Excerpt: On Eagle's Wings

PROLOGUE
I sat there for a moment and then gathered up the photographs and the cap and put the tunic over my arm. I walked down the attic steps slowly. I came into the living room where Granddad was still sitting, reading his paper, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth in front of him. At first he didn't seem to see me, but when I hung the cap on the arm of his chair and set the photographs in his lap he looked up.
I sat down on the hearth with the tunic in my lap. I looked up into his grey eyes, and they met my blue ones.
“Tell me a story, Granddad.” I said.
“How do you know there is any story to tell?” he asked, a bittersweet smile on his face as he glanced at the pictures.
I rubbed my fingers over the wool of tunic. “When I touch them they tell me there's a story to tell.” I said, looking up at him. “I get a tingly feeling in my fingers―like they're telling me that they hold a wonderful, yet maybe tragic, story, and it hasn't been told for too many years.”
Granddad's eyes smiled at me through the tears that dampened them. “You're very intuitive. Alright, I'll tell you. Listen close. I haven't told this story to anyone for a―very―long―time.” He drew out the last three words, and I knew in my heart that it had been a very long time indeed.
“I'm listening, Granddad.”

CHAPTER ONE: LIKE A BIRD
I continued pushing through the crowd, ducking through small cracks and sliding between the tightly packed people. I push, shoved, and sweat beaded on my forehead. Suddenly I was out of the crowd. I dashed down along the front, heading for the plane. As I got nearer I saw the pilot climb out of the aireoplane. I ran faster. As he started to walk away I caught a hold of the sleeve of his flight suit.
“Please, sir, I wanted to tell you that I think your aireoplane is the most beautiful one ever built.”
He smiled. “I think so too. But then again—the most beautiful plane is always your own.”
It was at that moment that Mum caught up with us, and as she grabbed my arm she was apologizing profusely. “I hope he didn't bother you, sir.”
“Not at all.” Mr. Lindbergh said with a smile at her. “He wanted tell me that he liked my airplane—and I like that. You take good care of him—he'll make a fine aviator someday.”
A fine aviator! The words shot through my brain as Mum pulled me off. Although she scolded me, I didn't hear a word of it. All I could hear was Charles Lindbergh's words pounding through my brain over, and over, and over again. A fine aviator. A fine aviator. A fine aviator. Was I dreaming? I pinched myself. No, I was perfectly awake.
A fine aviator! A fine aviator! A fine aviator!

CHAPTER TWO: SILVER WINGS
“Congratulations, Pilot Officer Latham.”
“Thank you, sir.” I said, shaking the Group Captain's hand.
I walked away in a daze, only aware of the sparkliness of the silver wings sewn to my tunic. I sat down between Mum and Amy and felt my sweaty hands gripped tightly by two hands with soft skin and long fingers—on my right Amy's and on my left Mum's I gripped back, and when I turned to look at Mum I saw tears glinting in her eyes.
“Mum?” I said in a whisper.
“Yes?”
“Have I made you terribly, terribly, proud of me?”
“Oh, Alan! Terribly!” She reached up and kissed me on the cheek, and I felt my face flush as another kiss was planted on my right cheek. I turned to Amy, and she blushed madly.
“I'm sorry, Alan, but I...” I reached down and kissed her on the cheek. At first her face was totally blank with shock and then she laughed, although it sounded like it was being squeezed out of her. She reached up and touched her cheek gently.
“Did you just do that, or was I dreaming?”
“I've got my wings, I'll be stunt-flying Glastor Gladiators. Things are starting to even out. Maybe in a year or two I'll have enough money, and—”
“I'd like that, Alan.”

CHAPTER THREE: WAR FOR OUR TIME
The tipsy world conditions came to a head in the end of September when Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain went over to Germany to try and work out a compromise with Germany. Back at home people waited and worried. I was home that weekend, and Mum and I spent a lot of time listening to the radio.
On September 30th the broadcast came though. The Munich Agreement that had been written up the day before had been signed by Chamberlain and the others. It agreed to give portions of Czechoslovakia to Germany. Hitler claimed that the sunderlands were the “last territorial claim I have to make in Europe.” No one believed him. Chamberlain claimed that the agreement meant “peace for our time”. Nobody believed him either.
“Who does he think he's lying to? He ought to know as well as the rest of us that saying that it's peace for our time is a waste of breath. All he's gone and done is given away part of Czechoslovakia to that tyrant!” Mum massaged her temples with her finger tips.
“You really think it will be war?” I asked. Mum sat up from where she'd been lying on the sofa.
“Alan James! Do you think there'll be a war?”
“Yes.” I admitted.
Mum was silent for a few moments.
“Oh, God! I've lived through one war—and I lost the one I loved because of it! Why another one, God, why another one? Haven't I had enough?”
I went over and kneeled on the floor beside her and put my arms around her slim shoulders.
“It'll be okay, Mom. It'll be okay. Remember how you told me once that Daddy died because of a good, right, and just cause? That's what we'll be fighting for, Mum. We should be fighting right now, not giving away Czechoslovakia to the Germans. Because it's right Mum, not because it's easy or nice.”
Mum wiped her tears. “You're right Alan.” she said, drawing a quavery breath. “Bloody Germans. Bloody, bloody, Germans! Can't they just leave us in peace long enough for those who lost loved ones in their last attack to be gone? Can't they wait just that long?”
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just held her while she tried to stop crying. It was a long time before she finally wiped her eyes again, and by then the shoulder of my shirt was wet.
“I've gone and dampened your shirt.” Mum said. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay, Mum. It's okay. Y'feel better now?”
“Yes. Yes, I feel much better. Thank you.”

WINGS OVER FRANCE
'The boys' were a generally good mob, although nothing like the ones that I'd known back in England. I mentioned this to the CO. He laughed again.
“What you saw, laddie, was pilots trained to fight. What you see here are the real 'fighter pilots'. Tried and tested. It was one of the chaps here—not one in 85 Squadron, but on in 87 Squadron, not tha that makes much difference since we're all stationed here together, but, as I was saying, it was an 87 bloke that shot down the first enemy plane to land on French soil since the last war just, eh, maybe three weeks ago. It was a Heinkel 111. You met him, y'know. Robert Voase Jeff. Why, the French government was so pleased with him they awarded him the Croix de Guerre.”
“That's pretty impressive.” I admitted.
“Pretty? Ha! Nothing 'pretty' about it laddie boy! Nothin' at all. It's just all in the course of duty, you know. All in the R.A.F motto, y'know. Per Ardua Ad Astra—through hardships to the stars.”
Suddenly I remembered a small boy with dark hair and silver eyes, sitting on the shoulders of a French farmer as the Spirit of Saint Louis came in to land, his arms stretched up high. “I'll fly right up to the stars!”
Per Ardua Ad Astra—through hardships to the stars.
“You all right, laddie?” the CO's words jolted me back to reality.
“Fine, sir. Just thinking. Would you mind if I was excused, now?”
“Why, not at all! Here, I'll just show you to where you'll be sleeping. You don't think your friend will want to come yet, eh?” I turned to look and saw Jimmy surrounded by the pilots, glass of French wine in his hand, laughing and joking.
“I think not.” I said, suppressing a smile.
“Ah, well, maybe later.” The CO moved off and I followed him. He showed me to a bunk in a long room full of beds. He left and I unpacked my kit and then got out some paper.
Dearest Mum,
I've arrived safely in France. It's really a very pretty country, although it seems so much larger than England. It's rather different than flying over the fields of Kent, which are only a fraction of the size of the ones here. I must admit that I'm rather excited to be here, although I have thought now and then since I arrived that I would rather like to be home.
The mob here is really very nice. They are very friendly, although not like the pilots back home that I flew with. There's rather less discipline, and the CO is altogether friendly and allows things that I can't imagine the CO at home allowing. I asked him about it—and he said that it was because they're fighter pilots, which is quite a different thing than the lads I was with. I can't say that I understand it, but I think that it has to do with the fact that they've been in combat.
There's two squadrons here at Lille-Seclin aerodrome. The squadron that I'm with—No. 85—and also 87 Squadron. Seems that a chap from 87 Squadron downed the first plane to crash on French soil since the first world war. He got awarded the Croix de Guerre by a very appreciative French government, which you would think would make him act rather above the rest of us. Despite the medal he's really a very humble type and you wouldn't ever know that he'd done anything extraordinary by just talking to him. I wonder if that has to do with the whole thing that they've been in combat as well? I really don't understand it.
I also remembered something else today that I found rather odd. You probably know that the motto of the R.A.F. is 'Per Ardua Ad Astra', which is Latin for 'Through hardships to the stars'. The CO brought that up while we were talking just a bit ago, and I suddenly remembered something which is all-together odd. That I hadn't though of it before, I mean. Remember in France that summer—1927, wasn't it? When we were in Paris? And the Spirit of Saint Louis was landing? And remember, Mum, how I said that I'd fly someday? And you said that was utter foolishness(which I have really proved wrong, eh?) and then I said that I would—and I said that I'd fly 'right up to the stars'. At the time I didn't even know that the R.A.F.'s motto. Isn't that odd?
If Jimmy doesn't write soon(I would find it surprising if he did), you can tell his parents that he seems to be settling in rather well. He was complaining on the way over that he may be getting homesick over here—but now that he's met the chaps here he seems to be rather happier. Last I saw of him he was chatting with them like he'd known them all his lives—with a glass of French wine in his hand. I rather think it was his second. When I left he was looking very content with his current state, so I don't suppose he'll really be all as homesick as he thought.
I thought that you would like to know that I'm here safely and that I think I'll enjoy life here. I still want to write to Amy tonight, so I had bettered sign off now. I love you Mum!
Alan
I folded the paper carefully and selected another sheet.
Darling Amy...

