightened a bit and she sighed.

"No." she said, and folded her arms, and she wondered if her pregnancy was affecting her sensitivity at all.

"Well ma'am, there's a German pilot who's been captured . . ."

"A German pilot!" she exclaimed. "That's absurd!" and her voice began to rise in anger with each word. "You come in here, bursting into my home, and tell me fanciful stories about becoming a fighter pilot, and . . . " and George started to stutter, as Eric Wallace looked in from the doorway, smiling.

"Now now, George, I had better take over."

"Eric!" Edith exclaimed, and rushed into his arms, and gave him a passionate kiss.

"Well, well, my feisty ferry pilot, let's not embarrass representatives of Her Majesty's government too much, shall we?" and he nodded at George.

"So what's afoot, Eric, why in the world are you even here, and what's all this got to do with? Was this some kind of joke?" and Eric and George looked at each other.

"No joke dear. Do you remember Rudy?"

"Of course, is Rudy ok?"

"Yes, yes – well he has a cousin who flew with the Luftwaffe until recently" he said, and looked with a meaningful glance at George, who nodded.

"And no one knows that we have him – but he didn't get captured exactly – he shot down other German planes, so that he could escape, and try to help us fight against Hitler". Edith absorbed this, and looked at both of them like they were from another planet.

"And what's this got to do with me?" she asked.

"Well dear, we wondered if you'd be willing to learn fighter tactics from Rudy's cousin, flying a bf109 that we've captured and restored."

"Why can't he train pilots directly?"

"Well that's the thing. The air ministry, those who know about it, are very small in number, and they'd like to keep it secret – if the public found out that a German pilot was training the RAF, there's no telling what would happen. So we'd like to try having him train you, and you training RAF pilots in turn."

"Where? How?" she asked, with a glimmer of hope. _This was real. I can learn how to be a fighter pilot!_

"Well there's no time to lose, so any time you're ready."

"Let's be off then!" and Edith stood up, and took one box of books, and put it in Eric's hands, ignoring the smile on this face, and she put the other box in George Tenney's hands, who didn't dare smirk at the feisty ferry pilot. Winston warned me about her.

And they sat next to each other on the way to the airbase, enjoying what they could of the day, and being together.

"So how can you trust this German pilot?" she asked. Eric looked at George, who nodded.

"Well, they've tested him a few times, in several ways. Winston Churchill had a long talk with him, and he's been separated at the prison camp from the beginning from all the other prisoners. Very few people know about him. But he gave some information to Winston Churchill directly about some important people in the German army, and their intentions, and his hatred for the Nazi regime was sufficient enough to convince Winston."

"Fair enough. Is he a good pilot?" she asked, wondering what she'd learn.

"Yes, he's an ace, one of their best" said Eric. "What's more, they even sent him up in a plane, and falsified the fuel gauge so he could only go so far as the coast, but he returned, as meek as a mouse. He's already given me a few helpful pointers."

"Ok then Eric, I'll be glad to take part in your dastardly scheme." and she took his hand and muttered "Perhaps someday the RAF will allow me to be a real fighter pilot" and she had a smile of her own, noticing Eric open his mouth to say something, and look at her, and then close it, sighing. _That's my girl_.

\--

In Berlin, a Nazi staff member, Otto Spiegel, read a very short memo to the Fuehrer.

"The weather conditions in England today were overcast. There were some light raids, but no losses on either side."

"Very well" said Adolf Hitler. "We shall now turn to Russia. Please draft a note to all of the High Command. We will continue to take bombers away from England, and place them at the agreed gathering point in their forward stations. We will prepare for Operation Barbarossa, and continue to give Stalin the impression that we are allies with him, and continue to get as much oil and raw materials and food from the Soviet Union as possible, while paying them as little money as possible. We cannot create the least suspicion. And then in June of next year, we will strike!"

The attendant took his note, saluted Hitler, and walked down the very long hall in Berlin, to set their plans in motion.

