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Somewhere over the North Sea
August 8
“Cowslip, this is Blue Leader. Approaching angels 4 now.”
Miles spoke into his radio calmly as he led his section to the coordinates HQ had given him when they scrambled them ten minutes before. He glanced to his right. Chris was there on his wing, scanning the skies above them. On his left, young Thomas was flying nice and close. His dip in the drink had taught him well, Miles reflected with a flash of amusement. Thomas was also scanning the sky above and below, looking for enemy fighters.
“Roger, Blue Leader. Continue angels 4 and steer vector 2-1-0. Bandits twenty plus.”
Miles stifled a groan and felt his body tense as his hands involuntarily tightened on his control stick.
“You heard him, gentlemen. Twenty plus. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“They’ve got to be kidding with these numbers,” Chris muttered. “Three against twenty? It’s damn suicide.”
“It’s only suicide if you’re foolish enough to get yourself killed,” Miles replied.
“Tally ho! I see them!” Thomas cried a second later. “Seven o’clock below!”
“Yes, I see them.”
Miles stared down at the writhing mass of fighters and bombers. They were attacking a convoy of merchant ships and he could see one ship in flames far below. It was a speck, really, with funnels of black smoke twisting into the air. There was no hope for that one, but the other four were still afloat.
There were many more than twenty enemy aircraft. It looked to be closer to fifty plus. The good news was that he picked out a few Hurricanes in the melee. The bad news was that there were only a few. They were outnumbered by more fighters than Miles cared to count, and he clamped his jaw shut grimly. As Chris said, it seemed like suicide to get into the middle of that.
“Right. Mind our chaps, lads,” he said, nudging his stick to send the Spitfire into a dive. “Here we go.”
A second later, Miles pressed his gun button, sending a line of bullets towards an Me 109. The fighter banked to the left as he fired and his shot missed, streaking past harmlessly.
“Damn!” he swore to himself. “They know we’re here! Watch your tail!”
As he spoke, two 109s shot into his peripheral view and he turned quickly to avoid having them latch on behind him. After some vicious maneuvering, Miles came up behind one of the Me 110 fighter-bombers that were so deadly in attacking the convoys. They were fast, and able to dive and fight with precision. However, they couldn’t turn worth a damn and he had every intention of exploiting that fact. Approaching from the bottom right, well out of range of its single rear-facing machine gun, Miles unleashed a burst of ammunition straight into the belly of the airplane.
“Miles, behind you!” Thomas cried breathlessly.
Miles broke away as smoke began pouring from the stricken aircraft. A 109 fired at him from behind just as he twisted out of the way and, instead of hitting him, the fighter hit the 110 in the tail, adding to the damage Miles had already wrought.
“He shot his own man!” Thomas crowed. “Bloody marvelous!”
Miles had no time to enjoy the moment as two more 109s dove towards him. Twisting up and to the left, he looked behind him to find three more on his tail. Six of the devils! How in blazes was he going to get out of this mess?
Relying on the superior speed and maneuverability of his Spit, Miles twisted and dove, avoiding fire and trying to get into position to take at least one of the bastards out. Pushing his kite to what had to be the edge of her limits, Miles turned into a tight, inverted spiral, trying to get away from two fighters and into position to shoot another. Just as he thought he had a shot, the small shadow shot out of range, twisting and turning to come towards him, head-on.
Miles looked behind him at the three still trying to get a shot at him, and then back at the fighter streaking towards him. It was a flight leader, he realized with a start. The yellow stripe on his nose was visible now, and Miles grit his teeth. As much as he wanted to take that bastard on, he had to live to be able to do so.
Pulling up, he arched into a loop, taking the three 109s with him. As he came around to fire at the one closest to him, Miles felt his machine shudder violently as bullets ripped into his tail. Swearing, he broke away and checked his gauges furiously, memories of losing altitude and crashing on a beach in Belgium coming to the forefront of his mind.
“You’re hit, Blue Leader!” Chris cried.
“I’d noticed, Yank.”