OCCUPIED SOIL
Suddenly a screaming filled the head set like I'd never heard before. I yanked my Spitfire back, trying to figure out what was going on. Streaking past the side of my plane Jimmy's plane came, heading strait down, streaming flames.
“Oh, God!”
Mixed with the agonized screams were prayers and curses, shouts for help. Totally hopeless I sat there, frozen. What could I do? The burning Spit increased speed as it plummeted down, and then it hit the ground far below and there was a massive explosion.
I sat there stunned, too dazed to even care about flying.
“Snap out of it, Latham, snap out of it!” Brian said, and it was the first time he'd ever used a sharp tone when talking to me or called my by my last name. “Bring the nose of your kite up, boy! Come on! You've got to get home.”
As if I was watching someone else's hands, I saw my hands come up and grab the stick and pull the nose of the plane up. I automatically pulled into formation and gazed around, finding myself surprised by the fact that the sky was blue and completely empty of smoke, planes, or tracers. It was as if nothing had happened.
I landed still in a daze, and as we walked away from the planes I saw Brian take the intelligence officer aside.
“Jimmy Soule bought it.” he said softly. “Caught fire and went in. He didn't turn his R/T off.” The intelligence officer nodded. “We took down five Stukas, one confirmed, three possible, one possible. Technically. I think they all went all the way down, though. I just only saw one of them crash. The probables were me, Bradford, and Kurt. Possible was MacEntire. Confirmed was Latham.”
Somehow I didn't even feel excited. I just felt cold and totally out of it. Brian left the intelligence officer and came over and gripped me hard on the shoulder.
“Come on, Latham, I'm going to take the boys out for a drink. You come too.”
“No—I'd really rather not.” I heard myself saying.
“I didn't ask you.” Brian said gently. “That was an order.”

The next morning when I reported for duty Brian looked up, and his brown eyes were kind.
“How do you feel, Alan?”
“I've got a heck of a hangover, but other than that, pretty good.”
He smiled. “Good. It helps to just wash it away and forget. You feel fit for flying?”
I took a deep breath. “Sure.”
“Good. Oxygen will help with that hangover. There's still boys on the beaches that need us.”

WHERE WERE YOU?
“Go away, Alan.” She said huskily, as if trying to keep back tears. “Go away—I don't want to talk to you.”
“Why?” I dropped down to my knees in the sand beside her.
“Where were you when we needed you, Alan? Where were you and your air force pals? Did you come to help us? No. You never came.”
“We were there, Amy.” I said, my voice catching in my throat. “We were there-and we did our best. But we couldn't stop them all.”
“You weren't there!” Amy sobbed. “I was there! Day after day the bombs fell around us, and men screamed in agony and pain. Some I could help—some were too far gone. And day after day I watched the skies—and waited and prayed that you'd come. And day after day the skies remained empty of R.A.F planes—there were only Germans—swarms of them like huge insects or carrion birds. I saw, Alan. You never came.”
“We were there!” I sad desperately, thinking of Jimmy—lying dead amid the smoking wreckage of his plane—on occupied soil. “We were further inland, and up high. You couldn't see us, but—”
“Don't lie to me, Alan. Please, don't lie to me.”
As she cried I felt the urge to comfort her. I reached out to put my arms around her; but she pushed me away roughly. “Go away, Alan. I never want to speak to you again.”
“What?” I felt as if I'd been kicked.
“I never want to talk to you ever again!” her voice reached a screaming crescendo. “I hate you! I hate all R.A.F. How could you leave us to suffer ad die? Don't you care?” She collapsed on the sand, her shoulders heaving with weeping. “Didn't it matter to you that that people were dying?” she said in a tear-torn whisper. “Didn't you ever think that maybe we needed your help?”
“I'm sorry Amy—”
“Just go away, Alan. Far away. I never want to see your face again. Never.” she looked up at me, and her voice became deadly serious. “Never again.”
I stood up slowly and walked away. I kicked at the sand and saw the waves start to blur together as tears filled my eyes. Had Jimmy died for nothing?
Dunkerque. I ground the hated name around in my mouth, wishing that I'd never heard it. Never heard the name Hitler, never heard the word “war”. A very little word, really. A little word that described something more terrible than anything else. Humanity raised up against each other, fighting, striving for dominance. And death, and killing, and heartbreak. Two sides, each believing themselves in the right, one in the right, one in the wrong. But who was to say which side was in the right and which in the wrong?
Just because of one retreat—just because of one evacuation—just because of something that wasn't even a battle I had lost my best friend in the world to German shell, and my girl to something much more dangerous. For the the first time I realized what just a statement could do if taken wrong—it could wreck more havoc than all the metal and explosives the enemy could hurl at us.
I sat down and put my head in my hands and let the tears come.
Dunkerque. For the French it was an ending, for the English I knew it was just a beginning. We had taken their prize right out from under their noses—and would the Nazi tolerate such a thing? You could try to deceive yourself into thinking so—but I knew that they wouldn't. England was next—could we survive the onslaught?
As long as there were Spitfires, Hurricanes, and Defiants in the air I knew the answer was yes. There might be twenty miles of water between England and occupied shores, but aireoplanes don't care. Hitler, and more importantly, Goring, knew that our strength was in the air. He'd seen it at Dunkirk, even if our own had not. His men and crafts had limped home injured or worse. His first attack would be aimed at our air force. I knew it.
Dunkerque. So, it begins. Everything must have a beginning, and we had stirred up the anger of the raging bull. We had turned his victory into defeat; we had crushed his strongest war machine; we had shown that in the air England was master. Would he let us so shame him and not respond with hate and malice? No. The Luftwaffe would come, it was just a matter of when.
And I would have to face it—alone. My best friend that had been with me through everything was gone. My girl, that meant everything in the world to me was gone. Who was there to turn to? Where was there to go? Who was there to turn to?
I didn't know how long I cried, but by the time I'd cried all the tears in me, it was dusky, and the first stars were coming out. The moon was just starting to creep up over the Channel, throwing bright beams on the white limestone.
I hated those cliffs—hated them with all my being. Before they'd brought thoughts of hours spent with the girl I loved best. Now they were a huge reminder that she hated me—that she never wanted to see me again. That all my dreams and hopes for the future were buried in the sand below the cliffs—leaving only tears. But now even tears would be a relief, but I'd cried all the tears in me. I didn't want to move—I just wanted to die. I didn't care what happened or when, or whether Hitler did come. I suddenly found myself hoping that he did. Hoping that he killed me in the process. Why would I want to go on living?
Slowly, I stood up. My knees were weak and shaky, and I collapsed to the sand again. It was like I had no strength to move anywhere. I lay down and buried my head in my arms. Somewhere inside of me I'd found more tears and now they streamed down my cheeks like hot rivers, falling onto my sleeves and onto the sand. I must have cried myself to sleep, because when I next awoke the sun was coming up, and there were birds chirping.

WITH BATED BREATH
Cynthia jumped up and ran lightly up to the house, and I followed. Inside the house smelled of fresh bread and sausage. Eggs crackled in the pan. Cynthia ran over to Mrs. Soule and whispered something in her ear that made Mrs. Soule smile and nod.
“Alan!” Mr. Soule said, getting up from where he was sitting at the table smoking his pipe and reading the news paper to shake my hand. “It's wonderful to have you here—it's been rather a long while.”
“Yessir, it has, I guess.” I said. Mrs. Soule was whisking another plate out of the cupboard.
“You just sit down there, Alan dear, and I'll have breakfast ready in a minute.”
Nothing odd—nothing out of the ordinary. Just like so many times before—except that Jimmy wasn't sitting at the table. I mentally thanked the Soules for being so good about everything.
“Have you see today's paper?” Mr. Soule asked, sitting down again and looking at me over the top of his glasses which sat perched precariously on the end of his nose.
“I hadn't, actually.” I said. “Why?”
“Take a look.” he handed the paper over, and out of the corner of my eyed I saw the date. June 15th. Already?
Across the front of the paper was a photograph and a large black headline.
Hitler Marched Into Paris Yesterday!
“Oh—God.” I breathed. “That's—” I sighed. “I mean—I knew it was coming—everybody did—but—”
“I know.” Mr. Soule said with a nod. “It's the same for me.”
“Why, what's happened?” Mrs. Soule asked, setting plates around the table. Mr. Soule handed her the paper.
“Oh good Lord!” Mrs. Soule sat down suddenly in the nearest chair. “Are we to be next? Can't anything stop him?”
“Nothing yet.” Cynthia said softly, sitting down.
“Will anything be able to?” Mrs. Soule asked again, looking at Mr. Soule.
“We won't know until he tries to come—eh?” Mr. Soule said, calmly tucking into his breakfast. I tried to follow suit, but the eggs, sausage and bread tasted like nothing in my mouth. The only taste there was almost overpowering—the taste of fear.
“He can't come here!” Mrs. Soule worried. “I mean—he could, I suppose, but I'd really rather he stay away.”
Mr. Soule wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We all think that way, Eddie, dear, but I'm afraid that nobody's told Hitler that and nobody will. Not saying that he'll ever make it, mind you.”
“What makes you think he wouldn't, John?”
Mr. Soule deliberately lay his fork down on his plate with the circle of sausage still on it and looked directly at his wife. “When was the last time that England was conquered, m'dear?”
“Well...” Mrs. Soule faltered. Cynthia spoke up.
“1066 with William of Normandy.” she was silent for a moment. “But you also have to remember that that was the last time that England faced invasion.”
Mr. Soule seemed undisturbed by this revelation and continued eating. After a few mouthfuls he glanced up and looked us all in the face.
“Well—we won't make the same mistakes twice then, will we?”
All of a sudden I could taste the savory spiciness of the sausage and the simple goodness of the eggs and bread. The fear was gone—Mr. Soule with his simple English logic had unknowingly reassured me.
“But—it's such a very large army—and ours is so small after Dunkerque. And—well, you know how he blitzed Poland. What if he does the same to us?”
“Eddie, dear, you're really being very foolish.” Mr. Soule said patiently, again laying down his silverware and looking directly at her. “Really being quite foolish indeed! They'll have to be rather careful of us, because, in case you hadn't noticed we've the best air force—made up of a group of lads that won't give up easy. As for the army—it's big enough. Also—we're on home territory, and I can assure you, Eddie, that if anyone tries to come in here—I'll dispose of them with a pitchfork, or even frying pan if that's all I've got to use!”
I suddenly found myself laughing at the thought of the quite, almost dapper Mr. Soule hitting Germans with a frying pan. He looked at me reprovingly, and his spectacles tottered dangerously on the end of his nose. He raised an eyebrow, and I tried to explain, but burst out laughing again.
Suddenly Cynthia and Mrs. Soule must have realized what was so funny, because they also broke out laughing. Mr. Soule satisfied himself with giving out glares all around, but finally ended up laughing too—even if he had no idea what was so funny.
It was so good to laugh with them—laugh like we would have before the war like there was nothing wrong. Somehow it amazed me how, after what had happened, we could laugh—but I suddenly realized that was part of the unstoppableness of the English. No matter what happened they could laugh and move on.
Finally everyone stopped laughing, and Mr. Soule coughed officially and resumed eating his breakfast. I finished, and then pushed my chair back.
“I rather guess I'd best get back to Mum.” I said. “It's been a wonderful breakfast, but she'll be getting up, and she might worry.”

