Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) (30 page)

“Are you sure?”

“According to Darwin, opposites attract. Call it animal magnetism.”

“Sir Winston, I believe you’re fibbing.”

“If I am, it’s this red wine. It’s rather tart and interferes with cerebral cognition. Perhaps that has been the problem with the past stable of Prime Ministers who have been housed here. Remind me to raid my cellar at Chartwell. The previous Prime Minister’s taste in red wine leaves much to be desired.”

James laughed. “Are you saying perhaps our country’s situation could have been avoided by the selection of the proper red wine at 10 Downing Street?”

Winston smirked, “Perhaps not, but it wouldn’t have hurt.”

Madeline shook her head as she headed for the foyer. “You’re impossible. Are you sure you weren’t a fighter pilot as a young man.”

Madeline left the dining room and Winston said to James. “Sadly, that wasn’t the case. I surmise that the Wright Brothers were twenty years late with their invention. I can’t imagine why Wilbur and Orville shilly-shally about.”

James said, “Sir Winston, I believe they were making bicycles at the time.”

“Yes bicycles, I’d much rather fly. You can’t very well drink scotch while peddling.”

* * *

Outside 10 Downing Street, two guards saluted Wolf as he walked down the boulevard. He didn’t know where he was going. He was on Whitehall Street. Madeline caught up to him. “If you turn left you can say hello to His Majesty at Buckingham Palace. Or stop at the Horse Guards Parade and feed a stallion. You did bring a bunch of carrots didn’t you?”

Wolf was quiet as he walked on. Madeline hadn’t quite seen him like this before. But after all, did she know him? And how well? Wolf said, “It’s just a lot has happened.”

Now she was walking next to him. “I know. Everything has gone haywire. The country has turned to Sir Winston when only last year most had branded him a fool.”

“They should have listened to him. My parents, too. They’d still be alive.”

“You can’t beat yourself up. How was anyone to know just what the Nazis were capable of? It’s barbaric.”

“And then some.”

They passed the Horse Guards Parade building, which was to their left and continued down Whitehall. My brother is well on his way to reclaiming the family name, and my father’s reputation has been restored. He seems to have lost his need for the bottle, now that the RAF has accepted him back with flying colors. Let’s see what else has happened. You’re now an ace in both the RAF and the Luftwaffe.”

The fountains of Trafalgar Square were in front of them. Wolf stopped by the foot of one of them. “Don’t mention the Luftwaffe, I don’t want to be shipped off to Canada.”

“That would be unfortunate.” Wolf stepped up and onto the circular curb of the fountain. He proceeded to walk carefully around the fountain. Madeline was impressed. “Your balance has improved.”

“It was always good. Would you like to join me?”

“And end up in the fountain. No, thank you.”

Wolf reached down and took Madeline’s hand. Wolf guided her up to where he was standing. “There you go. Wasn’t that easy? Now, what else had happened?”

“You mean recently or just at the time you made your triumph return to England dangling from a parachute?”

“I’m lucky that the farmers who captured me didn’t air out my body with their pitchfork. Though they did prod me along with the end of it.”

“Are you sure this Nazi…”

“His name is Zigfried.”

“That Zigfried shot you down... and on purpose.”

“He did.”

Madeline turned serious. “Then you have no choice. You won’t be able to rest and neither will I... until you shoot him down.”

“You know me pretty well.”

“I can’t say I blame you. Just do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Get it over with, and end the war as well.” Wolf took Madeline into her arms as they precariously balanced on the curb. “And please don’t let us fall into the fountain. Lord Nelson wouldn’t be pleased.”

Hans was taken to the RAF Annex at Dulwich Village. The annex was a temporary holding area for downed Luftwaffe pilots. As for the crew members from the bombers of the vaunted Luftwaffe, they were escorted to a rather drab, prison complex in Kent. As usual, pilots were afforded special treatment, no matter what country they were from or what air force they hung their wings with.

The annex was a three-story red brick building that was covered in ivy. Upon entering the annex, Hans was greeted by a RAF officer. Hugh Mcdownery was his name. He spoke fluent German. “Yes, well welcome to your new home, at least for the time being.”