Chris shot into his peripheral and fired at the fighter behind him. It was with great satisfaction that Miles saw smoke appear and the little bastard who’d clipped him dropped out of the fight, turning back towards France.
“All my gauges are functioning,” he said. “Can you see anything?”
“Nah. No smoke. Nothing.” Chris passed behind him. “Just some holes in the tail.”
That was all Miles needed to hear. With a grunt, he turned and dove back into the fray, Chris on his wing. Thomas was engaged with two 109s as he tried to get to another 110 and Miles joined him. They were there for the bombers, after all. If they could take out a couple of the 110s, he’d consider that a job well done.
Before he could begin to maneuver for a shot, the yellow-nosed fighter shot towards him, guns blazing. Miles swore again and broke away, narrowly avoiding being hit a second time.
“You bloody bastard!”
“I’ve got Uncle Tom,” Chris said breathlessly. “Go get the asshole!”
“With pleasure,” Miles muttered, pulling up and twisting away from the group around the 110.
Yellow Nose followed and Miles realized that he must have seen his own airplane markings. If the stakes weren’t his life, he supposed he would have found amusement in the situation: two flight leaders, both with several kills painted on their planes, trying to get the best of the other. There was something to be said for besting a pilot who had earned the right to lead others. Not only did it deal a blow with the loss of experience for the other side, but there was something very satisfying in getting the better of a ranking pilot. It made for a fierce battle, and one that would end only in defeat for one of them. Miles clamped his jaw and focused all of his attention on his adversary. He had no intention of being the one who went down today.
Squinting against the glare of the sun, Miles turned, twisted, dove, and arched in a tight dance with the other pilot. While the Spitfire was much more maneuverable, the enemy had skill. He didn’t try to make his machine do what he knew it couldn’t, and stayed with Miles twist for turn, avoiding all attempts to land a shot.
“Damn, you’re good.”
Miles felt a twinge of uncertainty as he arched up and around, trying to get a jump on the fast opponent. He was better than Miles, and Miles freely admitted it. He flew with precision, and without mistakes. No matter what trick Miles pulled out, he was there to avoid and counter. It was as if he was inside Miles’ head, seeing every move before he made it.
Miles squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the sun, and suddenly pulled up, turning to face his opponent head-on, just as the Jerry had done earlier. Caught, the 109 sped towards him, and Miles sucked in his breath. He was flying straight towards a smaller fighter, and neither one of them was backing down. He had to be mad!
The distance between them closed rapidly, and in another second they would collide. The German was obviously as mad as he was, and Miles swallowed. Sweat poured down his forehead and his breath was coming fast and heavy when he pressed the button on his control stick, the 109s nose within spitting range. His airplane shuddered, sending bullets tearing through the side of the fighter as he streaked to the right at the last possible second. At the same time that his bullets were ripping into the 109, Miles felt his own machine lurch and tremble and knew, without a doubt, that he’d been hit again.
Afterwards, Miles would have no idea how he missed flying into the German’s wing as he passed, but miss it he did. After a desperate look at his gauges, he twisted around to get onto his opponent’s tail. Before the Jerry could react, Miles pressed the button again and shot another burst into the fighter. Smoke, thick and black, began pouring from the 109 and it dropped out, heading back towards France, losing altitude rapidly.
Miles exhaled and reached up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, relief rushing through him. The feeling was short-lived, however.
“On your six, Blue Two!”
Miles looked around quickly until he located Chris with three 109s on his tail. Diving to take aim at the one closest to him, his machine shuddered slightly and he scanned his gauges again. Everything was reading normally and he shook his head, his lips pressed together grimly. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t worry about it. As long as he could still fly, his job was to continue.
Centering one of the 109s in his crosshairs, he sent a line of ammunition towards it, hitting it in the tail. It spun out to the right, dropping briefly, then coming back.
“They’re like green flies at the beach,” Chris gasped. “God, they’re—”
He broke off suddenly and Miles watched as the Spitfire lurched to the left suddenly.
“I’ll be damned!” Chris sounded almost cheerful. “The bastard got me!”
Miles spared him a quick glance before turning his attention to the 109 that had landed the shot on Chris.