BANDITS AT ANGELS FIFTEEN
A moment later I saw it—a huge mellee of aircraft swooping across a tracer-scarred sky in attempt to get a bead on each other. There were 109s, 110s, and Do 17s—all mixed together, the bombers flying strait and even—and the Hurricanes seemed to be aiming for them. The Spitfires seemed to be more heavily engaged with the fighters.
I had to take it all in in a mere moment, because the next we were among them, and the tracers were streaking past us. We immediately broke formation, and it was each man for his own. I cranked hard on the stick as a 109 streaked past. My short burst of fire missed him—he was already past. I pulled hard on the stick to try and get out of the way of a 110 that had approached me from the back where my goggles restricted my vision, and as he came past I pushed the fire button again—again missing. Tracers streaked by me from behind—and I screamed in frustration.
“You bloody—” I ripped my right glove off with my teeth and then tore the left one off as well. In a moment I'd yanked my goggles off and thrown then behind me as well. With my range of vision so much wider, I swung the plane around toward the nasty sort that had been shooting at me and let go with the ammo. I saw it streaking into his cockpit, and a moment he was spiraling down. I would have liked to see him crash so I could have had him as a confirmed—but there was no time. There was a 110 hard on my tail, and I turned sharply and filled the middle of his fuselage full of lead—but he didn't go down.
Cursing him, I spun the plane tightly to try and get one of the engines in my reflector sight. Just then his other engine flamed and he flipped over and went down. Another chap in a Hurricane whizzed past—so close that I could see his gloved hand raised in salute. I saluted back...although by then he was past.
A Do17 suddenly loomed up, filling my gun sights—probably quite by accident—but still highly convenient for me. I pressed the firing button and braced my feet hard on the rudder as the plane shuddered and tracers streaked into the Do17. Before I could see if he went down a 109 swooped down in front of me and shot a chunk out of the very end of my wing.
“Blast you!” I grumbled, hauling the stick over hard. The plane tipped on it's side, and I felt the powerful G forces threatening to black me out, but then he was directly in front of me and I could straiten out and fill him full of lead. As I pressed the firing button, however, he dove and I just managed to take a chunk of his tail off.
As I spun to face the milling group of fighters and bombers again, a Hurricane streaked down toward the channel, trailing fire. I had no time to think about it, though, because the next minute I felt the plane shake as bullets passed through the fuselage behind me and heard the clatter of shells against the armor-plating behind my head.
“Good Lord!” I yelped, sliding and diving my plane quickly to avoid the attack. When the rain of bullets seemed to cease I spun around to try and see what had taken a potshot at me. All I saw was a 110 diving toward the ocean and a Spitfire quickly dipping toward a 109.
“I got him for you ol' boy.” Willie's voice came through my headset. I smiled a little bit, and then gasped as more tracers whisked by my plane. How many holes did they want to shoot in my kite?
A 110 was coming strait at me, and I suddenly had an interesting idea. It would certainly be worth a try... I gave my plane full throttle and went strait toward him. He wouldn't be expecting this—so maybe I could surprise him. As I got close I pressed the firing button and saw the bullets tearing into the cockpit and engines. Tracers streaked around me but I forced myself to ignore them. As the plane loomed up huge in front of me I dove hard under his belly. The G forces threated to crush me—the dirt from the floor of the cockpit flew up into my face—and I cracked my head hard on the canopy, but aside from that it worked very efficiently.
I pulled my plane up and spun to face the attack—and saw nothing. Where seconds before the sky had been full of milling bombers and fighters—now there were just the remaining white cloud-like tracers streaked against a pure blue sky. The fight was over.
I turned my plane toward home and a moment later Brian's voice came over my R/T.
“Alan? You there?”
“I'm here.” I said. “Although I don't know where you are.”
He laughed. “Minor shock, ol' chap? We're right in front of you—about angels ten—two o' clock.”
I glanced down and to my right, and groaned. There, about a thousand feet below me, was my squadron. How I'd missed them I didn't know.
“Alright.” I said. “I'm coming down to join you chaps.”

ALDERANGRIFF
So far all the bombers that the Luftwaffe had chucked at us across the channel had been heavily escorted by both 110s and 109s. So it came as a surprise on the morning of August fourteenth that there was a large formation of Do17s coming over the channel in a heavy fog—without an escort.
We hurried expectantly to our planes through the light drizzle—and soon we were up straining our eyes for any sign of the formation of Do17s. After circling about for awhile we gave up hope of finding them in the fog and went home. We landed to hear that several squadrons had found them and taken five down—at which the doomed bombers turned for home; probably knowing that to stay would be suicide.
It was the only action that day—and we found ourselves wondering what was up that it was so quiet. We suspected something—but nothing like what was really underfoot—Goring's Alderangriff—or Eagle Attack. His once and for all try to knock out our radar.
The next morning dawned with some light mist and a heavy fog. We slept for the whole morning without the telephones shrilling once. Around noon we awoke and ate a pathetic lunch. By now rationing had gotten rather severe, and while the R.A.F. did tend to get rather better food than anyone else—it still was nothing to boast about and certainly nothing to wish for.
By then both the fog and mist had burned off and it was looking like a beautiful day with only th wispiest of clouds up against the burning blue of the sky. I lay on my back in the grass watching the clouds—feeling sleepy and content. Content to just stay on the ground. I moved a little bit on the soft blanket of grass and shut my eyes...
The loud scream of the telephone brought me awake with a terrible shock. There was such a long wait that I thought that nothing would happen, and I closed my eyes again.
“Yellow flight scramble, yellow flight scramble immediately!”
I jumped to my feet and started running toward the planes, aware of nothing other than putting one foot in front of the other. I had been so comfortable...
Then I was in the plane and the sutton harness was fastened. I could feel it, snug against my shoulders. Then I was breathing in the oxygen—and where I'd been half-asleep a moment before I was completely awake now. And wondering as we taxied down the runway what I'd ever do if I ever had to quit flying. Oh, yes, I rather hated the telephone, but I loved flying passionately. The thought of never flying again—it was a terrible thought. Even the thought of leaving the front line seemed repulsive. Sure—a rest would be good—but then—who needed a rest? I didn't live to sleep or rest—I lived to fly. And fly...and fly...and fly...and—
“There they are!”
I heard myself gasp in amazement. There in front of us, in rows upon rows upon rows were bombers. Heinkel 111s, Dornier 17s, Stuka 88s, and Stuka 87s. Around them and over and beneath them were Bf 109s and 110s.
It was as if someone was sitting on my chest. The taste of fear rose to my mouth like bile. Nobody else in Yellow Flight seemed to have anything to say either. I scanned the sky for any other British fighters—but there were none.
“All by ourselves?” Willie managed to squeak. “We're supposed to take these planes on—single handed?”
“Maybe not so single handed!” Brian said, as a group of Hurricanes seemed to appear out of nowhere. They dove boldly into the huge formation. Guilt bit at me—what were we doing hanging back?
I opened the engine wide and we swooped into the attack. Just before my kite entered the churning mass of planes and tracers I saw, out of the corner of my eye, another Spitfire squadron coming.
Then everything was turmoil with planes everywhere. Tracers streaked around me—and yet I plowed on—opening fire on anything that dared to get into the cross hairs. How many I shot down I had no idea—there was no time to keep count, and, in all honesty, at that moment it never occurred to me. It was fire on anything that bore a black cross. Several times I thought I saw a British fighter go streaking down to the sea—but I couldn't have said for certain.
The firing button felt like an old friend under my thumb as I pressed it and saw a Heinkel stream flames. It was odd how just a month ago that button had felt foreign—and now... A month could change an awful lot of things.
How long that fight lasted I don't know. I could never approximate how long a dogfight had gone on later—it was a problem that I had. When it was happening it seemed to be happening quickly—and yet you were thinking about every single three second burst—so in another way it was like seeing it in slow motion.
One moment I was firing on a Stuka, and then next the sky was empty. It was a phenomenon that would never cease to amaze me—how one minute the sky could be full of enemy planes and the next be completely empty with not a plane in sight. I turned the stick and headed for home. I tried the radio for the rest of Yellow Flight several times—but with no luck. Apparently they were far ahead of me or either that behind. It didn't really matter—they knew the way home as well as I did.
I landed and saw the planes of Yellow Flight already parked with the mechanics swarming over them like busy bees. Four of the planes with mine the fifth.
When the intelligence officer de-briefed me I found myself distracted and not being able to coherently remember the fight. I kept glancing up at the sky, waiting for the third plane to come back home. Waiting for the thing that would never happen. I knew it, knew it in my heart, but my mind refused to believe it.
As soon as the intelligence officer deemed that he'd gotten as strait a story out of me as was possible, he walked off and I hurried to the hut. Inside Al, Ted, Willie and Brian were sitting, silently staring at the floor.
“John?”
Brian shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”
I sat down and buried my head in my hands. “Oh, God. Why Jimmy and now John?”
Willie sat there, drinking, and I suddenly felt like I needed one too. A good stiff one. Brian reached for the bottle. Apparently I wasn't the only one.