Hans was tired and said, “Hans Meyer, I don’t know my serial number.”

Hugh said, “Captain Meyer, follow me to your quarters.” They walked up a set of stairs. “Now you’re our first guest at the annex. So you’ll have to excuse us, as we come up to speed.”

“The first?”

“Yes well, we weren’t anticipating hostilities between our two countries. But it is has happened, and we just have to get on with it.” The RAF officer slowed his pace as he tackled the last set of stairs. “You’ll have free run of the house. We are rather informal, and since you are a captain and a pilot, certain accommodations will be afforded you. However, if you climb over the fence, past the lawn... you will be shot. You won’t do that, now, will you?”

“No sir.”

They entered a large room that had ten empty beds. Hans looked around and said, “Which one?

“You have the pick of the lot. I’d suggest the south side, so the sun won’t wake you up. There’s no revelry at the annex, so you can sleep as long as you want. I imagine you’re tired after all that dogfighting.”

“Tired and hungry.”

“Your timing is perfect. Dinner will be served in less than an hour. Now how did you end up with us?”

Hans had a puzzled look on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Captain, how did you get shot down?”

“Oh, some bastard shot off my tail.”

“And you’re here in one piece. Jolly good flying sir.”

“I just turned the plane upside down and gravity did the rest.”

The RAF officer pointed in the direction of the hallway. “The showers are down the hall.”

“Thank you. What is there to do around here, if I get tired of sleeping?”

“Do you paint?”

“No.”

“Crossword puzzles or perhaps you like to read?”

“Not really.”

“Forgive me, Captain, how do pilots in the Luftwaffe spend their free time?”

“To tell you the truth, drinking or chasing frauleins. Actually both.”

“Really. And what about all that scholarly Nazi literature?”

“Like I said we drink and chase frauleins.”

“Captain Meyer, we are going to have to find you another hobby. What do you say I teach you how to play checkers.”

“Perhaps you should hang me right now.”

The RAF officer belted out a hearty laugh. “Well do tidy up, maybe you’ll find something else that excites you.”

Hans sat on the edge of the bed. “I doubt it.”

“It’s not all that bad Captain. You’ll live out the war, without the threat of being killed. As far as dying from boredom... well that could be a problem.”

* * *

The Royal Hancock Theatre was located around the corner from the roundabout at Piccadilly Circus. The three-story theatre was the love of Harold Ickes’ life. Harold was a man of the arts and a showman who could make lemonade from lemons or in his business, a hit with unwanted or perhaps rank material.

Some might have laughed at the productions that were produced for his theatre. But his bankers weren’t part of that throng. Ticket sales were strong for many years now. It didn’t hurt that Harold Ickes always had something up his sleeve. It could be a play, whose language was more than subtle or even brash and not proper for an audience of those times to be subject to.

When word spread about such behavior on the stage, it only increased curiosity and ticket sales. Even though the Battle of Britain was going on, the Royal Hancock Theatre remained open. After all, the Luftwaffe under direct orders from Adolf Hitler had concentrated only on military targets.

The pounding of the RAF airfields had continued day after day. As fast as the Luftwaffe would bomb them, the RAF and their construction crews would simply piece them back together. Therefore, it was no surprise that on a Tuesday afternoon that was bright outside but rather dim in the theatre, Harold Ickes sat in the front row during rehearsals for his latest production.

It was a high energy fast paced musical... that included scantily attired women. Lady Margaret was sitting next to Harold Ickes. She eased back in a mink stall that the theatre magnate had presented to her just the weekend previous. The mink stall also came with an engagement ring...a big one. It was seven full carats.

The marquise cut diamond sat rather imprudently on Lady Margaret’s finger. Lady Margaret wore it everywhere, even though she wasn’t quite divorced from Lord Ashton. Some found that odd, more found it scandalous. Still Harold had given it to her over dinner and champagne at the Savoy Club. He popped it on her just before dessert and had said, “Margaret my dear, I plan to make an honest woman of you.”

She had examined the ring with a gleam in her eyes. “It’s magnificent.”

“It is quite heavy; I only hope it doesn’t damage your fingers.”

Lady Margaret had leaned over and kissed, Harold’s pudgy cheeks, “You’re splendid.”

