Love,
Jimmie
He placed the letter in an addressed envelope and slipped it into his jacket. He walked to his barracks, where pilots were rising from their cots and making their way to the mess hall. At breakfast, the men—who were physically and mentally knackered—spoke little as they chewed oats and sipped tea. After they ate their brief meal, Squadron Leader Hank More stood beside a chalkboard and addressed the men.
“I will be taking over for the Blue Section,” Hank said.
Jimmie glanced at the empty chairs that Gord and Jones had occupied the previous morning, and he wondered how many vacant seats there would be tomorrow. His chest felt tight, as if it were being compressed in a vise.
“For today’s sorties, I’ll lead one group with Blue and Yellow Sections,” Hank said. “Cobber will lead the other group with his Green Section and Fanny’s Red Section.”
Hank drew on the chalkboard to show the path of the advancing German Panzer divisions, and where the Hurricanes were to escort Fairey Battles on their bombing raid. Men shifted in their seats.
Jimmie’s eyes widened as he viewed Hank’s illustration. How could the German tanks advance that far in a matter of hours? Could our intelligence be mistaken? He shook away his thoughts and focused on memorizing the location of their target.
“I’m waiting for word of when more airmen, bombers, and Hurricanes will be deployed to France,” Hank said. “Until then, we need to give them hell with what we’ve got.” He dusted chalk from his hands and looked at his wristwatch. “We depart in eighteen minutes. Dismissed.”
The pilots exited the mess hall, put on their flight gear, and made their way to their Hurricanes. On the opposite side of the runway, airmen of British and French bomber squadrons were getting into their aircrafts.
Fanny quickened his pace and wedged his way between Cobber and Jimmie. “It’s about time I get to fly with you blokes,” he said, as if he was trying to brighten their mood.
“You too, mate,” Cobber said.
Jimmie nodded. He glanced at Cobber, his chin up and walking with a confident gait. The vulnerability that he’d displayed over the death of Gord was no longer visible. It was unnerving for Jimmie to go to battle, but he took comfort in knowing that he’d have Cobber and Fanny—two of the RAF’s best fighter pilots—in his group. He gathered his nerve and lengthened his stride en route to their Hurricanes.
Jimmie joined Horace to complete a safety check on his plane. Together, they walked around the aircraft to examine the structure.
“How does she look?” Horace asked, wiping his hands with a rag.
“Perfect.” Jimmie ran a hand over the smooth fuselage where there had been a four-inch-in-diameter hole from a hunk of German flak. He turned to Horace, whose face was covered in two days of beard stubble. “You’ve been up all night. Maybe you could get some rest while we’re gone.”
“I’ve got more repairs to do,” Horace said. “Besides, I could never sleep during a sortie.”
“Then take a few minutes to write a letter to Daisy; it’ll take your mind off things. How is she and your baby, Olive, getting along?”
“Splendid,” Horace said. “I got a letter from my wife yesterday. Olive took her first steps.”
“Brilliant.” Jimmie patted his shoulder. “I bet you feel like a proud dad.”
“I do.” Horace lowered his eyes. “I’d give anything to have been there to see it.”
Jimmie nodded. “When’s your next leave?”
“Not for four months.”
“After we win this war, you’ll never need to miss another momentous event with Daisy and Olive.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Jimmie placed his hands into his flight jacket pockets. “Speaking of letters—” He removed an envelope. “I didn’t get a chance to put this in the post to my sister. Would you mind taking care of this for me?”
“Not at all.” Horace took the letter. “How is Nora?”
“She’s well, and feisty as ever.”
Horace smiled.
Jimmie climbed into the cockpit of his Hurricane.
Horace peered up at him. “Godspeed.”
“Thank you.”
Jimmie strapped himself into his safety harness and started the engine, sending a vibration through his body. He checked the controls, put on his flying helmet, and closed the canopy, cutting off the acrid smell of exhaust fumes. The squadron was given permission to depart and, one by one, the pilots accelerated their planes down the runway and flew into the morning sky. They divided into two groups and escorted the bombers toward their target.
Nearing the bombing zone at twelve thousand feet, Jimmie was sickened by the sight of the ground devastation. The remains of hundreds of obliterated French tanks—far more than destroyed Panzers—littered the terrain. Thousands of German tanks had broken through the front line, outmaneuvered Allied armor divisions, and were traveling through open country, far ahead of the German ground troops. Prior to the invasion, France had three thousand tanks on its northeastern border, but most of them were not at the Ardennes Forest, which was deemed by the French military to be impassable for Panzers. French tank divisions were redeployed to the breach at the border but the Germans had already acquired superior ground position. Now, much of the French tank forces were in ruin while the Panzer divisions appeared to be at near full strength. Even more horrifying, to Jimmie, was that the Panzers had managed to acquire at least fifty kilometers of French territory in less than a day.
Jimmie’s mouth turned dry as he peered at the landscape ahead of the Panzers. Good Lord! There’s nothing in the way to stop them!
Cobber’s voice boomed over the radio, “Bandits—three o’clock! Green and Red Sections—tally-ho!”
“Tally-ho!” Jimmie accelerated his Hurricane into a swarm of Messerschmitt Bf 110s—twin-engined fighter-bombers—that was far bigger than any enemy squadron he’d encountered before. He engaged an enemy aircraft that was veering toward a Fairey Battle. He moved the control stick to bring the Messerschmitt into his sight and fired his machine guns. Bullets struck its tail, sending the German aircraft into an uncontrolled steep dive. He banked to the right and targeted another Messerschmitt.
For minutes, the battle raged in the sky. Cobber and Fanny each shot down two 110s, but a Fairey Battle was destroyed and another fled away with a damaged wing. The remaining bombers dropped their payloads, much of which missed the Panzers that were traveling at a high rate of speed over the French fields.
As the bombers turned to fly back to the base, a Messerschmitt closed in on the tail of Fanny’s Hurricane. Jimmie, determined to aid his friend, veered to the right and dived toward the dogfight. But before he could get within range, the German pilot unloaded a round of machine gun fire that punctured the engine of Fanny’s Hurricane. Smoke poured over the aircraft.
“Fanny!” Jimmie swooped in and fired. Bullets sprayed near the Messerschmitt and it turned away. He peered down at his friend’s plane as it lost altitude. A feeling of helplessness filled his chest.