DEATH ON THE WING
The seventh of September was just another day during the battle―there seemed to be nothing odd about it. By that time we were all too tired and bashed to care one way or the other what the next day brought. The very condition of the aerodrome was depressing, and the skies were no more inviting.
It was about four-thirty that afternoon when we got the frantic call to scramble―there'd been a large formation spotted coming over the channel. There seemed to be nothing odd about this so soon we were in the air and heading out to intercept them. When I got up to altitude and saw them―a massive formation of over a thousand aeroplanes over a mile and a half high and covering eight hundred square miles―my throat became tight. Were they trying to attack our battered aerodromes yet more?
On our side there were all twenty-one squadrons in the London area up in the air, trying desperately to turn them back. It was impossible. Although we did our best, most of the bombers were able to dump their bombs on the East end of London. Below us I could see the warehouses and docks burning...burning. Red flames licked up at the sky and spread madly.
Everyone was shouting―not to anyone in particular. The headphones were filled with noise and the smoke rose in huge masses, coming up in the air toward us. There were planes everywhere―to my right and my left. It was the biggest clash of aircraft I'd ever seen, and the result was total, unorganized bedlam. It was mad.
After awhile we had to land and refuel and rearm. By this time the ground crews had perfected the art of getting a plane back in the air―it took them four and a half minutes. After that time we were back up in the air again. And the German aircraft kept on coming―wave after wave of them―bombing London over, and over, and over again.
It was down to the ground and then back up again, until it started to get dark. Once full darkness fell we couldn't see to shoot them down, at least, not very well. Finally, sometime after midnight, we were allowed to stay on the ground, and I fell into an exhausted sleep to the steady thrum of German bombers going over on their death mission.

ZERO DAY
The morning of the fifteenth seemed to be another quiet day, until about elevenish. The orders came to scramble and we were running for our planes again. The routine was so familiar by now that nobody needed to think about it in the least. In a matter of moments we'd taken off.
We met a little later with a bunch more squadrons that were already up. All of them were from Group 11 except for Duxford Wing from Group 12. It was the first time I'd ever flown with anyone from Group 12 and I eyed them with a bit of suspicion as to skill, although I had heard good things about them. The squadron was lead by Squadron Leader Douglas Badar, a legless ace. When I'd been told that I hadn't believe it, of course, thought it was some pumped up story or something. After that day I knew that I'd been bloody wrong.
We joined strengths and circled over London waiting for the attackers. All of a sudden they were there―waves of bombers heavily escorted by fighters. We dove into the battle, and just before I entered the mellee I glanced in my retrospect mirror to see where Bader's squadron was. It was diving as much as any of the other ones. I shook my head in wonder and concentrated on what was ahead.
All of a sudden every thing was bedlam―tracers streaking the sky and planes weaving around in a deadly dance. I remembered the overwhelmed feeling that I'd gotten the first time I was in a dogfight. Now it was just cool calculation. I'd become a cold-blooded killer, not worried by the tracers that streaked by me or even nipped off pieces of my plane. All I cared about was getting the black crosses firmly fixed in my reflector sight and pressing the firing button firmly. I felt a little thrill as the tracers streaked out of my wings and buried themselves in the starboard engine of a 110.
No time to try and finish him off, so I flipped my plane over, treaded the rudder gently to get it in just the right position and gave a Heinkel the works. It flipped, and I turned away, searching the sky for another enemy plane. The sky was empty.
As I had so many hundreds of times before, I felt wonder fill me at how fast the sky could empty after a dogfight. Clouds of smoke rose from London. Bloody Jerries―they'd bombed her again!
I took my plane down to a lower altitude, found Red Flight and flew home with them. We landed and I got out of the plane and stretched. Back on the ground safe. During the fight I never thought about the possibility of dying―it was only afterwards that it really occurred to me. It was an odd feeling to be flying home and to suddenly think, “Good God! I've lived through it again!” Then again―the whole thing was rather odd.
The ground crew came running over and one saluted.
“Did you hear that Buckingham Palace was hit, sir?”
I started in surprise. “Buckingham Palace was bombed?”
“Yessir! Bombs didn't explode, but they landed alright! Two of 'em!”
“Good grief!” I groaned. “And we didn't do a single bloody thing to stop them!”
“There mightn't have been anything you could have done.” The man said carefully.
I laughed bitterly. “That's what they all tell me. But, believe me, there's always something that could have been done―it's just a matter of whether there was someone there doing it.”

FINEST HOUR
The evacuees came three days before I left. I walked with Mum to the station to pick them up. There on the platform were twelve children, all with large, scared eyes and paper tags around their necks like luggage and their gas masks in boxes. There were people that I knew there, and each one of them taking one or two of the children. Farmer Gasgon was there.
“I decided to take a boy after all.” he said. The lad he'd gotten was a fine boy of thirteen, strong-looking with a shock of red hair.
“'ere now, laddie, you'll be comin' wi' me and m'missus.” the farmer said as gently as he could. “You'll be 'elpin' out on our farm.”
His blue eyes got large. “Y'don't mean that?” Farmer Gasgon nodded. “Say, this might not be such rough luck after all.”
Mum's evacuees were tiny things, the girls with long, fair braids and the boy with a shock of sandy hair shading his blue eyes. The oldest girl watched us with wary brown eyes while the littlest girl's blue eyes were full of tears.
Mum kneeled down beside the littlest girl.
“Hello.” she said softly. The hot tears spilled over onto her pudgy cheeks.
“I want to go home!” she sobbed. Mum drew her close.
“There there now, dear. It's alright, cry your eyes out. It'll help.” The oldest girl's eyes lost some of their suspicion. “This'll be your home now.” Mum continued in a crooning tone. “You'll have room to run and play and you won't be in near as much danger. Your Mummy and Daddy won't need to worry about you here.”
The little girl's tears subsided and she looked up and Mum with trusting eyes. “You'll be my Mummy while I'm here?” she asked hopefully.
Mum nodded. “I'll be your Mummy.”
“Can I call you Mummy?” she persisted.
“Call me anything you like, dear. What's your name?”
“Alice.” She replied. “And she's Jannie and he's Will.”
“Jannie, Will, and Alice.” Mum smiled. “Good. Shall we go home now?”
All suspicion had vanished out of Jannie's eyes.
“You're very nice.” she said. “Would you mind if I called you Mummy too?”
“You may all call me that.” Mum said, lifting Alice expertly onto her hip. “This is Alan. He'll only be here the next couple of days before he has to go back to the R.A.F.”
Will eyed me in admiration. “You're a pilot, aren't you?” he asked.
“Sure.” I said. His jaw hung down in disbelief. “You'll tell me some stories?”
I nodded. “I think I can do that. Want a piggy-back ride?”
“That'd be swell!” he clambered up onto my back when I squatted down. Soon we were walking up toward the cottage, Will on my back holding onto my neck so I could use my hands to carry their suitcases, Alice on Mum's hip and Jannie clutching her other hand and carrying her suitcase.
Mum's simple act of kindness warmed my heart, as the did the willingness of all the other people in the town to take in the homeless evacuees. Winston Churchill had made a very true prediction when he said that this would be the people of England's 'finest hour'.

