London Dawn (51 page)

Lord Preston turned the radio off. There might have been more, but he didn’t have the stomach to listen to it.

I confess I don’t know how to pray, Lord God. I cannot say I do not wish him taken out of the picture and away from that microphone of his altogether. At the same time I pray for his soul; I pray it may be redeemed. I doubt he wants to be redeemed or even feels that he in any way needs redemption. Yet I pray for him just the same. Silence him and spare him. That is how I shall put it.

RAF Pickering Green, Kent

The next day Squadron Leader Sean Hartmann stood in an on-again, off-again drizzle at Pickering Green, tea in one hand and biscuit in the other, and spoke with his squadron.

“You’ve all done well…very well indeed. With Jerry’s switch in tactics—coming in as high as thirty thousand feet over the Channel, just using Me 109s and Me 110s to attack by day so that every battle is a fighter-to-fighter combat—you’ve had to reach down and come up with your best and you’ve done it. Goering can’t keep this up forever. The weather’s getting more and more miserable. Stick to it a few more weeks and I promise you we’ll have seen an end to the threat of invasion.”

He sipped his tea before he carried on.

“So now we’re going up to wait for those sinners at angels two five. That
way we can get at them quickly whether they’re flying at thirty thousand feet or twenty thousand. It takes too long for us to scramble after them and climb to high altitude. Once they’ve crossed the Channel they only need seventeen to twenty minutes to reach London. Heaven knows the city takes enough of a beating by night. Let’s see what we can do to make it more bearable for them by day. Mirrors, Quaker, bag us some Hun, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilkie and Miller said at the same time.

“Puritan, Viking, you’ve each got two Me 110s. See if you can double that today. Every Jerry out of the air saves a life down below.”

“I have the synchronization of the flying and the shooting down pat now, I think,” replied Packer, squinting as raindrops spattered against his eyes.

“Not flying the same old way every time,” added Peterson. “Trying new tricks, new angles of attack, coming in at Jerry with a new slant every time. That seems to help.”

Sean smiled. “Right. Let’s jump in our kites and get to twenty-five thousand feet quick as we can. We’ll pounce on those Nazi mice like proper British alley cats.”

As they broke up and moved away to their planes, several of them glanced back at the Officers’ Mess. Kipp was framed in the doorway, one arm free of its cast.

Seeing him, Sean said to the others, “And keep one eye out for Moby Dick.”

The vicarage, St. Andrew’s Cross, London

The next afternoon Lord Preston was again home early from Church House. Emma was out for a visit with Jane. Jeremy was working in his office in the church building. Even though the vicarage was empty, Lord Preston shut the door to the library firmly and kept the volume on the radio as low as he could. Lord Tanner’s words were still clear.

“I have with me in the studio today my American fiancée. I have asked her to add her voice to mine in an effort to persuade you to end this war against the German people.”

“I wish my British friends well.” It was Lady Kate Hall’s voice.

Lord Preston had been leaning forward to listen to the broadcast. Now
he leaned back in surprise, staring at the tall radio set as if he could see her face in it.

“I appeal to you once again in the spirit of Marshal Blücher of Waterloo, the German commander—we must be allies. My fiancée Katarina appeals to you in the spirit of your great friends in America.”

“It is pointless to keep on fighting,” said Lady Kate. “The cost is too high.”

“Look at your casualties for October,” Lord Tanner added. “It’s horrendous. By our calculations, over six thousand civilians killed and over eight thousand badly injured. Many of them will never walk or talk again. For what? What sort of country will you have left to you in a few more weeks? How many people will want to live among ash heaps and blackened timbers? Death is in the air, death is on the ground, death is under your feet, and more death is yet to come. You wretched, miserable English, what has all your stubbornness bought you? Better the swastika than the Union Jack, better Hitler than Churchill, better the
Luftwaffe
to guard your skies than the RAF.”

“And better death than dishonor,” said Lady Kate.

Suddenly there was a shot. And another shot.

