Into the Iron Shadows, page 28
And that made her a most formidable foe indeed, for she would not bend to pressure. He had seen it in her blue eyes yesterday. The sorrow had quickly turned to anger and determination, and that was the most dangerous reaction of all. There was no controlling that. Once she was fully comfortable and seasoned in her position with the intelligence underworld, she would be nearly impossible to find, especially with that accent. He had no doubt that she could adopt the accent of any region of France. She would blend in, and disappear. And it wasn’t only France. Their information said she also spoke German. If her German was as good as her French, they were in serious trouble indeed.
He had to eliminate her now, while they still had the opportunity.
Eisenjager threw his cigarette away and reached for the canteen laying on the seat beside him. Perhaps it would have been better if she had perished in the attack yesterday. Then it would have been done, and he wouldn’t have broken his orders.
At the thought of the attack, he frowned, unscrewing the lid of the canteen and raising it to his lips. He had seen death before. He was an instrument of death himself. But the sight of women, children, men, and animals, all mowed down in the matter of a few minutes had been jarring.
Once it was clear that Jian and her companions were helping others, he’d had no choice but to do so as well. To have sat in his car and done nothing would have drawn more attention. But by helping move dead horses and corpses out of the road, he had been reminded of darker days when he was still in the Sicherheitsdienst. Death was never pretty or dignified, but yesterday it had also seemed so meaningless. There was no tactical reason to attack civilians, except to spread fear. He understood the theory behind it all too well. He employed it himself when necessary, but that didn’t mean he necessarily agreed with it.
He replaced the cap and set the steel bottle down again, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He didn’t disagree with it, either. He just found it a waste of resources. There were far better ways to command the attention and fear of a population without killing masses indiscriminately. But the Führer was more interested in expediency, and yesterday had been nothing if not expedient. The refugee columns had come to a halt and many of them had changed directions as soon as they were able. Knowing how his high command operated, Eisenjager was willing to bet that the new flow of refugees would interfere with the troop movements of the remaining French forces. More clogged roads meant divisions would wait longer for reinforcements and supplies.
He thought of the old man and the grave he’d dug for his wife. He didn’t know why he’d done that. Something about the stoic grief in the old man had reminded him of something long forgotten. It had drawn him away from the Englishwoman, whom he was already regretting meeting face to face, and from the carnage left on the road. The manual labor had felt good after sitting in a car for days, and the old man had been very grateful. Eisenjager glanced at his wrist, and the watch that the old man had insisted he take as payment. He had a perfectly good watch. He didn’t know why he was wearing it, except that it had made the old man feel as if he wasn’t completely useless in the face of his wife’s death.
Eisenjager pressed his lips together and turned his attention back to the gray car, still inching forward ahead of him. None of that was relevant to the problem facing him in that vehicle. She would have to be dealt with before she became an insurmountable threat. He had contacted Hamburg yesterday from his wireless radio, as instructed, but had been told to continue as he was until she reached her destination. They wanted to know where she was going, but what did it matter? She was a threat. She was a threat that they had recognized must be dealt with, so why the sudden delay? What was the spy from London up to?
What was Hamburg waiting for?
RAF Horsham
Miles glanced up from his plate at the startled exclamation from Rob. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Bad news?” he asked, his eyes dropping to the letter in Rob’s hand.
“What? Oh, no. Well, yes. They’re out of their minds, completely out of their minds.”
Rob tossed the letter down next to his plate and picked up his knife and fork. They had spent most of the day in the air over Dunkirk, and were both hungry and tired. It wasn’t the best time to be bothered with letters bringing less than joyful tidings. Miles watched him cut into his food for a moment, then went back to his own dinner.
“Whom?” he asked.
“My cousins. The ones in France. You remember, I told you about them.”
“The fun ones?”
He let out a short laugh. “Those are the ones.”
Miles glanced up after a moment when he didn’t continue. “Is the letter from them?”
“No. It’s from my mother. Remember I told you that I thought my aunt and uncle were coming to England?”
“Yes. Has that changed?”
“Yes. Well, no. That is, they’re still coming, but apparently my cousins aren’t,” Rob said. “They want to stay in France.”
Miles cocked an eyebrow. “They do realize the Germans will be in Paris within a month?”
“Well they should. My uncle certainly does. He and my aunt are leaving tomorrow. They expect to be in London in a few days. They’re coming over on a private yacht with some friends of theirs.” He laid down his knife and fork and reached for his glass. “My mother writes that they will stay in our house in London for a few days while my uncle arranges his affairs. Then they’ll join her at Ainsworth.”
“Without their children?”
Rob nodded, his face creased in a scowl. “Apparently so. They will remain in France.”
Miles was silent, going back to his dinner. There really wasn’t much to say. They certainly had every right to remain, regardless of any potential danger. He wondered if Evelyn knew. She was close to her cousins. She was bound to be upset when she heard that they had refused the opportunity to leave and come to England.
“Any idea why they’re staying?” he finally asked.
