Two months earlier, Cobber had become the RAF’s first flying ace of the war. Soon after, Fanny had become the second. Together, they were credited for nearly two dozen destroyed enemy aircraft, and their fellow pilots believed the tally to be much higher. The accounts of their victories were covered in the British newspapers, and Cobber had been interviewed on BBC Radio, which gave the New Zealander a bit of notoriety and much teasing from the men of the 73. Neither man liked the attention, especially Cobber who was rather shy when not strapped inside the cockpit of his Hurricane. Their motivation was to be good fellow pilots and to fight for Britain. To the men of the squadron, Cobber and Fanny appeared to be invincible. But things changed with the German invasion of France. The full force of Hitler’s Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht had breached the border and, in the past few days, Jimmie had witnessed British and French airmen perish in battle.
A drone of propellers drew Jimmie’s attention to the sky. Six Fairey Battles, one with a sputtering engine, approached the runway with a sole Hurricane as their escort. There should be three Hurricanes, and at least ten Battles. He rose from his chair and placed a hand above his eyes to shield the sun.
Benny sat up in his cot, and the remaining men stood.
“Which section is it?” Fanny asked.
Cobber squinted. “Blue.”
Gord’s section, Jimmie thought.
“Bloody hell,” Benny said.
“Which Seventy-Three pilot is it?” Fanny asked.
Jimmie strained to get a look at the Hurricane’s markings. “I can’t tell.”
The men ran toward the runway as the planes landed. The Battles traveled to the opposite side of the airfield, and the Hurricane taxied to a clearing near the No. 73 Squadron ground crew. As the Hurricane turned, its markings on the fuselage—covered in holes from flak—came into view.
“It’s Ayerst,” Jimmie said.
Ayerst, a nineteen-year-old pilot, parked his Hurricane and climbed down from his cockpit to be met by a growing number of pilots and ground crew, all of whom were anxious to learn what happened to their comrades.
Squadron Leader Hank More weaved his way through the group and was the first to approach Ayerst. “What happened to Gord and Jones?”
Ayerst slipped his flight helmet from his head. “They bought it.”
Oh, God. Jimmie slumped his shoulders.
“The Germans have brought in more antiaircraft guns,” Ayerst said. “There’s a hellish amount of flak.”
“Were they able to bail out?” the squadron leader asked.
Ayerst shook his head.
Cobber slipped his hands into his pockets and walked away from the crowd.
Jimmie followed Cobber and caught up with him outside a latrine. “Are you all right?”
“A little shaken by the news.” Cobber, his face pale, retrieved a canteen from a hook on a wall and splashed water over his face.
“I feel the same way,” Jimmie said.
Cobber turned to him. “Jones was a good man and easy to like. But Gord and I didn’t get along—he blamed me for Taylor’s death, and we rarely saw eye to eye as section leaders.” His jaw quivered and he sucked in a deep breath. “I never expected to be so bloody upset over the death of Gord.”
Jimmie paused, processing Cobber’s words. “The Seventy-Three is a brotherhood. Much like a family, we don’t always get along. But we always care for each other.”
Cobber ran a hand over his hair and nodded.
“We’re going to get through this,” Jimmie said.
“We will,” Cobber said, regaining his composure. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m going to take a walk to clear my head before our next sortie. You’re welcome to join me, if you like.”
“Sure.”
For thirty minutes, Jimmie and Cobber walked around the airfield. They spoke no further of the death of Gord and Jones, nor did they discuss tactics for their upcoming raids. They spoke only of fond family memories, sporting matches, and growing old and fat in their homelands after the war. They took solace in their brief intermission of the battle and, for the first time since joining the No. 73 Squadron, Jimmie felt like a mentor rather than a mentee.
For the remainder of the day, they flew three more sorties, each time returning with fewer Fairey Battles than when they had departed. By nightfall, the RAF had lost forty-one of their seventy-one bombers, and a decimated French air force was reduced to flying obsolete Amiot 143 bombers. Despite the catastrophic losses of aircraft, the Green Section pilots returned to their airbase unscathed. But Jimmie knew that it was only a matter of time before another member of No. 73 Squadron met the same fate as Jones and Gord. A looming sense of dread, knowing that he could be shot down on any mission, haunted him like a shadow. Surrounded by a barrage of flak fire, it was luck—not valor or skill—that determined which pilot would live or die.
CHAPTER 14
REIMS, FRANCE—MAY 15, 1940
Jimmie was unable to sleep, despite his exhaustion. His mind was plagued with horrid echoes of flak fire, burning planes, and shouts of airmen through the radio receiver in his flying helmet. He rolled out of his cot, wearing his flight suit and combat boots. He rubbed sand from his eyes and crept out of the barracks, trying not to disturb pilots who were getting an hour of rest before their next mission. Outside, the predawn sky was strewn with blue, violet, and red clouds. The ground crewmen, who’d worked through the night, were moving metal barrels of aviation fuel, and loading ammunition into aircraft. The sounds of fitters, their tools clinking against engines, drifted from a nearby hangar.
He walked to a solitary oak tree, perched on a hill that overlooked the airfield and an abandoned farm. He removed a piece of paper and pencil from his flight jacket. An image of his sister, her legs in calipers and holding her cat, Crumpet, flashed in his head. He placed the paper against his upper leg and, as his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he began to scribble.
Dear Nora,
I suppose that you’re following the news reports about the German invasion. Please know that I’m healthy, and my spirit is good. The men of 73 Squadron are putting up a valiant fight to keep the invaders at bay. We are giving it our all to stop them in France and prevent them from ever setting foot on British soil.
Piglet is always with me when I fly. He’s in my jacket pocket as I write this letter. Most of the pilots have good luck charms, and I think Piglet is the best of them. He reminds me of you and your triumph of regaining your ability to walk. You’re the strongest, most determined person I know. And having your Piglet with me is a constant reminder that the most splendid things in life come through toil, diligence, and faith.
Jimmie stretched his legs, his muscles tight from being confined to his cockpit. He rolled the pencil between his fingers, then continued writing.
It brings me joy to know that you’re excited to go away to university. You’re going to experience wondrous things and befriend students who make you feel good about yourself. Someday, you’ll be a cracking librarian, enriching people’s lives with loads of books. I am proud of you.
I’ll write more in my next letter. Please excuse the handwriting. I’m sitting outside under a glorious twilight sky, quite unfitting for a world at war. Give Mum and Dad a hug for me—and a cuddle for Crumpet.
