London Dawn (41 page)

“Chocks away, sir.”

Sean waved a hand. “Thanks, Higgins.”

He opened the throttle for a short liftoff. Bombs were exploding all around his plane. He saw James make his way through the blasts and into the air, and Kipp and Patrick too. Patrick’s Spitfire had four swastikas painted under the picture of the devil and his pitchfork. Sean’s ground crew had painted three on his. He got off the ground at the same time as Evans, and they glanced at each other, canopies still open. Evans gave him a thumbs-up.

Tuesday, September 3, 1940, 10:00 a.m.

Kensington Gate, London

“Lord Preston. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Albrecht came through the French doors into the backyard.

“Not at all. No time is wasted if you employ it in a manner suited to the occasion. How often do I sit on this bench here? Only when you and I meet. So I look forward to gazing at the trees and hedges and watching the robins and larks.” He smiled at Albrecht. “Have you heard from Sean?”

“Pickering Green has been bombed every day. On Sunday they went after it three times altogether. The phone lines have been cut time and time again. We did manage to hear from him last night. He was allowed a sixty-second call from the green grocer’s shop in the village. That’s where the air base has their communications now.”

“He’s well then?”

“Yes. Kipp and James too.”

“Praise the Lord for that.” Lord Preston rubbed his eyes. “We always have much to pray about, you and I, Albrecht. But I would like to begin with a request for a spot of theological insight from you.”

“If I can help in any way at all, of course.”

“I want to pray for some sort of miracle for the RAF. But just as we prayed for a miracle at Dunkerque and were able to rescue most of the
troops, it didn’t mean there would be no hardship or difficulties. Indeed, ships were sunk and men killed, and we left behind tanks and trucks and ammunition enough to outfit whole divisions. There were two sides to the coin. Yet I should rather have had Dunkerque, warts and all, than to not have had it and seen the whole British Army captured or destroyed.”

“Yes, Lord Preston, I agree.”

“Nor did the miracle at Dunkerque end the affair. For now we have the air raids and are praying for a second miracle, despite the rescue God granted us when we retrieved our soldiers from the beaches.”

Albrecht nodded. “
Ja.
”

“So my question is this. If I pray fervently for the RAF and their ability to withstand the onslaught of Nazi bombers and fighters, and a sort of Dunkerque is brought about by divine grace where the British pilots and aircraft are saved, where will the burden of the war go next? From the beaches at Dunkerque it went into the air over southern England, principally against our shipping, airfields, and aircraft factories. If the burden of war moves away from the RAF airfields and factories, where will it go? For it has to go somewhere—unless Germany surrenders, which the Third Reich is unlikely to do. Or unless we surrender, which is unthinkable.”

Albrecht looked down at the grass between his feet, thinking.

“It is, you see, a matter of some urgency.” Lord Preston brought a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “We have been losing too many pilots. It takes two months to train the lads, and we are not replacing them quickly enough. Now there is a move to trim the training even further. If we do that, I fear the youngsters we will be putting into mortal combat will be able to do little more than land and take off.”

“I understand.”

“There is also the matter of replacing aircraft, both Hurricanes and Spitfires. For a good while we have been able to keep up with the losses. But now the Germans are attacking the factories that build the fighters.” Lord Preston squinted at the figures on the piece of paper. “We lost three hundred aircraft in August. We’ve replaced only a little more than two hundred and fifty of them. So we are falling behind, you see. This week is looking as bad or worse than last week in terms of pilots and airplanes lost. Heaven knows what the figures will be, but we are losing ground, Albrecht. If it keeps up we shall come to the point where we can no longer defend ourselves in the air. Then the invasion will be launched. Then Britain will be conquered.”

Albrecht got to his feet and began to pace. “If the Lord sees fit He can certainly rescue the RAF just as He did the British Expeditionary Force. You are quite right that this will be bring blessings but also challenges. Where will the burden of war shift? The sea, I think. Unless…”

“Unless what? Speak up, man.”