WET BEHIND THE EARS
Three days later Monty went down for the eighth or ninth time and actually got hurt. Not of his own accord.
The instant that I heard he was in the hospital I requested a couple of hours of leave and went over.
He was sitting on the bed looking horribly bored with a large bruise on his left cheek and his right arm in a sling. When he saw me he waved cheerily.
“Ah! A familiar face at last!”
I laughed and sat down. “Whatever did you do to yourself, anyway?”
“Didn't do this to myself.” Monty protested indignantly. “Some gels got a bit sore, that's all.”
“Say what?”
“Yeah! I had to bail out over London, and I came down in the east end. No sooner do I land and take m'parachute off than I'm surrounded by all these gels with big kitchen knives and rollin' pins―and all of 'em pointin' 'em at me in a most business-like manner. Well, as you can guess, that was a business that I wasn't too hot to get into, so I tried to move―just a bit, mind you. Just enough so they weren't pointed directly at the old ticker. And then this one real friendly sort o' lass clocked me with her rollin' pin. Right there on the cheek. Either she plays professional cricket or she took pilot biffing lessons.” Monty wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “I think she marred me for life.”
I laughed. “I don't think it's quite that bad.” Monty glared darkly before continuing.
“Well, after that I'd become quite decided that it wasn't the type of business that I wanted to be in, so I tried to get out of there―fast. Made a dash for it―a very good one too. Except some other old bird impaled me on her kitchen knife.” Monty tapped his heavily bandaged upper arm. “Rammed the thing clean through, I think, although the doctors don't seem to agree. They really weren't the friendliest of types. Of course, after that I had, beyond all doubts, decided that it was most certainly not the sort of business that I liked, and I told them so, in no uncertain terms. Well, so some of the terms were rather shady, but―” Monty cleared his throat. “They obviously did the trick because then all those gels were all apologetic an' all. Must have thought I was a German or something equally silly.” Monty shook his head.
I had all I could to do to keep from laughing. “You'll be back soon?”
“I should certainly hope so!” Monty said emphatically, flicking a wrinkle out of the sheet. “They say they'll let me go back tomorrow. I'm just hoping they don't change their minds.”
“I'll hope with you.” I said, holding up crossed fingers. Monty grinned and held up crossed fingers as well.
“For luck.” he said.

PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN
I woke up to a patter of feet above. My tea was cold and the fire had died down to embers. I put another log on and watched the flames jump up again. I glanced at the clock—it was seven thirty.
Three pairs of feet came flying down the steps and into the living room. I was glad that I'd gotten the fire going and the living room warm, because they were all still in their pajamas. Jannie and Alice's hair was unbraided and falling all in a tangle over the shoulders of their white night gowns. Will was just as rumpled. They all were heading for the same thing—the stockings.
There was another set of footsteps in the hall and I turned to see Mum come into the room, the old blue silk dressing gown wrapped around her. She pushed her sleep-mussed hair back out of her eyes and smiled at me.
“It's been a long time since I was woken up by the patter of little feet on Christmas morning.” she said. I smiled and Jannie glanced up from getting her stocking down from the mantle.
“Are you glad that we're here?” she asked. Mum laughed a little—and the sound was more girlish than I'd heard Mum's be for years and years.
“I'm awful glad you're here.” she said. Jannie beamed and poured her stocking out. There wasn't much inside—a few pieces of candy, the chestnuts, and a silk scarf that I recognized as one that used to be Mum's. Alice's had the same and Will's had the candy and chestnuts and a large man's handkerchief. This made Will beam broadly.
As one the three children jumped up and ran over to hug Mum. She dropped to her knees so that it would be easier for them—and almost disappeared in the center of the mellee. Finally the evacuees fell back and eyed the presents under the tree.
Mum laughed. “We can open those right away if you'd like.”
There was a general clamor of 'yes'es and so we all sat down around the tree and the presents were dispersed.
There wasn't much—Mum had knitted scarfs and mittens for us all, and I'd been able to get a tiny doll for each of the girls and a puzzle for Will. Jannie had written a poem for Mum and she and Alice had made a bunch of white paper snowflakes.
Mum opened Will's present last—it was a small cedar box, much like Jannie's except smaller.
“Farmer Gasgon helped me make it.” he explained, and then begged her to open it. Mum did—and the inside was lined with a bit of silk. “It was Jannie's. He explained.” Mum beamed and hugged them all again.
“This is the most wonderful Christmas for me.” she said.
Alice put her head and thought about it for a moment. “I wish Mummy and Daddy were here.” She said at last after serious thought. “But I like it anyway.”
Jannie nodded. “It does sound terribly wicked of me, but I think it's a wonderful Christmas too. I know that I should be sad because Mummy and Daddy aren't here—and I do miss them, but I'm still awful happy here.”
There was a silence for a moment, and then I stood up.
“I've got something for you kids, but it's up in the attic.”
“Put on sweaters if you're going to go up there.” Mum said. “I wouldn't want you catching cold.”
We went upstairs and the children go their sweaters and pulled them on over their pajamas. Soon we were up in the attic amidst the dust, boxes and trunks. There, right where I'd thought it was, in the corner, was my old sled. It was a fine wood sled with metal runners, sleek and long enough for several people to ride of if you squished.
“A sled!” Will's eyes became wide. “I've never ridden on a sled before.”
Alice laughed and Jannie bounced up and down.
“We can take it out and try it today, can't we?” She asked excitedly. I chuckled.
“I suppose so—after church. There is snow out there—at it would be a terrible waste if we didn't use it. Right?”
I carried the sled downstairs and put it on the back deck while they got dressed. A little later they came down in their nice clothes, and Mum brushed and braided the girls' hair while I made sure that Will got his hair combed and his shoes on. We had a quick breakfast and then walked to the church in the crisp, cold morning.
All around us the snow sparkled and wreaths and swags hung on door and over railings. There was a decidedly Christmassy feeling about the whole place, and I sucked in the cold air in deep droughts. It was good to be alive and home. I wouldn't have missed this Christmas for anything.

NEW YEARS
The dance floor in the night club was full, but Jackie and I somehow still found room to dance. A Nightingale Sang in Berkly Square played softly and we swayed with the music. I glanced up at the clock. It was just five minutes to midnight.
“It's almost midnight, Jackie.” I said.
She moved out of the pack and led the way to where a door—a blackout curtain drawn across it—was. She opened it and then shut it behind us as we stepped out onto a balcony. From there we could see out across London—and could see the face of Big Ben in the glow from the ever-burning fires. Above us there was usual thrumming of the bombers.
“It's odd.” Jackie said softly. “People always said it'd be over by New Years. But it's still going on. Sometimes—sometimes I wonder how long we can hold on.”
“Sometimes I wonder the same thing.” I said. “How long? How long can England hold on?”
“Just as long as those people down there in the streets are willing to hold on.” I glanced down to where there were dark shapes moving around in the streets below.
“How long?” I asked. “How long do you suppose that they can hold on?”
Jackie shook her head. “I don't know. But I think they'll be able to hold on longer than Hitler is willing to wait. Just look at them. The way they carry their heads—high. The way their jaws are set decisively. They're not going to give up—not nearly yet.”
Just then the hands on Big Ben lined up. Somewhere a clock struck the hour, and, although there were no fireworks due to the blackout, there was a feeling of the new year in the air. Below in the street a man and women walking arm in arm dropped their shaded torches and stood, looking up at the glowing face of Big Ben.
“It's the new year, Jackie.” I said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “It's 1941. It's amazing—it doesn't seem that long ago that 1940 was just starting and I was in France. I had a girl—my best friend from childhood was still with me—and I didn't know much of anything about combat. I'd never flown a Spitfire—never been operational in an English squadron. I'd never actually seen a man die.” I sighed. “An awful lot can change in one year.”
“Well, it's 1941 now. You've got new friends, even if Jimmy is gone. You know a lot about combat and you're an excellent Spitfire pilot. You've been operational for over six months. You're a year older, you've learned an awful lot about war and life. And, even though Amy is gone, you can still go into the new year having a girl.”
“Are you saying that you're willing to be my girl?” I asked.
Jackie laughed softly. “It already looks like I am, doesn't it?”
I grinned. “Yeah. I'd like it to stay that way, you know.”
“If I have my way it will stay that way.” Jackie said quietly. “Now, aren't you going to ask me for another dance? To celebrate the new year?”