Chapter Twenty

Hastings by the Sea Reporter

Victory In Europe Day – Special Edition – May 8th, 1945

Recent Births

ALICE WALLACE – April 24th, 1945

Alice Wallace was born to Eric and Edith Wallace, at 2am on April 24th. They will have a party at Burlston Hall, the estate of Lord Cranshaw, who is godfather of the Wallace's children, including William, 3. The party is open to all RAF pilots and their families who served in the Battle of Britain, and has been planned in anticipation of the victory in Europe.

Edith felt the festivity in the air as Eric drove the huge black lumbering car up the road towards Burlston Hall, through a cathedral of trees that had been carefully tended over the years. Young William peered out at the lawns, and brightened when he saw the tents and balloons.

"Is it my birthday?" he asked. "I'm almost 4 years old!"

"No William, it's not your birthday, this is to celebrate your sister being born."

"Will there be presents?" he asked.

"We'll, we'll see about that" said Edith, mysteriously, and patted his leg. Thankfully, Alice was quietly sleeping at least for the moment. Boy was she thirsty.

Lord Cranshaw stood on the front steps, and Edith squinted, and then gasped, when she saw who was standing next to him. She rolled down the window even before they pulled to a stop.

"Rudy, you Yankee bastard!"

Lord Cranshaw looked at Winston Churchill, who was smiling. Edith stepped out of the car, carrying Alice, and saw Winston Churchill.

"Oh!" she said, embarrassed, and then not embarrassed. _Now why was Winston Churchill here, today, this day of all days? Well, I won't question good tidings._

"Hello Edith, I've only come to have a talk with you and Lord Cranshaw, and your family, and two others, who I think you know." She saw Rudy and Ernst Grunen 100 feet away, coming around the corner of the manor, and Edith nearly dropped Alice, but quickly put her into Lord Cranshaw's arms, who nearly glowed at the honor, as she ran off with excitement. "Rudy! You're back!" and she flew into his arms and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Why is mom so excited?" asked William, holding Eric's hand. "Has she gone looney?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes, William, everyone's gone looney today. That is Rudy, a good friend of ours who flew with me in the Royal Air Force, and he went back to America to train American pilots, and now he's back."

"He's a pilot?" asked William.

"Yes, and if you'd like to make him happy, call him Uncle Rudy, like you call Ernst Uncle Ernst" he said.

"Ok" said William. "How many uncles do I have?"

"Just two. Neither your mother or I have siblings, so Ernst and Rudy are your special uncles, and when they get married, you'll have aunties."

"Well, Eric, nice to see you hale and hearty."

"Thank you, Prime Minister." said Eric, who wondered what was happening.

"What's afoot? It's a surprise to see you here."

"Ah well, do you remember back when I last saw you, in 1940?" Winston looked down at William and said to William. "Your father was supposed to get in touch with me, and he didn't!"

"Was father naughty?" asked William, sensing humor in the man's tone of voice.

"Yes, very naughty". Eric sighed.

"Well, you know, I didn't want to assume that our conversation was anything other than politeness about my father serving with you in the trenches." said Eric. "And with the war and all . . ."

"Quite, quite. I've been busy too – but I've a moment to talk, and I believe it's a good time, and a good day. An auspicious day, rather" he said. "So if you'll do me the honor?"

And a few minutes later they were seated in the drawing room of Burlston Hall, with Lord Cranshaw and Winston Churchill sitting in two great chairs, and Rudy, Ernst, Edith and Eric sitting opposite, with Alice sitting on Edith's lap, and William playing with a plane on the floor.

"Well Eric, I'll get right to the point, but before I do, I'll let Lord Cranshaw speak." And Lord Cranshaw cleared his throad, but then Winston went on. "But before he does, I'll at least have the fun of letting you in on one of the surprises."

"A surprise?" William turned up and asked. "I love surprises" and Edith began to shush hum, but Winston said. "No it's quite alright. Yes William, surprises are sometimes big, and sometimes small. And sometimes they are just suprises". And he looked at the four pilots in front of him.