The rehearsal session was in the middle of the closing number before the first intermission. The stage was full and the music from the orchestra pit was loud. Harold turned to his production manager who was to one side of him. “Spectacular.”

Above the Royal Hancock and to the east by two miles was a lone Heinkel 111H bomber. The H model was the latest variant of the Heinkel program. It could fly further and carry a larger bomb load. In this case, that was eight 250 kilogram bombs.

This particular Heinkel was piloted by a new crew, and worse yet, the navigator had made small mistakes from the very beginning. The rally point over the Channel had come and gone, with the Heinkel flying by itself. Worse yet, a layer of fog had cut visibility as the Heinkel flew on.

By the time it reached the coast of England, the co-pilot had found the River Thames. That wasn’t a major accomplishment in itself as the River Thames, stuck out like the bump on the head of the navigator. He had fallen down the stairs at the officer’s club at Eindhoven, in a drunken stupor the previous night.

As it was, the Heinkel followed the River Thames. London soon loomed on the horizon and the navigator finally got his bearings. The rest of the crew saw him as a fool and the cat calling started. They yelled at him over the intercom. The pilot finally told them to shut up. The intercom went quiet, and the pilot then went berserk on the navigator. His tirade was enjoyed by the rest of the crew. He ended it by saying. “You little bastard; start plotting a course for home, and don’t screw it up.”

The co-pilot said the obvious, “What about the bombs? We don’t have enough fuel to bring them back. And how’s that going to look if we did? You’ll be shot and me too.”

“Who told you that, our mush brain navigator? What do you think we’re going to do with them? Drop them... now.”

“What’s the target?” asked the co-pilot.

“There is no target! Drop them!” The pilot turned his attention to the navigator. “We’re getting out of here. Do you have a new course yet?”

“Working on it.”

The co-pilot threw his headset at the navigator. “You’re going to get us killed!” Four Spitfires appeared above the Heinkel. The front gunner released the bombs and away they went. The pilot turned the Heinkel in the opposite direction and followed the River Thames out to the Channel.

That would have been a nice little maneuver if the Heinkel was on an enjoyable sightseeing trip. Instead, the four Spitfires closed on the Heinkel and shot it up from stem to stern. Soon, there were screams, blood and thick smoke.

As the plane rumbled to its doom, the navigator bailed out. He was the only one to make it out since he was the nearest to the escape floor door. As he jumped for safety, the pilot yelled, “The little bastard!” The Heinkel pitched left, right and then nose dived into the River Thames.

In the meantime, the eight 250 kilogram bombs, which had left the Heinkel in a nose up position were now pointing straight down and screaming toward London. The tiny propeller on the nose of each bomb spun as the payload headed downward. Soon, the mini-toy like propellers stopped, which meant the bombs were ‘live’.

It was now a morbid roll of the dice as to where the bombs would land. Odds were that they would fall harmlessly into the River Thames. Or perhaps into the middle of the street. Harold Ickes, the theatre magnate of the West End, didn’t hear a thing as three of the bombs from the doomed Heinkel smashed into his precious theatre. One second he was asking the director if the girls could lift their legs higher for the big finish to the number, and the next he was killed by the collapsing roof of the theatre.

The dancers and crew didn’t fare any better. They were swept from the stage and this life like feathers in a tornado. The two blokes who were up in a catwalk, adjusting the stage lights, were essentially vaporized by the blast.

Lady Margaret was blown backward along with the seat she was occupying. It burrowed under the seats behind her, as the theatre came down all around her. She was knocked out for several minutes. When Lady Margaret came to, the pain in her right arm and left leg was unbearable. She went in and out of shock...but she was alive, seven-carat ring and all.

What she and no one could have possibly known, was that one of the 250-kilogram bombs had been fixed with a time delay fuse. That bomb was buried in the rubble of the theatre and unless there was a malfunction, which was highly unlikely, the bomb would blow up in approximately 55 minutes.

Whoever was still alive in what was left of the Royal Hancock Theatre would be in for a nasty surprise in less than an hour. The rescue workers would also be in danger. By rushing in to help dig out, the survivors would unwittingly be signing their death warrant.