“Not the faintest. If I had to lay a wager on it, I’d say they have something up their sleeves. They usually do.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, God only knows! They were always getting into trouble, and they haven’t changed as they’ve got older. No sense of caution at all with those two.” Rob looked up with a sudden grin. “They used to drag Evelyn right along with them until she grew more sense.”
Miles smiled faintly. “That surprises me.”
“That Evelyn used to get into trouble?”
“No. That she grew some sense.”
That drew a bark of laughter from Rob. “There’s a reason we call them the fun ones. Several reasons, in fact. They’ve settled down over the past few years, I admit, but they both still look for trouble.”
Miles tilted his head thoughtfully. “And you think that’s why they’ve chosen to remain in France?”
“Well I can’t think of any other reason to stay. They’re both reckless, but they’re not stupid. They know France will fall. My guess is that they’ve decided to stay and do whatever they can to disrupt the Germans.”
“You’re talking about resistance.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s tantamount to suicide!”
He nodded glumly. “I’ve told you, they’ve always had a penchant for getting themselves into trouble. Usually Evelyn was the one to pull them out again, but she won’t be there this time.”
Miles finished his dinner quietly. He didn’t know what words he could offer to set Rob’s mind at ease. When France fell, and it would fall, the Nazis would take complete control. Nowhere would be safe, especially for anyone whom the Germans suspected of organizing any form of resistance. As Rob had said, his cousins were clearly out of their minds.
“Of course, I could have it all wrong,” Rob said a few minutes later, pushing away his empty plate. “They may still come yet. My uncle has extensive assets and properties in the south of France. Perhaps they’re staying behind to try to arrange things before the Germans come and seize them. They may follow later.”
“Your mother gives no indication of why they aren’t coming?”
“No. She does seem dreadfully upset over it though.”
“I imagine she would be.”
“She writes that she and Auntie Agatha are going to London so they can be there to meet them when they arrive. She’s having dinner with the Buckleys while she’s there.” Rob sat back, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You remember them, I’m sure. They stayed with us at Christmas.”
“Yes, of course. Sir William is friendly with my father. Same club, I believe.”
“Marguerite, his wife, always cheers Mum up. She’s also from France, you know. She’ll understand more than anyone, I expect.” Rob threw his napkin on the table and exhaled loudly. “I just can’t imagine what they’re thinking.”
“Have you got hold of your sister? What does she say?”
He made a face and pulled out his cigarettes. “I haven’t spoken to her. I never did manage to get a firm answer on where she is. I’ve written a letter to her at Northolt, but had no reply yet.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. She does seem to move around quite a bit, but that’s her job. She never stays in the same place for long, but she always ends up back at Northolt.” Miles pushed his chair back and stood. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go have a pint before I go to bed. I’m completely knackered.”
“Then why are we going to have a pint?” Rob asked, standing.
“I’m never too tired for a beer.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
May 29th
5am
“Tally ho! Four o’clock!”
Miles pulled his gaze from the cloud cover above him and looked down to his right. There, far below them, was a group of Dornier 17s. After one more searching glance for their escort, he broke right and dove down with the others to attack the light bombers. They had arrived over Dunkirk only moments before, armed with the knowledge that there had already been several reports of bombing in and around Dunkirk overnight and into this morning. Their briefing before leaving England had been short and clear: stop the bastards any way possible.
As he dove down towards the group of bombers, Miles glanced up behind him again. Where there were bombers, there were fighters. Yet he hadn’t seen any.
“Does anyone see their escort?” he asked into his radio.
“Not a thing,” Rob answered cheerfully. “Take aim!”
“Watch for them,” Mother warned. “They’re here somewhere.”
Miles picked out a bomber on the end and pressed the firing button on his steering column as he zoomed towards it. He released the button and cut to the right as the gunners returned fire, coming around to approach from behind.
“Got one!” Chris cried as one of the bombers fell out of formation, smoke pouring from the right engine. “It’s easier than shooting pigeons at Coney Island!”
Miles’ grin at the excitement in his voice was short lived. As he flew up behind his target, the gunners returned fire again and he rolled into a dive to avoid it. Coming up beneath the tail, he blinked and refocused on the left fuselage. It wouldn’t get any more picture perfect than that. He was in perfect position to take out the engine, and he pressed the button on the column. His aircraft shuddered as the guns in his wings let loose, and he watched in confusion as the bullets streamed past the engine, missing completely.
“Damn!”
He broke away and arched up to come around again, scowling. That was a perfect shot! The engine was right in the center of his sight mounted on the dash. How the hell had he missed?
As Miles looped around to take another crack it, the answer hit him like a gut punch. He’d been too close to the bomber. His guns were calibrated for 450 yards. He’d been much, much closer. He grit his teeth and repositioned himself further away, avoiding the return fire easily. Trying to shoot from that distance was ridiculous, but he swung in and tried to get the bomber positioned in his cross-hairs once again.
“Miles! Three o’clock!” Rob suddenly cried, just as Miles pressed the button on his column.