“It’s your tail. He shredded it,” he said, focusing on the fighter before him. “Get out of here and go home while you’ll still make it.”
“And you?”
“We’ll be along shortly. Save me some tea.”
Evelyn looked up from her book as another squadron of fighter planes flew overhead. She’d come outside after lunch just as a group of them had flown over, and this was the third group in an hour. She watched them for a moment, wondering if she knew any of the pilots. They were Hurricanes, but unless they were from Northolt, it was very unlikely.
“Here’s the afternoon post, Miss Müller,” a voice said behind her. “Mrs. Besslington asked me to bring it to you.”
Evelyn turned to see an under-footman approaching with a stack of envelopes in his hand.
“Thank you,” she said. “Would you mind placing them on my desk, please? I’ll be in shortly to attend to them.”
The young man nodded and turned to go inside, but Evelyn stopped him before he reached the door.
“Tell me, do the airplanes always fly over so often?” she asked.
The footman turned and looked into the sky at the fighters in the distance.
“They have in recent days, aye. More and more of them are coming and going. The Germans are attacking the convoys, or so they say.”
She looked at him.
“Don’t you believe it, then?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose I have to, seeing as all those fighter planes are going out every day. Wouldn’t put it past the Jerries, not after what they done in France.”
He nodded to her and turned to go back into the house while Evelyn turned her attention back to the now-specks in the distance. She counted them quickly before they disappeared from sight. She would count them again when they came back. It was a silly thing to do, really, because she wouldn’t know if the airplanes coming back were that squadron or another. Yet it made her feel as if she were part of it, somehow.
How many would come back? The fighting was getting fiercer and fiercer up there. The grimness about Miles’ mouth that day by the river had spoken more plainly to that than anything else. The Luftwaffe was ramping up their forays into the Channel, and the bombing of port cities was becoming more and more frequent. Hitler was turning his eyes to his next conquest, and those fighter planes were the only things standing in his way.
She lowered her eyes to her book and tried to concentrate on the words, but she was finding it impossible. Restlessness was rolling through her, and she finally closed the book impatiently. How could she sit here and read while men like Miles and Rob were flying to meet the enemy? While she sat in the summer afternoon warmth, they were defending ships being attacked by bombers and fighters alike.
Evelyn let out a huff of frustration and stood up, laying the book on the arm of the chair and walking towards the lawn. Perhaps a short walk around the grounds would help to clear her head and make her feel less melancholy. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t doing anything, after all. She was doing her part by trying to catch a group of traitors who would happily hand all those pilots over to the Nazis and not think twice about it. Who knew what damage they could do if she didn’t discover their names! Right now, they were an invisible threat, but once she gave them a name and a face, their power would be limited.
And then all those boys getting shot down won’t have given their lives for nothing.
As she stepped onto the grass, Evelyn’s lips tightened. She would find out who these people were, and she would hand the names over to Marrow. A shadow passed over her face. It seemed likely that Tony would be one of them, and that brought a wave of sorrow over her. It didn’t seem possible that she could very well have to give up such a dear friend. It would destroy Maryanne. Yet she had no choice. If Tony had been foolish enough to cast his lot with traitors, then it was out of her hands to protect him. And she wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. They went against everything she believed in, everything she and Robbie and Miles were fighting for. Why, even Chris had come from America to fight for them! She would do absolutely everything she could to make sure they were all brought to account.
And she had no doubt that she would get her opportunity. The interview with Sir Clark yesterday had gone very well. He’d even conducted an hour of the interview in German, which had amused her to no end. She kept thinking of that day in Strasbourg, so long ago now, when she’d sat across from Hans Voss. Sitting across from Sir Clark in the garden of the local pub had been nothing compared to Strasbourg. She’d fooled Voss easily enough, and Sir Clark was no SS agent.
Yes. She was confident that he’d gone away convinced that she was exactly what she wanted them to believe she was. And he’d never once suspected that he was, in fact, sitting across from Miss Evelyn Ainsworth, the socialite who had joined the WAAF at the start of the war.