It sounded to Lord Preston as if chairs fell over and doors slammed. The radio began to give off a high-pitched squeal.

“Fight, England! Fight and you will win! Hold on now and you will win! Believe me! There will be no invasion!
Morgenstund’ hat Gold im Mund
!”

The broadcast went dead. Then, suddenly, Nazi marching music blared from the radio set.

A moment later it was a speech by Hitler with the chant “Hitler, Hitler, Hitler” rising from the audience whenever he paused. Lord Preston immediately recognized it as a speech from the month before, delivered in early September. While his mind whirled, trying to understand what had happened to Lord Tanner and Lady Kate, thinking Gestapo had come into the studio and shot her, a narrator came on and translated Hitler’s speech into English.

“If the British Air Force drops two, three, or four thousand kilos of bombs, we will drop a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, four hundred thousand kilos or more in one night. If they declare that they will attack our cities on a large scale, we will wipe theirs out! We will put a stop to the game of these night-pirates, so help us God!”

Deafening screams of support forced Hitler to pause.

“The hour will come when one or the other of us will break, and that one will not be National Socialist Germany!”

A roar that made the speaker in the radio set buzz.

“In England they’re filled with curiosity and keep asking, ‘Why doesn’t he come?’ ”

Laughter.

“Be calm. He’s coming, he’s coming!”

More laughter. Cries of “
Heil
Hitler” and “
Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil
.”

“Hail victory!” the translator said in a loud voice.

Lord Preston snapped the radio set off with the sharp twist of a dial.

October 29, 1940

The skies over Kent

“A tight left, Mirrors! A tight left! He’s on your tail!”

Wilkie saw the tracers from the Me 109 zip over his starboard wing as he banked hard to the left. Within seconds his vision began to blur as he made the turn tighter and tighter and faster and faster. Suddenly everything was gray and he couldn’t feel his hand on the stick. Then he blacked out. Five seconds later he blinked open his eyes and saw the German fighter that had been behind him was now off his port wing. He rammed the stick over to the left again and came at the enemy plane side-on. The pilot was a pink face with an oxygen mask. Wilkie pressed the fire button. The smell of burnt cordite filled the cockpit. The Me 109 slewed to the left, smoke pouring out of its engine.

“Well done, Mirrors!” Sean watched the Messerschmitt drop into a dive and its pilot parachute out. “Heads up, Quaker! Dropping out of what sun we’ve got! Shake him!”

Hurtling at another Me 109, Sean lost sight of Miller’s Spitfire that had gone into a short, stiff climb and a loop. His own target flashed over with fire as he thumbed the gun button. Pulling away he saw it explode in a blur of orange. He caught a quick glimpse of Packer and Peterson turning and tumbling with almost acrobatic precision, German fighters diving after them, overshooting the Spitfires and falling into the range of the eight machine guns in their wings, large holes opening in the German fuselages and tail fins.

At the last moment, before he was swallowed up by a dark cloud, Sean spotted Miller finishing his loop on the tail of the Messerschmitt chasing him, and jagged chunks of metal flying from the Me 109 and spinning through the air as Miller peppered the Messerschmitt. A minute later, once he had emerged from the cloud, Sean saw the fight was miles behind him to the east and banked his Spitfire in that direction. By the time he reached the dogfight again it was over, the Germans fleeing south across the Channel, some of his squadron racing after them, the others heading for Pickering Green.

“Squadron Leader to all pilots,” he said into his R/T. “Check your fuel levels and make your way back to base. Prescott will have a lot of green forms for you to fill out. Congratulations.”

“We got them this time, sir,” Wilkie radioed. “I’m sure we knocked eight or nine out of the sky.”

“Eight or nine bombs that won’t drop on Camden or the West End or any part of London. I say again, well done, Mirrors, Viking, Quaker, Puritan…well done, all of you.”

“This calls for a spot of tea, Squadron Leader.”