BLACK CROSSES TO RED
A moment later his fire raked the cockpit of a 109 but didn't set it on fire. Another plane tried to duck to get out of the way of Jan's shells and crashed into it. There was a tremendous explosion and metal flew about.
“Six down, nine to go!”
I wasn't paying attention, though. A piece of the debris from the crash had struck my Spitfire, taking a large chunk of fuselage and the entire tail. The plane was unresponsive when I tried to bring it up out of a dive, and I found myself in an increasingly dangerous situation.
“I've got to bail out!” I shouted. “I've lost all control.”
“Bail out, Alan! Bail out!” Brian shouted. “You're getting awful low!”
Of it's own accord the plane flipped over, and I pulled the canopy back.
“Get out, you fool! Get out!” It was the last thing I heard Brian shouting before I ripped my R/T and oxygen cables out and pulled the release handle. Then I was in the open air and fumbling for my ripcord. The cold metal met my bare hand and I tugged it. There was no jerk—no slowing. I tugged harder—desperately. Still nothing. I pulled with strength born of desperation, but no canopy blossomed above my head.
A second later I crashed into the water on my right side. It was like running into a brick wall, just more violent. There was a crunch at the impact, and I thought that I'd died. When I opened my salt-filled eyes a moment later I saw that I was still alive and that there were still planes above me. I blinked and felt myself start to be tugged under by the weight of the parachute.
I tried to reach for the metal disk with my right hand, but I couldn't move my right arm. There was an awful stabbing pain in my right shoulder and hip, although it was quickly being numbed by the icy water of the channel. I reached for the metal disk with my left hand and got a hold on it. I twisted it and then thumped my fist viciously down on it. It popped open and I felt the parachute fall away.
I tried to kick to keep myself afloat, but my right leg wouldn't respond. By now there was almost no pain in my right shoulder and hip, and no feeling whatsoever in my left leg. My left hand was a bit better off, but not much. I fumbled numbly for the stem to blow up my mae west. At last my hand found it and I was, after a good deal of struggle, able to bring it up to my mouth.
Soon I had the mae west inflated, and then, with that barrier crossed, another one presented itself. My helmet strap was starting to cut into my chin, being ridiculously uncomfortable for something so small. I worked at it with my left hand, but by now there was almost no feeling left in it, and on top of that the water had made the leather swell around the buckle.
After several minutes of struggle I gave up and lay back, hoping that either I would be saved soon or else die quickly. I didn't particularly relish the idea of drowning—although freezing to death was supposedly one of the easiest deaths. I wasn't too sure about that—I'd rather be killed quickly and suddenly.
I must have passed out, because next thing I can remember was a ripping pain tearing into me all over.
“Come on, laddie. Come on, wake up.” Someone was slapping my face. I blinked and opened my eyes. I was laying on my back on a rescue launch. My right shoulder and hip were throbbing unmercifully and the rest of my body was tingling painfully. My helmet strap was also still pinching. I tried to raise my left hand to try and undo it, but it prickled and burned when I tried.
“Steady on, laddie.” The man said, and I glanced in his direction. He was a heavy-built, ruddy-faced chap in a thick overcoat. “You lay still now.”
“Can you please take off my helmet?” I asked in a voice that cracked awfully. Now that I thought about it my throat was awful dry—probably from the salt water.
“Sure.” he bent over the buckle and tried to fight with it for a few moments. Finally he stood up. “I'll have to go get a knife to cut it.” he said. “You lay still, I'll be back in a minute.”
He was true to his word, and was back a second later with a knife. He used it to cut the swollen leather and eased the helmet off my head.
“Thanks an awful lot.” I said.
“You sound as if your throat is awful dry—like a drink?”
My stomach heaved uncomfortably at the thought of trying to put anything it in. “No—I'd rather not.” I replied.
He nodded. “Alright. Most chaps don't. What happened to your parachute, anyway? We didn't see it lying about on the water or anything. 'Twas sheer luck that we found you at all.”
“It didn't open.” I replied, remembering the wild terror of falling unchecked toward the stormy grey waves of the channel.
“Wonder you're alive.” he said, sounding surprised. “Not many survive that. You ought to be glad you're still here.”
I closed my eyes. “Think I'll survive?”
His laugh was a bellow of surprise. “What? What's that? Survive? Oh yes, you'll survive alright!What every gave you the crazy notion that you wouldn't?”
“The water was awful cold.” I murmured, feeling myself starting to slip off again. “Awful cold.”

ALWAYS SOMEONE WORSE
We came inside, and I winced. It didn't look like a hospital. It looked much more like an out-of-control dormitory. My throat tightened and I found myself looking away. How could I look? Every single one of the young men in the room had been burned. It was the first time that I'd seen a burned chap, I realized. Some were bandaged—but those that weren't had faces and hands that had been demolished by the hungry flames.
It was as if I couldn't breathe. Monty had moved off—and I was completely on my own. I wanted to get out—wanted to do anything. All of a sudden all my troubles seemed incredibly small and insignificant. But I couldn't leave—so I forced myself to bring my head up and look.
None of them were in the typical R.A.F convalescent blues—all were in a motley assortment of pajamas, their uniforms, and street clothes. And more amazingly than that—all of them were smiling, joking, and laughing.
How could they do it?
I ran my eyes over the room and saw Monty down at the end sitting next to a bed where a young man was sitting. Peter? It hardly could be possible. But it did seem to be. Once again my stomach heaved uncomfortably.
“Hullo ol' boy. Not a new patient here, I don't think.”
I turned to look and saw a young man leaning against the wall, his bandaged hands crossed across his chest, his head tipped at an odd angle because of the tube of skin that ran from his face down to his shoulder.
“No.” I finally managed. “I'm not.”
He laughed. “I'd thought so. Saw y'came with Monty—nice chap.”
“Yeah—I think so too.” I said, not sure what else to say.
The other chap nodded. “Get your jaw back up where it belongs, would you?”
“What?”
“You're gawking like a bull elephant that got hit with an arrow.” he said.
“I—” I tried, but then fell silent. “It's just different.”
“I'll say.” he said, grinning crookedly. “I was stuck at Halton for awhile—brrr.” He shook his head best he could.
“I just—well, I guess I can't figure out how you can all be so cheerful.”
His brown eyes became suddenly serious.
“There's a secret to that, you know.” he said. I looked at him keenly, and he continued. “Every time you think you're poorly off you can always look around and find someone who's worse off than you are. Like Bill over there—he lost all his fingers on one hand and most on the other. Some chaps lost the sight in one eye—or both. Blind. I'm pretty lucky, y'know. Peter Standish and Tom Gleave—the lost their whole face. Gone. I'm not that bad. There was a chap in here—Colin Hodgkinson—he'd lost both legs. Compared to them—who am I to complain? So every time you start feeling down, you look around. There's always someone worse. And then you look at them for a bit and see them being cheerful and getting on fine, and then you think—'what have I got to complain about? I was pretty darn lucky'. And then it's—” he shrugged. “I don't know, really. And even when you see that there's someone worse—sometimes it's still tough. And then you laugh—laugh because if you didn't laugh you'd cry.”
I didn't know what to say. I just sat there quiet, staring out the window.
“Sorry.” The other chap said. “I shouldn't have rambled like that.”
I looked at him—looked him right in the eye for the first time. “No—I needed that. And you know what—you're right.”
He grinned crookedly. “Yeah. I think I realized that already.”
“Thanks an awful lot.” I said, deadly serious. “I've been rather down too, y'know. And now—well—” I stopped—not knowing what exactly to say.
He nodded a little. “Everybody goes through that. Gets real depressed, thinks they'd rather die—wonders if'n they can ever pick up the pieces of their life and go on. I don't mean to sound stuck-up or anything—but you've got it rather easier. You'll be back up and about in a month or two—some of the chaps here are facing years. But, y'know, once you get it in perspective it's not so bloody terrible. The folks here are great—they get y'back up on your feet. So maybe you're not as good-looking as you once were—y'can still go on. And they package y'off and send y'down to the town.”
“Really?” I couldn't believe it.
“Yeah. And at first y'go with your head ducked and your hands as deep in your pockets as they'll go. And then—then somebody asks you in for tea. Or a girl asks y'out for a dance. Or some other type comes along and invites y'in for a drink at the Whitehall. And then—well, pretty soon you're not feelin' self-concious—because ever body's been so swell about it. And pretty soon you start thinkin', 'y'know, I don't care who sees me—if they don't like it they can just deal with it'. And then when some pretty girl or a lovely nurse asks y'down to London for an evening—you go. Because y'don't care who sees you. If they can't take it—what business of that is yours? And life goes on. And pretty soon—you're thinkin' about goin' back to flyin'.”
“I don't know if I could ever do that.” I said. “I don't think I could take to the air—not ever again. My parachute didn't open—I just don't think—” I shook my head.
He grinned. “You might change your mind about that.” he said. “But it's not important now.”
“It's amazing—really.” I said.
“What?”
“The whole—atmosphere around here.”
He laughed. “That's the work of the Maestro. Without him—believe me, the whole thing would never have happened.”
“Maestro?”
He laughed again. “That's what we call him. Dr. Archibald McIndoe. Brilliant man—incredible surgeon—and he's the nicest sort of bloke y'ever met.” he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned closer. “Got the loveliest theater assistant, too.”
I grinned. “Why so secretive about it?”
“Well...” he let his voice trail off. “Quite honestly—I think Geoffrey's sweet on her.”
I suppressed a smile. “If she's all that pretty—I'd think somebody would be sweet on her!”

SILVER LININGS
“Hello?” I asked―wondering who was calling at this hour of the night.
“Alan?”
“Monty! What the heck are you doing calling at this bizarre hour of the night?”
He groaned. “I could ask you what you're still doing up at this hour. But never mind that―the reason I called was that I just got back from my date, and the chaps here were all talking about Brian. So I did a bit of snooping for you―seeing as you rather appreciate his friendship―or at least I think you do.”
“Yeah, yeah―what happened?” I asked, suddenly very worried. “What happened, Monty? What happened?”
“Keep your shirt on.” Monty grumbled. “From what I hear he went down this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” I prodded. “What happened to him?”
“Well―” Monty broke off as if he didn't want to say it. “Y'see, Alan, he went down in a flamer.”
Oh dear God! A flamer! Brian!
“No.” I heard myself choking out. “No, no, no. Not Brian―not Brian.”
“Yeah.” Monty's voice was thick.
“Why Brian? Why Brian? Why him? Jimmy―and now Brian. The two closest friends that I've ever had! Both of them―gone.”
“He's not dead, Alan.” Monty said softly.
“What's that?”
“He's not dead―he's still alive.”
“He's still alive.” “He's still alive.” “He's still alive.” the words pounded relentlessly through my mind, searing into it like they were made of white hot mental―each pound a stab of hope―and despair.
“He's burned, isn't he?” It was as if I was hearing someone else say the wooden words.
“Yeah.” It was barely a whisper.
“Bad?”
There was silence on the other end for a few moments. “I don't know...” Monty ventured at last. “I guess―well, maybe not as bad as Peter―but yeah, still bad.”
Oh Jesus. Brian―and I can't even be there.
“You still there, Alan? You alright?”
“Yeah.” I managed. “Yeah―I think that I'm okay.”
“You'll make it. You'll be alright.” Monty was saying―and suddenly I remembered Monty―the Monty that had had his closest friend also incinerated in a blaze. The Monty that knew―the Monty that understood. The one that was telling me that I'd be alright―because he knew.
“I'm sorry, Monty. I'm just―I'm awfully worried about Brian.”
“He'll pull through.” Monty said―but I heard the words as if from far away. “Remember what Peter said―no matter how many dark clouds threaten to overwhelm you there's always a silver lining.”
A silver lining. I found myself wondering how there could be a silver lining to this dark cloud.
“I was thinking.” Monty was continuing. “I can't think of silver linings to all the dark clouds that I've been through―but do you suppose that maybe there's always a silver lining―we just don't always see them. Y'know what I mean?”
For some bazaar reason it hit home. “I think I do.” I heard myself saying. “Although I know that I can't see the silver lining to this dark cloud.”
“I can't see it either―not yet.” Monty said. “Although―you know what, I can sure tell you that I didn't see a silver lining to the cloud when Peter was shot down either. But now―”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.
“Well―Peter's nurse just happens to have this little sister that's been lost(or so Peter tells me) and when she finds her she's suffering from cerebral palsy―but the point is that Peter thinks she's wonderful―and her sister(name's Liz―she's not a bad sort) has given him permission to write Julie and they've been seeing each other―Peter's really happy about it. You could say that that's a silver lining.”
“I thought Peter had a girl.” I said.
Monty was silent. “She―she couldn't handle it. It―it just about killed Peter.”
I couldn't think of anything to say. All off a sudden I remembered Brian's girl―the one he was engaged to. “Does Brian's girl know?”
“I should call her too.” Monty said.
“You know―I could do it.” I said. “You shouldn't have to do it―you didn't even know him that well.”
“Look,” Monty said decisively. “I knew him a little―and what I knew of him he was simply swell. Best type. I couldn't sleep right now anyway―I don't know why. I'm just not feeling sleepy in the least.”
“Well―if you really want to.” I said reluctantly. “I sure would rather not be the one to do it―so if you really want to do it so much.”
“Yeah―I can do it.” Monty took a deep breath. “I should do that now. Talk to you later, eh, Alan? Try and get some sleep―don't worry about Brian too much. He'll be alright―and so will you.”
“Thanks Monty.” I said huskily. “You're a good chap.”
“Thanks.” Monty said, sounding very sheepish. “G'night, then.”
“G'night, Monty.”