Her lips curved faintly and Evelyn looked up into the overcast sky. She had no doubt that she’d passed muster. Now all she had to do was wait.
Molly finished fastening her skirt and reached for her blouse, which was tossed over the back of a chair. She glanced at the man in the bed, reclining against a mound of pillows, watching her with a cigarette in his hand.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, pulling on the shirt.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doing something dreadfully terrible.” She began doing up the buttons. “I have to leave. I’m meeting Mata in the garden at eleven.”
“Then return when you’ve finished.”
“I can’t! I have to be at work early in the morning, and so do you, for that matter.”
Molly turned and sat down at the vanity, picking up a hairbrush.
“So I do. You’re quite right.” He smoked his cigarette and watched her for a moment. “Shall I see you on Saturday?”
“I’m afraid not.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “I’m going down to the seaside to meet with a woman who is...well, she’s a German agent.”
The man stilled, his eyes piercing.
“What?” he asked softly.
“You heard me.” She set the hairbrush down and turned to face him. “She’s a secretary, one of Sir Blackney’s, and she’s from Berlin. Sir Clark met with her today. We thought she was simply a German who wanted to help her Fatherland, and Mata sent Clark down to make sure she was legitimate.”
“And?”
“She told him that she already has a contact on Guernsey. She’s been taking intelligence that she’s gathered from Sir Blackney’s correspondence to him on the squire’s yacht.”
He frowned.
“If that’s so, how is it possible that I’ve never heard of her?”
“Don’t feel bad, Henry. Neither Mata nor the duke had either!” Molly got up and went over to sit on the side of the bed. She took the cigarette from his hand and lifted it to her own lips. “I’m the one who told them about her!”
Henry raised his eyebrows.
“You? How did you meet her?”
“I didn’t. You remember I told you about Agnes, the girl I’ve been working with who wants to join the Club?”
“Typist, or some such thing?”
“That’s it. Well, she found out about her from one of Sir Blackney’s housemaids. She told me.” Molly handed the cigarette back to him and smiled, unable to contain her excitement. “I made some inquiries and, sure enough, it turns out that she is just the sort of person we’ve been looking for! Her brother was killed in Calais and that’s why she’s suddenly so keen to join the cause.”
“It sounds like she has no need to join the Round Club if she already has a contact in the Channel Islands,” Henry pointed out, leaning over to put the cigarette out in the ashtray by the bed. “Why would she bother?”
Molly frowned.
“Why shouldn’t she? Honestly, Henry, you always insist on making things difficult. Why are you being so contrary?”
“Am I?” He looked surprised. “I thought I was being helpful.”
“Well you’re not. It doesn’t matter why she wants to be of assistance to the Round Club. She does, and we need her to move information for us. In fact, that’s what I’m doing on Saturday. I’m taking her a packet for her to move on to Guernsey.”
Henry was quiet for a long moment, staring at the bedspread thoughtfully. Molly watched him for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. He didn’t look happy.
“What’s the matter, my love?” she asked. “Is it because I’m doing something this weekend?”
He glanced up and made an impatient motion with his hand.
“Not at all. I simply question why Mata has you running down there so quickly. I’d have thought she would wait and do some more research.”
“How much more research should she do? She sent Sir Clark, and you know what an authority on Berliners he is. He swears that she’s exactly what she says she is.”
“Hm.”
Molly made a face and leaned forward to press a kiss on his lips.
“Don’t be cross because I have the chance to have a bit of fun,” she murmured.
He smiled against her lips and pulled her closer. A few moments later, she pushed herself away breathlessly.
“Now look what you’ve done. I have to do my hair again.” She scrambled off the bed and went back to the vanity. “You know, if you were less surly, Mata would give you more to do. Then perhaps you’d be the one taking the packet down to Dorchester.”
Henry looked up at that.
“Dorchester?”
“Yes. Didn’t I say? She’s at Sir Blackney’s estate in Dorchester.”
Henry watched her, then stretched.
“And does this paragon of a spy have a name?”
“Sylvia.” Molly finished brushing her hair and twisted it back into its prim bun with deft fingers. “Sylvia Müller.”