"Now each of you has nobly been inducted into the Order of the Dragonfly, correct?" And they all looked at each other, and back at him, and nodded. Eric wondered what was coming, and then remembered his letter to Winston Churchill of several years ago, telling him that he was going ahead with the founding of the Order of the Dragonfly, and to thank him for the key that Winston Churchill had given him, which he had assumed was symbolic. In Winston's letter, which they had been given at George Wallace's funeral, Winston included a key, and indicated that it was a key to the future, and symbolic, but emphasized – please do not lose it, and try not to lose your life either. At the time the Order was created, it was partly in honor of his father, and his mother, who had gone to try rescue others and gave their lives in the process. And Eric had felt it good to include Ernst, who had worked hard to help England defend itself, and had brought honor to the German people. It had also seemed good to include Rudy, as well as Edith. _I wonder what Winston is up to._

"Well, I want to be the first to let you know that Lord Cranshaw is also a member of the Order of the Dragonfly – the old order, that is, when it was started in the midst of the trenches back in France." And each of the young pilots looked with pride at Winston Churchill and Lord Cranshaw, and nodded.

"Here, here" said Rudy, raising his glass.

"Ok, Winston, and now it's my turn for a surprise" and he looked around, and felt his heart start to beat, and his voice start to break. _Now Bernie, you're a Lord of the Realm and if you're not that, then you made it through the trenches. You lost all your children as a result of this war and you survived, and now you're a godfather in spite of the loss. So you just keep going._

"Now this is directed mostly at Eric and Edith" said Lord Cranshaw, thinking of Tommy, dying in a bombing raid, and his three daughters killed by a U-boat on holiday, and he remembered the grief. And he looked at Edith and Eric, adults, yet orphaned by war.

"Now you know how much I missed my Tommy, and my daughters" he said, and stopped for a moment, looking down, with his hands on his knees, not knowing if he could make it through the next sentence, but he looked up, his eyes streaming. Edith set Alice gently in Ernst's arms, and she nestled, as she stepped over quietly to sit by Lord Cranshaw, taking his hand.

"Now you know much I missed my children" and tears started streaming, and Edith started crying. "But I want to thank you for adopting me as your godfather." And he sniffed, continuing, and breathed, looking at Winston, who held his gaze.

"And frankly, neither Winston or I, or your father, were quite sure we'd make it out of the trenches, but we did. And Eric, we weren't certain you'd make it through this war, either. Or you for that matter, Edith." He took out his pocket handkerchief.

"But you all _made_ it, by God". And he looked around at Burlston Manor, which had grown cold to him, except for the times when the Wallace family was there.

"So I've talked with Winston – we're the only surviving members of the Old Order, but we've some sway, each in our own way, and what I'd like to do Eric, is to make you my heir, to formally adopt you, and name you as my heir." and Eric was surprised, but re-assured by the sincerity in Lord Cranshaw's voice, who had grown to be like a father to him in the last few years, giving him advice, and being a mentor. Edith squeezed his hand.

"Now both Winston and I know that the war has taken a toll on you, and also that you've been developing a conspiracy amongst yourselves about going to America." and the four young pilots looked at each other, and they all realized that Rudy had let the cat out of the bag.

"And I want to say, that I think you should go ahead and do it – go ahead to America, and then come back as you can. It won't change my decision. And part of the decision, and part of the reason is so that the Order of the Dragonfly will have some resources to work with, in honor of the vision your father had for it, and in honor of where you take that vision, and where it evolves, based on what you were saying in the letter when you reported the newest members" and he looked at Rudy and Ernst, and nodded. William looked up and interrupted.

"Lord Cranshaw, will you be coming to America?" and when Edith saw the look on Lord Cranshaw's face, her heart nearly broke, so instead of shushing William, she looked at Eric questioningly, and she knew they were of the same mind.

"Lord Cranshaw, we would be honored if you would come to America with us, for as long or as short as you'd like" and she squeezed his hand, and hoped that there was some healing in the tears on his face. _So much loss, so few tears, but at least their time has come to pass._

And Lord Cranshaw looked down at William, and knew that he would go – sure, that he would come back, but yes, that he would go.

