London Dawn (44 page)

“Will you? Then I’ll be sure to kiss you goodnight very softly indeed.”

A siren began to moan. It was soon followed by the thump of antiaircraft fire and the bang and crash of explosions.

“What area of the city do you suppose the Germans are bombing this time?” Lady Preston asked.

Lord Preston was listening, cocking his head in the direction of the open window. “I can’t tell. At any rate, it’s far from here.”

But it was not far. At the next second, the windows blew in with a roar, and sharp glass cut apart the wallpaper. Lady Preston shrieked, blood pouring over her face, got up, staggered, and fell. Lord Preston leaped out of his chair to help her, his Bible falling to the floor. Another blast threw him across the room and slammed him against the wall.

“William!”

Lady Preston bent over her husband, grasping his shirt and sweater and arm. “Get up, do you hear me? Get up!”

A third blast seemed to lift the house from its foundation, taking Lady Preston’s feet out from under her, and she collapsed by her husband.

Tavy and Norah Cole came running into the room and saw the blood and wreckage and the bent and twisted bodies.

“Oh, my Lord!” Norah’s hands flew to her mouth.

Tavy bent over them, blood quickly staining his white shirt. “Lord Preston! Sir William! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

Caroline had just pulled the curtains closed when the siren sounded. She glanced at Charles, who was sitting in the corner of the kitchen reading a copy of
Mein Kampf.

“Do you think we should take Angelika and make our way to the shelter at the end of the street?”

Charles shook his head and turned a page. “They aren’t interested in Camden. It’s the docks they want. No point in waking Angelika up and spoiling her sleep, is there?”

There was a loud explosion close by. The windows shook.

He lifted his head and saw the fear in his mother’s eyes.

“Don’t fret,” he said. “That was a mistake. The plane missed its target.”

All the windows in the kitchen shattered at once, and flying glass cut Caroline’s arms and legs open. She cried out Angelika’s name and headed toward the staircase, but a second explosion picked her up and hurled her down the hallway. Charles jumped to his feet and went after her, book open in one hand, when two blasts, one on top of the other, twisted him around and tossed him through a window onto the street, banging his head sharply against the pavement.

Victoria was standing in what she often referred to as her Royal Mail backyard since it seemed to her to be hardly larger than a postage stamp. A pair of scissors in her hand, she walked toward the rose bushes that were filling the yard with their rich scent, intending to place half a dozen long-stemmed pinks in a vase. The siren howled just as she bent her nose to take in the perfume of a fully open blossom.

“Mum!” Tim poked his head out of the second-story window. “What should we do?’

She continued to breathe in the fragrance of the pink rose. “Nothing.”

A thunderclap. The yard erupting. Mud and grass and rose bushes spinning around her. Her feet off the ground, her body in the air, turning over and over in flashes of light and rushes of fire. Looking at her fingers. Feeling spatters of rain on her face. Whirling. Never knowing when she fell or where.

“Camden. And West London.”

Bursts of light. Darkness. More bursts of light. Rumbling finally making its way to their ears.

Emma had her hands around Jeremy’s arm as they watched the city’s skyline. “Are you sure?”

“I am. I daresay they’re aiming for Whitehall and Buckingham Palace.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong. That’s altogether too close to Mum and Dad’s. Not to mention most of our family lives in Camden.”

Flak broke open the dark of the sky with white sparks as antiaircraft guns hunted the German bombers.

“It’s like fireworks,” Emma whispered. “If only we were celebrating.”

Billy came through the door to where his parents stood in the street. “Rotten Nazis! Blast them!”

Jeremy and Emma snapped their heads around.

“What is it?” Emma took in the rage on his young face. “You’ve seen London bombed before.”

“You didn’t hear the phone ring, did you? Either of you?”

Both his parents’ faces went rigid.

“No,” replied his father.

“Aunt Victoria’s house was hit. Aunt Caroline’s house was hit. They’ve blown Grandfather and Grandmother’s home to bits! Blast the Nazis! I hate them! I hate Hitler!”

Saturday, September 14, 1940, 9:00 a.m.

RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex

“How on earth did this happen?”

Ben Whitecross stood on the airstrip under gray skies and a light sprinkle of rain. Two young men were facing him in blue RAF uniforms.

One of them shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad. I mean, Squadron Leader Whitecross.”

“You didn’t think to tell them they were posting you to your father’s squadron in Eleven Group, Ramsay?”

“I thought I did.”

“You thought? Your mother will have me for high tea once she gets wind of this.” Ben glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand. “Wait a minute. What do we have here? Pilot Officer
White
?”

“I didn’t tell them that.”

“How did they end up with White as your last name? What happened to the rest of it? No wonder you were posted here.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Ben fixed his eyes on the youth standing at attention next to Ramsay. “Matt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you another one who lost your voice? Why didn’t you tell them I was your uncle?”

“James and Sean are at Pickering Green with Uncle Kipp, sir. Why can’t I be posted here with you?”

“Kipp’s in a hospital in London.”

“Yes, sir, he is now. But he flew with James and Sean for weeks during the thick of the fighting.”

“ ‘The thick of the fighting?’ Do you think it’s let up then?”

“Well, I—”

“We have to stop them from wiping out London, don’t we? And they haven’t stopped bombing our airfields either.” Ben jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The invasion barges are still queued up in French ports. Hitler has every intention of knocking the RAF out of the game so he can land his troops on our beaches. That’s the rosy little picture I want to paint for you today. Seven hundred RAF. Against thousands of the
Luftwaffe
’s best pilots. It’s desperate. And what do I get for replacements? My son and one of his mates. Both of who finished school a few short weeks ago.”