Albrecht shook his head. “I have never forgotten Spain and Guernica, what the German bombers did to civilian populations. I have not forgotten how they used incendiaries on Warsaw. Or how they flattened Rotterdam in Holland.” He sat back down on the bench. “God is no monster. The devil is the monster. If Satan is thwarted at one thing he will try another. If his plans are spoiled at Dunkerque he will go after the British soldiers and the RAF in Britain itself. If he is thwarted there then he will go after something else he can defeat. Our navy, perhaps. Or our cities.”

“He has already gone after both.”

“He will assault the Royal Navy with a greater viciousness. He will go after the cities with a fury we have not seen in this country. No, we have not seen Rotterdam in this land or Guernica or Warsaw. Not yet.”

“That would be a tragedy.”

“God will give us the means to resist.”

Lord Preston closed his eyes. “This nightmare could be stopped with a surrender. Our surrender.”

“That would not end the nightmare.”

“No. I expect not. If there were no evil in men’s hearts, if there were no immoral inclinations at all, then we should have a better world without having to fight for it.”

Albrecht laced his fingers together. “Our world is a strange mix of heaven’s will, the will of men and women—which can incline to either the good or the bad—the apparently random acts of volcanoes and earthquakes and hurricanes and asteroids, and the wicked designs of great evil. Ultimately you and I believe in the triumph of the cross and the resurrection. We believe that the righteous will of God shall prevail. But not without a battle.”

His eyes grew darker and darker as he spoke. Suddenly he stood up and began to pace again, a short distance back and forth, as if he were behind a lectern at a university.

“At Dunkerque it was the German decision to wait several days,” he continued. “During that respite we acted. The weather favored the rescue
of British and French and Canadian soldiers. Can you imagine what would have happened if there had been a storm in the Channel? We decided to fight on, so we did what we could to bring our troops home to England and we felt that God was with us. Everything came together to bless us. But every answer to prayer, as I have said, brings fresh challenges as well as fresh blessings. The Germans’ will was to pursue us to England. Our will was not to surrender to them. As a result of that clash of wills, the war came to British soil and British skies, and it is still here. Hell would have us defeated. Heaven, we believe, would have us delivered. Fine weather favors the German bombers but it also favors the Spitfires and Hurricanes of the RAF. This mix of wills and weather produces the battle that is being waged above us right now.”

“If I pray for the German will to be thwarted, if I pray for the plans of Hitler and Goering and the
Luftwaffe
to come to nothing against the RAF, am I then shifting the war to another part of our country or our armed forces, neither of which may be able to weather it better than our pilots and air crews?”

“You haven’t the power to shift it anywhere, Lord Preston. You only have the power to call upon God’s will. If the Germans are thwarted in Kent and West Suffolk, we shall thank God, shall we not? But then the Germans will move in another direction, they shall will something else against us, and we shall pray that this new scheme also be stopped, and call upon heaven to defend us. Hell and Hitler shall do their utmost to defeat our will and the will of the Lord. God and England and her allies shall do their utmost to defeat the will of the Nazis and their dark legions. When all is said and done, and we see everything from the perspective of eternity, it shall be obvious how God’s will and God’s hand were over all things. But for now we fight back against wickedness and cry out for the Lord’s help. Sometimes we see things clearly, and other times, when we taste defeat or death, we do not.” Albrecht shook his head and laughed. “The lecture makes much better sense in German.”