Winston Churchill dabbed at his eyes. What a long war it's been.

"Well" said Winston. "So that's that. And I apologize, but I must be off." and he went around the room, greeting each of the young pilots, and ruffled young William's hair, and looked down and said. "Maybe you'll be a pilot too, someday". And then he looked at Edith, and looked down at Alice, who was quietly sleeping in Ernst's Grunen's arms. _And maybe you'll take after your mother and be a pilot too._

Chapter Twenty-One

Hastings by the Sea Reporter

Recent Birthdays

EDITH WALLACE – 98 YEARS OLD

Edith Wallace turns 98 today. Happy birthday, Edith! Edith is a resident of Hastings, was born here, and served as a ferry pilot during World War Two. Her husband Eric was a pilot in the RAF, and became the adopted son and heir to Lord Cranshaw. Edith and Eric spent time in the U.S. and always kept a residence in the U.K. as well. Edith is known for her flying school in the U.S. and a corresponding one here in the U.K., and was also an acquaintance of Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Legends surround her service during World War Two, about her being trained in fighter tactics, and then training RAF pilots. Some rumors in town hint that she once fought in combat, but she will neither confirm or deny the rumors, and neither will the RAF. More recently, she stirred up some controversy in being the oldest pilot with a licence in Britain, and caused some embarrassment when she was denied her license at 90, due to her age, and then gathered press to witness her pass all the requirements for flying Wasafely, and got a petition signed by 100,000 people to let her fly. Go Edith!

Edith Wallace set her tea cup down and looked at her granddaughter Jane, and at Billy, who had drifted off into a nap sometime around the end of the Battle of Britain.

Jane was still wide awake, marveling. She'd heard some of the stories, but not all of them.

"So Herman – that was Ernst?" she asked, incredulously. She had met Herman when he was still alive, still giving flying lessons at the flight school in Iowa. "I had no idea. Wait a minute, did he name himself after . . . " and Edith smiled.

"Yes, after Hermann Goering. Ernst had a dark sense of humor. Amazing to me how he had any sense of humor at all. But your Aunt Alice seemed to draw it out of him. He used to read to her every week, with Alice sitting on his knee, as pleased as a peach."

"So my father met Winston Churchill, I didn't realize that." said Jane, remembering how dad had talked about Winston Churchill, defending him against any criticism.

"Speaking of Winston Churchill, I think it's about time we all went to bed" Edith said, and they turned in for the night.

Edith lay in bed, looking at the moon, wishing she was still flying, and grateful that she was able to at least ride up in the sky. She patted the bed next to her, feeling the loss, but also the acceptance she'd reached, when she'd been able to swim past the grief. _I hope to see you again, Eric,_ she thought, and she smiled. _Too bad you weren't around to share our last surprise._

\--

The next day, Jane woke up, and remembered the key, and she felt like it was Christmas morning. She remembered visiting Grandma at Christmas and never quite knowing what she had up her sleeve. Whether big, or small, or medium, it was almost always a surprise, something thoughtful, or more often, just fun, in some way.

"Grandma, so what's the key for?" asked Jane, as she stood in the kitchen with Edith, who was heating up some tea. And Edith smiled.

"Do you remember the key?" asked Edith, and Jane thought back to visiting Grandpa's workshop, and all the small model planes that he used to work on, which he shared with her father when he was a boy, and with her, when she was a girl.

"Yes, certainly. Is the workshop still there?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes, it's still there. Do you approve?" asked Edith, as she poured some honey and milk in the tea.

"Yes, of course. I'm not sure quite how the logistics would work . . . " she said, thinking about how Billy's eyes would pop out of his head when he saw the workshop, and then be disappointed when he couldn't bring it back home.

"Ah well, don't worry about the logistics, we'll figure that out." said Edith. "Eric wanted Billy to have the building when he was old enough, if he wanted it, since your husband has the building in the United States. All in due time. But for now, perhaps Billy could pick a plane that he likes, and we can wrap it up carefully and he can take it home."