“Dad, you know—”

“Don’t call me Dad.” Ben glanced back down at the papers they’d given him. “How many hours on Spits, Pilot Officer White?”

“Umm…” Ben could see that Ramsay wanted to count on his fingers. “Five? Five and a half?”

“That’s it? That’s all?” Ben looked at Matthew. “Please make me happy and tell me you’ve had ten or twelve or fifteen.”

“If you count the Hurricane it’s closer to seven or eight, Uncle…Squadron Leader.”

“Uncle Squadron Leader? Try not to use that when you’re on your R/T. How many hours on Spits? It’s a different brew of a fighter than the Hurricane.”

“More than four, sir.”

“More than four?”

“I keep a log. It’s closer to four and a quarter.”

Ben put his hands on his hips. “I’m not praying enough. That’s it. The Lord looks down and says, ‘Whitecross doesn’t have enough prayer in his life. Send his son and his nephew as squadron replacements.’ I’d better go spend an hour on my knees.”

“Yes, sir,” responded his son.

“Don’t agree with me, Ramsay.”

“No, sir.”

“I expect you’re both squared away. Have your gear in your rooms?”

They nodded.

“Right. Well, I don’t have time to ship you back to where you came from today, Pilot Officers White and Danforth. Come with me and I’ll show you your kites. The WAAFs ferried them in early this morning.”

They and several other raw recruits fell in step behind him. Next to several bombed-out hangars were two new Spitfires. Ben glanced back and saw the excitement in the young men’s faces and was unsuccessful in keeping back his own smile.

“Try not to get shot down just when you’re up at bat, all right?” Ben rested his hand on the wing of the first Spitfire. “Give those Nazi bowlers some real hardship. Score a hundred runs. Jerry wants to wear us out. Let’s prolong the match and grind him down instead.”

“Squadron Leader!”

Ben turned around. “What is it, Nesbitt?”

“Urgent call for you, sir. London.”

“You mean the lines are working again?”

“For now.”

“I’d better get right on it then.” Ben started across the runway for his hut. He glanced back. “Did you two have any breakfast?”

“No, sir,” replied Ramsay.

“Better hop into the Officers’ Mess and get some ham and eggs. If they call us up after Jerry, there’s no telling when we’ll get the feedbag on you again.”

Ben went into his room in a small hut and shut the door.

“Whitecross,” he said into the phone.

“Ben, it’s Emma. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning and I keep losing my connection.”

“Em. Glad you’ve got through. How’s everything? What’s up?”

“The Germans struck Camden and West London last night. Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, Downing Street, Kensington High Street, the lot. Mum and Dad were badly hurt and they’re both in hospital.”

“What?”

“Your house was bombed too. So was Kipp’s. Victoria and Caroline have both been hospitalized.”

“Vic!”

“Now listen to me. She’s doing well. Holding her own. So is Mum. It’s
Dad and Caroline we’re worried about. Caroline lost a lot of blood. And Dad hasn’t woken up. They’re afraid there’s been a stroke.”

Ice cold swept Ben’s body and mind and then a raging heat. “What business do the bombers have going there? They’ve been hitting the docks. What good are West London and Camden to them?”

“They wanted to go after the king and queen and prime minister, didn’t they? Wanted to show us they could strike anyone anywhere.”

“What about Tim? Where’s Tim?”

“He’s fine. He’s with us here. Billy’s talking to him.”

“Not cut up? Not wounded?”

“No.”

“How are Catherine and Albrecht? How is Angelika? They were all in your mum and dad’s house.”

Emma’s voice came and went as the phone connection lost power. “The bottom floor is ruined. Completely blown out. But Catherine and the family were in bed on the top floor. They’re a bit shell-shocked but they haven’t been hurt.”

Ben finally sat down in his chair. “Tell me about Caroline.”

“Charles was with her. He rescued Cecilia, got her out of her bedroom before the house collapsed. Had them both on the street and made Cecilia lie down next to Caroline so he could cover them both with his body.”

“What? Nazi Charles?”

“Another five or six bombs landed on the street. A good number of their neighbors were killed outright. Yes, Nazi Charles kept the flying glass and brick and wood splinters from his mum and little sister. Who would have thought it? He took a lot of wounds.”

“Isn’t Eva living with them?”

“She’s Air Raid Precautions now. She was out on patrol. Her crew was helping out bomb victims a half mile away.”

Ben hesitated a moment, forming the unlikely image in his mind of Charles protecting Caroline and Cecilia from a rain of angry debris. “Is Vic awake?”

“Yes. I’ve been to see her already this morning. They’ll not keep her in there long. She—”

The connection was suddenly lost.

“Hullo! Hullo!” Ben slammed the phone down. “Rotten luck!”

He ran his hand over his mouth.
We had rough times at the mission in Kenya, my God. You pulled us through. I need You to do that for us again. All
of us. But especially Vic’s dad. Especially him. And Caroline. You know Kipp needs her. You know we all do.

A phone in a nearby hut jangled.

I don’t know what to make of Charles. I honestly don’t. I got wind that Lord Tanner had whipped him and that the concentration camps had soured him on the Gestapo and SS. But he still seems to think a proper Nazism is not only Germany’s future, but Europe’s and Britain’s. I had it in my mind that he welcomed the bombing, hoping it would bring us to our knees and get a Nazi regime in place well before Guy Fawkes. Lord, I confess to being confused about the young man. I did not think he would risk his life for his mother and sibling. For Eva perhaps, but not for his British family.

“Scramble!”

Ben blinked and jumped to his feet. Ramsay and Matt came tumbling out of the Officers’ Mess as Ben was swinging his metal legs into the cockpit.

“Get up!” Ben shouted at them. “Stick with me! And those three blokes with the yellow props on their kites!”