Sean relaxed radio discipline for a moment and laughed over the R/T. “Enough tea to float the British Isles, I think, Flight Sergeant Wilkie. I trust you’ll join me in a cup?”

“As many cups as possible, sir.”

“That is a lot of cups, Flight Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

October 30, 1940

The prime minister’s residence, 10 Downing Street

“Come in, Lord Preston. Shut the door.” Churchill lit a cigar and settled in his chair.

Lord Preston took the first seat he saw in the small room.

“Never been in here before, eh?” asked Churchill.

“Not in this room, no, Mister Prime Minister.”

“Hardly anyone knows about it. Scarcely bigger than a wardrobe. One of my favorite rooms. No one ever finds me here. They think it’s a broom closet.”

Smoke from his cigar quickly filled the space. Lord Preston put his hand over his mouth and nose. Churchill didn’t notice.

“I have something rather singular to relate to you, William. That Lord Tanner fellow who used to be a servant of yours years ago—Goebbels’ barking dog with his propaganda broadcasts. He was shot and killed during his broadcast the other day. And it was his fiancée who shot him. An American woman, Lady Kate Hall. She had a small pistol in her stocking or some such thing, or so MI-Six tells me. I understand she was supposed to make her own pitch for our surrender. After she shot him she shouted into the microphone for England to fight on. ‘
Morgenstund’ hat Gold im Mund!
—The early morning hour has gold in its mouth!’ A German proverb. I expect she was addressing that to our fighter pilots. It is the most extraordinary thing. Did you know her at all?”

Lord Preston was stunned by the news, and it took him a long moment to answer. He sat looking at the prime minister.

“I did, Winston. Or I thought I did. She had a great deal of pluck. But I confess I did not see this coming.”

Churchill grunted. “Neither did Lord Tanner or the Gestapo, apparently.” Churchill drew on his large cigar. “We knew the invasion barges were dispersed in mid-September. Though part of the reasoning behind that was to prevent the RAF and Royal Navy from destroying them. Now we have evidence that just in the past few days several military units earmarked for the invasion have been deployed elsewhere.” A gleam came into Churchill’s eye through the haze of smoke. “He’s calling it off, William. Herr Hitler has decided he doesn’t have all the cards he needs for a successful assault on Britain’s shores. Even though the tides would have remained favorable till the fourth of November, he’s pulling out troops. We must remain vigilant, of course, but the weather is turning in our favor as well. A heavy chop in the Channel, strong winds, heavy rain…the bleakest and, for our purposes, the best sort of English weather. The same sort of brew that scuttled the Spanish Armada’s plans. Thank God for the miserable weather He’s given Britain from time immemorial, eh?”

Lord Preston was still taking it all in. “Yes, thank Him.” He stared at a portrait of William Pitt the Younger on the wall behind Churchill. “Do we know what happened to Lady Kate Hall?”

“The Nazis won’t say. She is an American, after all. They don’t want to ruffle Roosevelt’s feathers.”

Lord Preston continued to stare at the portrait. “Silenced but not spared. That was the judgment on Lord Tanner.”

Churchill narrowed his eyes and puffed on his cigar. “What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?”

All Hallow’s Eve, October 31, 1940

RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex

“Are we going up, Squadron Leader?” asked Ramsay over his R/T.

“Are we going up, sir?” pressed Matt, right after Ramsay.

The pilots had been sitting in their cockpits for more than an hour, canopies pulled to, drizzle from low gray clouds coming and going.

“Jerry’s launched his attacks in rotten weather before,” Ben snapped. “Clouds and wet didn’t stop him through August and September. Count your blessings and stay in your offices.”

But a few minutes later Ben radioed Operations in their hut a hundred yards away. “Do you have any trade for us?”

“Nothing on the radar yet, Squadron Leader. No orders from Uxbridge. Please maintain your positions.”

There was a cloudburst, and the rain pelted the wings and windscreens of the Spitfires. The pilots and planes sat on the runway another ten minutes watching gray raindrops bounce off gray wingtips. Ben radioed Operations a second time.