"Certainly"

They enjoyed the quiet of the morning together, watching the sun chase away the morning dew, and the bees start to carry on their business on the flowers outside, hovering from bloom to bloom.

"It's a shame I won't be here to enjoy the garden" said Edith.

"Why is that?" asked Jane.

"Well, I've decided to come back to the U.S. – for good, so I can be with you for the years I have left" she said, and took Jane's hand. "If that would be ok".

"Of course, grandma!" Jane said, and was thankful for the gift.

Later that day they made their way to the workshop, and Billy was thrilled to ride in Grandpa's old Rolls Royce Phantom, and Edith felt a continued sense of mischief, knowing the authorities would be somewhat frightened to know that there was a Merlin engine under the hood. But she had carefully worked to re-do the cowling over the years, and carefully restored it with Eric, so it would have all the power of the Merlin, but no one would be the wiser. You had to be especially careful driving it, but the governor kept it within limits, and only Tom and Edith knew how to disable the governor. Tom drove them to the building that contained the workshop, and Edith smiled, thinking _and only Tom and I know what the building really contains._

Edith opened the door into the small but tidy workshop, and Billy said "coooooool" as he looked around at the planes on the benches, in displays and hanging from the ceiling. When invited to choose a plane, he shyly looked around, and spied a Spitfire, and looked at Edith, who nodded and said "that will do". And then she looked at both Jane and Billy, and said to Jane

"Now Jane, do you have the key?" and Jane drew it out, wondering what was up, as Edith leaned down to look into Billy's eyes.

"Now Billy, would you like to see something interesting?" she asked, and when he nodded, she took his hand and led him over to a door at the edge of a workshop. "Go ahead and try the key" and Billy took the key, and opened the door, and the room was pitch black, except for the light shining in, revealing a bare concrete floor. Jane felt her heart thump, hearing the echoes and the immensity of the room.

"Now Billy, I want you to hold onto your great grandmother's hand, I'm not so young as I once was" and Billy did. "Thank you Billy, you're a fine gentleman. Now I want you to each over and flip the little switch to your right" And Billy looked over and dimly saw a small light switch. He flipped it on, and far off in the distance, up very high, lights started glowing. One by one, they flipped on, rapidly coming across and illuminating the large space. Billy's eyes dropped, and opened with wonder, as Jane gasped, and Edith sighed.

Before them was Edith's secret aerodrome, the one that no one knew about, and right before them, was a Supermarine Spitfire, MkI, lost to the records and lost to time, but lovingly restored, and secretly flown from time to time, with the cooperation of generations of RAF personnel who had agreed to utmost secrecy from the time Winston Churchill was still prime minister.

Next to the Spitfire MkI were other planes, including two bf109 fighters, a Heinkel 111 bomber, and a Hurricane. Further off was a Huey Helicopter, very much like the one that Edith's son had flown in Vietnam. Edith felt a pang, and held Billy's hand, knowing that she would need to hold his hand to be able to look at that helicopter. She hoped against hope that her son was still alive, somewhere in Vietnam. There's nothing wrong with hope. Next to the Huey was her son's van, a favorite vehicle, which had also been restored, but left with the things her son had left in it the day he had gone to Vietname. Edith breathed, and sighed, as Billy tugged, and asked shyly, "Can we take closer look?"

And Edith smiled, and looked down, and she drew hope from the future in Billy's eyes, hope that he would continue the tradition of the Order of the Dragonfly.

"Yes, Billy. You can certainly take a look at them, because they're yours now."

The End

*******

Note: this is the first release – as further editing is done, newer releases will be developed. Please visit http://www.thedawnpatrol.net and sign up for the email list to receive news about future editions.

About the author: Todd Kelsey is an author and educator, currently an Assistant Professor at Benedictine University. He developed an interest in World War II history and the Battle of Britain from a visit to England on one of the anniversaries of the Battle of Britain. Please feel free to connect on LinkedIn: <http://linkedin.com/in/tekelsey>