JUST A BEGINNING
“I grew up in Germany.” she began. “We lived in the outskirts of Berlin and owned a two-story house. I had two brothers, four and six years older than me. We didn't need the whole house so we rented the upper story to the Jewish shoemaker that had a shop next door. He and his wife were poor and trying to raise a family of eight on a small income, so while they payed a little rent we almost gave the apartment away. My father was very kindhearted and glad to help anyone, no matter how little profit there was in it for him. He was always like that.
“In 1933 Adolf Hitler came to power.” she said his name like it was a terrible taste that she wanted to spew out of her mouth as vehemently as possible. “I was eleven at the time―my brothers fifteen and seventeen. Right away my family knew that we should get out. We started packing and preparing to leave, but we weren't fast enough. We were almost ready to go―and then, on Crystal Night...” her voice trailed off and she didn't even try to wipe away the stream of tears that were running down her cheeks. She took a long, shaky breath and continued.
“We were just finishing praying the rosary when there was a smashing of glass next door. Father jumped to his feet and ran to the window and saw the Nazis destroying the shoe shop. Her turned hastily to Mother and told her to run upstairs and tell the Jewish family to stay put. Mother ran up the stairs and knocked on their door.
“Before she came back down again the Nazis were pounding on our door, demanding that we hand the Jews over. Father said that we would never do that, and the Nazis started getting nasty. Father and my brothers went out there to try and stop them―and―” her voice caught in her throat, “and the Nazis gunned them down. Mother came running down the stairs then, crying, and, without thinking, ran outside. The Nazis gunned her down on the doorstep before she ever reached where Father and the boys were laying.” Her head hung limp as if all the strength had gone out of her. I reached across the table and put my left hand on top of her clasped hands and squeezed. She glanced up and the tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto my hand.
“I remember screaming and running out the back door, down the steps and through the garden. On the street I ran to the safest place I knew―the covenant where I went to school. Several times on the way I was obliged to dart through side streets to avoid the Nazis that were wrecking everything of Jewish possession that they could find. By then it was quite dark, and many times I tripped.
“Finally I came to the covenant and raced inside. A nun that I knew was coming down the hall and I ran to her and wrapped my arms around her, crying hysterically. I don't know how long it took her to get the story out of me―but once she did she just held me and let me cry.
“'Cry it out.' she said. 'You'll feel better once you don't have any more tears in you.'
“It took me a long time, but finally I dried my eyes and she got me some supper and found me a bed. In the morning we went to see the Mother Superior. The Mother Superior said that they would be willing to let me stay there if I worked hard―but only if I wished to stay in Germany. If I wanted to leave like my family had been planning to―then they would willingly help me.
“I still wanted to leave―I wanted nothing more to do with Germany, or Hitler, or the Nazis. The nun that I'd first ran into said that she had a sister in England who would probably be quite willing to take me in as she had no children of her own and had always wanted one. She wrote a letter that very night―and in several weeks we had an answer back.
“Soon after that I set foot in England for the first time.”
Jackie was silent and I handed her my handkerchief. She accepted it gratefully and wiped her eyes.
“Do you ever want to go back to Germany?” I asked.
She shook her head emphatically. “No―never. It's a place of too many bitter memories for me. I've really been very happy here in England―I already somewhat knew the language before I came, and soon I became fluent. I've never wished that I stayed in Germany―not once. And when I turned eighteen it was only logical that I would fly transfer with the W.A.A.F.―number one because I knew that there was a war coming and I wanted to do everything that I could to help defeat the Nazis that had killed my parents and brother―and number two because I already knew how to fly. I'd been taught almost as soon as I could see and reach.”
“Who was the family that you lived with?” I asked.
“The Renthers.”
My eyebrows went up. “Any relation to Monty's parents?”
She smiled a little. “His father's brother. Monty's uncle. He built custom aircraft before the war―but now he builds Spitfires. It's the same place where Monty learned to fly.”
“And what about the nun that helped you get out of Germany?”
Her face clouded. “I don't know. She sent letter regularly until partway through 1939. Since then there hasn't been a single letter through.”
“Do you think she's dead?”
Jackie shook her head. “I don't know. My logic says that she's dead―but my heart―” she shook her head again. “My heart says that she's sill alive.
“I'm sorry, Jackie.” I said. “About your family―about everything.”
She looked at me and her smile was bittersweet. “It was terrible at the time―but while it still hurts now I'm older and wiser and I understand that while it seemed like an ending at the time it was just a beginning. That's the way of endings. Every ending―sad or happy―is really just another beginning. Maybe the new tale won't be as good as the old one―maybe it'll be better. It's up to us which way it will go. If we sit there moping about the ending instead of enjoying the new beginning we'll never get anywhere and it will not turn out as well as it may have. But if we treat it as a beginning instead of an ending―always keeping our eyes ahead―it may prove to be a blessing in disguise. Blessings love disguises, you know.”
Every ending is a new beginning.
“You've reached an end.” Jackie continued softly. “You've come to the end of one road―and it's up to you what happens now and which other road you choose to take”