Lord Preston smiled. “It makes sense to me. Many wills are in conflict. We must discern God’s will and side with that, no matter what the consequences. I believe He wants the
Luftwaffe
defeated in the south of England, so I shall continue to pray vigorously to that end. Once the
Luftwaffe
is stopped there it will turn somewhere else and start a new attack. When that happens I shall pray with every fiber of my being the new attack be
defeated as well. I will never stop praying and resisting until the entire Third Reich and its evil schemes are brought to an end. No matter how long the clash of wills takes place, I will be part of it, and I shall cry out to the living God that His will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

Albrecht put his arm around Lord Preston’s shoulders. “I shall cry out with you. I shall cry out for an end to the evil of the Nazi regime. And I shall pray a better Germany, a truer Germany, rises from the embers of the one that was false.
Durch unseren Herrn Jesus Christus
—Through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Tuesday, September 3, 1940, 4:37 p.m.

RAF Pickering Green, Kent

Kipp came into the Officers’ Mess with his hands in his pockets and a cold, dark look in his eyes. Men from both of the Pickering Green squadrons glanced his way, and the laughter and loud chatter dropped. James was at a table nearest the door with Patrick and Sean.

“What is it then, sir?” James asked. “What have you heard?”

“Swansbury’s bought it. They pulled his body out of the wreck of his Spitfire near Biggin Hill. We lost Evans too. Merchant Marine confirmed a Spitfire with his markings went into the drink after tangling with an Me 109.”

“That’s rough, sir.”

Kipp lingered near the table. “The fellows in the convoy caught a good look at the Messerschmitt. It didn’t just have a yellow nose. It had a yellow and black checker pattern over the whole fuselage. I know the pilot from the first war. He should be in mothballs just as I should be. But he stayed fit and lean and now he commands a number of squadrons. He was leading that five hundred plus sweep of Me 109s a few days ago.”

“Are you talking about that von Zeltner bloke?” asked Patrick as the talk picked up at the other tables in the Mess.

Kipp looked even more like death than he had when he walked into the room. “Right. Wolfgang von Zeltner.”

“Zeltner’s quite the ace. Lord Tanner’s always crowing about him during his broadcasts. He’s the darling of Goering and the Nazis.”

“He’s not my darling, Patrick. He just killed one of my men. One of your mates.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone behind the bar rang. The talking and laughter stopped again. Kipp, hands in his pockets, swung around to look as the corporal picked up the receiver.

“Scramble!” he called out. “Both squadrons!”

Men pushed away from the tables quickly, chairs smacked against the walls, and there was a rush for the door. Kipp waited till the Mess was clear.

“Did they tell you anything else?” he asked the corporal behind the bar.

“Only that it was a big raid headed our way, sir, headed for the airfields in Kent.”

“No mention of the
Luftwaffe
squadrons involved?”

“No, sir. They never give us any detailed information. Now and then we might get the sort of numbers that are involved, fifty plus, one hundred plus. But the main thing is they just want us to announce the scramble and get the boys up quickly.”

“Right. Well, if they ever bend the rules and tell you any of the German squadrons involved, let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

“Good luck with what?”

“Up there, sir. You’re going to have a go at Jerry.”

Kipp half laughed as he went out the door. “I thought you were wishing me luck with something else.”

James watched as Sean peeled off to attack the Heinkel 111s, Patrick just ahead of him and already firing. A Flight was after the bombers; B and C Flights were up above tangling with Me 109s and 110s. He waited a moment as Kipp went into a short dive.

You’ve done well for yourself, Sean, and caught on quickly. Soon you’ll be as nimble as Uncle Kipp. I’m not sure where I fit in the scheme of things. Solid, sure, steady, dependable? Not the fastest but the most dogged? A grip on the enemy like a bulldog?

The vast blue shimmered all around him as he dove after a Heinkel and gave it a short burst. He never tired of the beauty of the sky even when it filled with the swift violence of fighter aircraft, even when black smoke and orange flame dominated his windscreen. The Heinkel’s starboard engine caught fire, and parachutes suddenly dotted the blue like the white puffs of dandelions. Dark streaks from burning and tumbling
bombers interlaced the sky. He moved quickly against another Heinkel, late afternoon sunlight glimmering on its wings, the tracers he fired flowing toward it, red flames wrapping themselves around its body.