V FOR VICTORY
After lunch we started off for East Grinstead.
“I'll be sure and have him back in the same condition that he left.” Monty dramatically promised Mum. She laughed and waved him off.
“Off you go, you great fibber!” Monty laughed and slid in behind the wheel. He started the car and pulled out onto the road.
“It seems like spring's just around the corner.” Monty said. “Right around it be afraid to come further. Sometimes I think it's coming at last—and then—” he sighed. “I can't wait. It's much too cold flying in the winter. The heater in a Spit isn't all that good—and it's awful cold at twenty thousand feet.”
I didn't say anything. I was still resolved not to go back to flying, so talking about it seemed pointless.
“Still planning on not going back, eh?” Monty said, shaking his head. “You're really being very stubborn about this, y'know that?”
“I told you I'd made up my mind.” I sad. “I meant it.”
Monty sighed. “It'd be a pity if you didn't come back. Think of all you'll miss out on.”
I shook my head stubbornly. “No. I enjoyed doing it before the crash—but that aspect of it is over now. I'll never be able to enjoy it again—so it's time to move on.”
“You're not going to be able to move on, you know.” Monty said softly, glancing over at me out of the corner of his eye. “It's in your blood—you're a natural pilot. You might think that you don't want to fly now, but there'll come a day when you'll regret it if you don't go back.”
I sighed and looked out the window, wondering why everyone had to be so hard headed about this. Why couldn't they just see that I was ready to quit?”
Monty was silent and I wondered if he'd finally understood that it was something that I didn't want to talk about.
“What did Jackie say about it?” he asked at last.
“It's none of your bloody business.” I snapped. “It doesn't make darn bit of difference what she did or didn't say. All I want is to be bloody well left alone with regard to the whole thing!” Monty recoiled as if he'd been hit, but I didn't make a move to apologize. “If you don't know how to mind your own business I'd suggest that you start learning how.” I finished, and again turned to look out the window. Monty was quiet, and when I glanced back over I saw that he was gripping the wheel in a death grip—so hard that his knuckles were white.
“Alan, you are a bloody fool.” he said through clenched teeth. “A bloody fool. I'm trying to help you—everyone is trying to help you. And you're being a complete idiot—not to mention pig—about the whole thing. I'd hazard to guess that I'm as sick of this whole thing as you are—even if for different reasons. You'd make it a whole lot easier if you just started cooperating.”
“If you think that you can make me go back up there,” I nearly shouted. “Then you are wrong. You are so darn wrong. I'm not going back up there—no matter what. Don't you—can't you understand that? Can't anyone understand that? I'm done! Done flying! And that's final. You'd bettered not say another blasted thing about it. Understood?”
“You—” Monty broke off and stared angrily at the road. He was silent, and I stared moodily out the window. The atmosphere was tense—almost static. It was as if anger crackled in the air. I look deep breaths—trying to calm myself. Every time I tried I starting thinking that maybe Monty was right. I pushed this thought away quickly. Of course he wasn't right. I was in the right! I had no right to be asked to go back! It was really ridiculous to even think that I would want to go back.
“You're been a bloody fool, Alan.” Monty hissed through clenched teeth. “A bloody fool and I don't have the foggiest notion why I ever got in with you in the first place.”
“You're the one being the fool, Monty.” I snapped peevishly. “It's only rational that I wouldn't want to go back. Who would?”
“Do you really want to know the answer to that? Really want to know the answer to that? I know of quite a few chaps that have come down that want to go back up again.”
“Ha.” I laughed mockingly. “I don't believe it.”
“Yeah.” Monty said, his face flushing angrily. “Peter wants to go back up—he's trying hard as he can to get ready to go back up again. He's not the only chap at East Grinstead that wants to go back. Most want to go back up—some can't. And they tell stories of a chap that was there for awhile—lost both legs—one three quarters of the way up the calf. And you know where he is now? Flying.”
“Do what? I don't care what some other chaps have done. I'm not going back up. Me. Myself. They can go and do whatever they like—but I'm not going to.”
“You ass.” Monty said, smacking the wheel with the flat of his hand. “You just said that nobody wants to go back.”
I fell silent. I had—but I didn't want to admit it. “Just shut your trap, Monty and keep your bad advise to yourself.”
Monty looked icily out the windshield, and, out of the corner of my eye I could see that his jaw was clenched tight. His black eyes were hard, and I knew that he was angry—really and truly. For an instant my conscience bit at me, but I turned to look out my window, ignoring the sharp pricks. I was in the right—he had no right to go pestering me about it.
The rest of the drive was made in a stony silence—both of us refusing to look at each other—seeming to deem it below us to speak to the other. It was unpleasant in the highest degree, but I refused to let it be any other way. I certainly wasn't going to apologize. If Monty didn't like it—he was the one that could do the apologizing.
I cursed under my breath and wished that Monty would have never brought it up. The truth was that I liked the chap, but sometimes he could get a little—no, more than a little—trying.
Yeah! And so can you, Alan! What a bloody nuisance you're being now! You ought to see yourself. If I were Monty I'd whack you—hard. With something resembling a—a railroad tie. That ought to do it! Honestly. You're being a total moron. Why can't you ever seem to act like a normal human being instead of an ogre? *screams and pulls at hair* In fact—come to think of it—why can't ANY of my characters just do what I want them to do? You're all a very selfish bunch, that's for certain. You've done all sorts of ridiculous things to my story, and now you're screwing with my plot now too! *headdesk* Some people edit in December and January—I'm going to spend BOTH of them murdering y'all. Well...that out of my system, resume. I wonder if I could drop a bomb on Alan and just kill him—it would CERTAINLY make the rest of the book easier to write. *headdesk*
After what seemed an eternity we pulled into East Grinstead. As Monty helped me out of the car he opened his mouth, and then shut it abruptly again.
Inside he walked over—said something to a nurse, then pushed me into Ward III, up next to a bed, and then stalked off—the very set of his shoulders angry. My mind was so preoccupied with the disagreement(disagreement? Disagreement? You're battier than I thought, Ruth Rynae. Some disagreement. Looked like an all-out fight to me. Oh—just shut your trap too. I'm trying to write this thing—can't you tell?) that I wasn't even thinking about what I was there for very much. I watched Monty stalking across the ward and saw him sit down in a chair—backwards to front. (so how does that look anyway?) The occupant of the bed was sitting up, and Monty began talking animatedly—I cursed him when I realized that he was probably telling Peter all about the fight.

THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER
The song on the phonograph switched again—and my throat suddenly got tight.
“There'll be blue birds over, the White Cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see. I'll never forget, the people I met, braving those angry skies, I remember well, as the shadows fell, the look of hope in their eyes. And though I'm far away, I can still hear them say, 'dawn up', for when the dawn comes up there'll be blue birds over, the White Cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see. There'll be love and laughter—and peace ever after, tomorrow, when the world is free...”
It was as if I couldn't breathe. I was back under those white limestone cliffs again, and Amy was sitting there—her tears falling into the sand. I reached out to put my arms around her and comfort her but she pushed me away roughly. “Go away, Alan. I never want to speak to you again.”
“What?” I'd asked.
“I never want to talk to you ever again!” she said, her voice reaching a screaming crescendo. “I hate you! I hate all R.A.F. How could you leave us to suffer ad die? Don't you care?” She'd collapsed on the sand, her shoulders heaving with her weeping. “Didn't it matter to you that that people were dying?” she said in a tear-torn whisper. “Didn't you ever think that maybe we needed your help?”
“I'm sorry Amy—” I remembered trying to apologize—trying to explain.
“Just go away, Alan. Far away. I never want to see your face again. Never.” she'd looked up at me, and her voice had became deadly serious. “Never again.”
Vera Lynn's voice brought me back to reality—and I suddenly knew that I had to get out. I mumbled something to Jackie and hurried out of the pub.
Outside it was a cool night, and the sky was studded with stars. I stood there looking up and taking deep breaths of the night air.
“What's wrong, Alan?” Jackie asked, coming to my elbow.
“It's—nothing.” I said huskily.
“There's something wrong. Something dreadfully wrong, Alan. What is it—what's with the White Cliffs?”
I gasped like I'd been hit. She put a hand on my arm. “I don't know what it is, Alan. I just figured it had something to do with the song.”
“Alright.” I said in a low voice. “I'll tell you.”

As usual Jackie listened quietly, and when I'd finished she put an arm around me.
“I'm awfully sorry about that, Alan, but it's really not the White Cliffs that's the problem. You had something awful happen to you—but you're taking it out on something that isn't to blame. Most everyone looks to the Cliffs—they're a symbol of hope. You can't go on hating them.”
“I can.” I said—and she shook her head.
“I didn't mean that you physically can't—but you should at least understand that they're not the cause of the difficulty.”
I shook my head but didn't say anything. “Tomorrow.” Jackie said. “I've got tomorrow off—leave. Let's go down there.”
I pulled back. “Oh no. No, no, I don't want to go.”
Jackie shrugged and moved back toward the pub. “Alright. If you don't want to go—that's alright. If you change your mind—we'll go.”
She went back inside, and I stood there for awhile—not sure what I wanted to do yet. One part of me wanted to overwrite the memory of Amy with one of Jackie. I wanted to be able to associate the White Cliffs with happy times not sad. But—did I want to go there in the first place? I knew that didn't—but at the same time...
I sighed and opened the door to the pub. I still hadn't made up my mind.
“What do you think?” Jackie asked when I came over to the table. I shrugged.
“I don't know yet. I'll tell you in the morning, alright?”
She smiled. “Alright.”

Jackie and I were getting ready to board the train. Willie and Al had managed to be able to come and see us off. They waved at us as the train pulled away.
“Come to the wedding on June 23rd!” Al shouted. I nodded and waved. Soon they were out of sight, and I sat back in my seat—my heart pounding.
“You're sure you want to do this?” Jackie asked—and I nodded. “Right.” she said. “Dover here we come.”
I sighed and leaned my head back. If only I could catch a bit of sleep. This would be a long enough train trip as it was.

I did sleep some—but I still found myself very annoyed with the train trip by the time that it was over. If there was one thing that I had had no patience for since I started flying it was trains. Stop—go—stop again—go—stop—go. Chugging across the countryside slowly when I could be whizzing over the tops of the trees.
You're not going back. I reminded myself—and then wondered why I was being so stubborn about it. I want to go back! I thought to myself for the first time. I don't want to spend the rest of my life on the ground! No you don't want to go back. The other part of me insisted. You're terrified of it—think what could happen if you went back! Think what happened to you—think what happened to Brian! Think about what happened to John—to Ted—to Freddie—think about the people that have died or been terribly maimed up there. Why would you want to go back? I sighed as my other side retorted back. Why would I want to spend the rest of my life stuck on ground? Some chaps are terribly in love with the terra firma—but personally I could care less. I want to be up flying...and flying...and flying. How dumb is it to be impersonating a bird? The other side complained. It's not dumb.
“Dover!” I jumped—but was glad for the interruption. Jackie stood up and yawned.
“I hate train rides—they seem to take so long after flying.” I guess I wasn't the only one.

We walked slowly down the beach—my crutches sinking uncomfortably into the sand. The sun was just starting to set and the blue sky was studded with pink and purple clouds. Jackie walked beside me, her hand on my arm. We walked along—not saying anything for quite awhile. Then Jackie sat down and motioned for me to do the same. I sat down beside her.
“I'll never forget the people I met, braving those angry skies.” she sang in a soft, beautiful voice. I closed my eyes and just listened. “There'll be blue birds over, the White Cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see. I'll never forget, the people I met, braving those angry skies, I remember well, as the shadows fell, the look of hope in their eyes. And though I'm far away, I can still hear them say, 'dawn up', for when the dawn comes up there'll be blue birds over, the White Cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see. There'll be love and laughter—and peace ever after, tomorrow, when the world is free. The shepherd will tend his sheep—” she suddenly broke off with a gasp.
“Alan! Alan!” I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was pointing out across the channel. “Alan! There's a dogfight going on out there!”