At the same time that his bullets tore into the right side engine of the Dornier, Miles felt his Spitfire jerk violently to the left, and the airplane shuddered, sending painful vibrations up his arms from the control stick. Black smoke began pouring out of his nose and Miles automatically pulled left, breaking away from the bombers.
“I’m hit,” he announced, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “All gauges are functioning. I’m making for home.”
“Save me some tea,” Chris said.
“Red Three, escort him back,” Mother commanded. “Keep the bastards off of him.”
“Roger that, Red One,” Rob said, appearing off Miles’ right wing a moment later. Miles looked over to find him examining his plane as they flew towards the Channel. “You’re hit near your fuel tank,” he told him, “and in the wing.”
Miles looked at his fuel gauge and let out a low curse. “I’m losing fuel,” he said grimly. “Rudder is working, but the coolant needle is rising. He must have hit the radiator as well. Damn!”
Miles checked his other gauges and a dull feeling of shock went through him. It had really happened. He’d been hit, and his Spitfire wasn’t going to get him back to England. He began taking stock of all the instruments, noting how long he had before he was out of fuel or the engine overheated.
“I won’t make it back. I’m losing fuel too quickly. I’ll take her down and see if I can set her in the water,” he said, looking over at Rob. Then he stiffened at the sight of two 109s diving towards them. “Fighters! One o’clock!”
“I’ll take care of them,” Rob said, breaking right. “Get your kite down. Do try not to die, won’t you? I’d hate to explain it to Evie.”
Miles choked on a laugh as he pushed his stick forward. “I’ll do my best, Rob. Thanks!”
He looked up in time to see Rob disappear into the clouds above, drawing the two fighters away from him. Taking a deep breath, Miles turned his attention back to his instruments. He should be over water by now. He could try to do as he’d said and land in the drink without killing himself, or he could turn back inland and try to put her down on a beach. He was losing fuel rapidly, but he thought he should have enough to make it to land.
He came out of the low clouds and blinked at the sudden glare of early morning sunlight glistening off the waves of the Channel. To his right, he saw the coast. Taking another look at the choppy waves below, Miles swallowed. He was a good pilot, but he didn’t know if he was that good. If he tried to land on the water, and he dipped a wing one way or another, he ran the risk of the airplane breaking up before he could get out of the cockpit. A sudden image of Evelyn flashed across his mind and Miles clenched his jaw, turning his nose towards the shoreline. He would take his chances over land.
As he came over the coast and turned north, looking for a stretch of beach where he could put it down, Miles glanced at his instruments again. Shaking his head, his gut clenched. Needles were in the red, both for fuel and engine temperature, and the whole airplane was shaking violently now, the engine sputtering. Struggling to keep the wings up and steady, Miles felt his hands begin to tremble. It was taking all his arm strength to keep the Spitfire level, and he knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get it down.
Spotting a clear, straight stretch of sand, he steered towards it, sweat beading on his forehead. As he descended, the sun beat into the cockpit, briefly blinding him. Miles squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to focus on the white strip below. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk and his propellers sputtered, then began missing rotation until, with a less violent shudder, they stopped altogether.
Miles worked the rudders, trying to keep the nose up and the wings level as his airplane coasted towards the beach. The sudden silence was the loudest and most terrifying sound he’d ever heard, and as he lowered the landing gear, Miles realized that he was completely alone. There was no ground crew below to rush out with the fire hoses, nor any fellow pilots to help him out of the stricken airplane. His survival depended entirely on him.
Sweat poured down his face, and his heart was pounding as he watched the sand getting closer. He was going too fast, but had no way to control it without his engine. All he could do was keep her as steady and level as possible.
And pray.
There was no thought for anything except fighting to keep the wings even as the ground rushed up to meet the Spitfire. There was no thought of Evelyn, or his parents, or even the rest of the squadron still battling above. There was no thought for anything except to land, and to survive.
The impact came all at once, stopping his rapid descent with a bone-jarring crash. His wheels hit the wet sand near the water and stuck, the forward momentum sending the nose of the plane into the sand. Miles felt the air get sucked out of his lungs as his body flew forward, driving against his restraints. He saw his instrument panel, and then a flash of blinding light.
And everything went black.
Outside Saint-Émilion, France
Evelyn sipped her water and stared out over the river. The sky had lightened and the sun was just beginning to cast streaks across the rippling waves. They had arrived in Saint-Émilion late last night. After skirting the city, Finn had stopped near the river, too tired to continue. Josephine had suggested they stay there for the night, and in the morning get breakfast in the city. After some discussion, he’d agreed.
Evelyn glanced back at the car. He was still asleep in the driver’s seat, his head resting on his folded up jacket against the window.
“He’s still sleeping?” Josephine asked, joining her.
Evelyn nodded. “Yes.”
Josephine stretched and looked over the water. “We’ll be in Bordeaux by late morning,” she said, pulling out a cigarette. “There shouldn’t be any delays between here and there. Once we turned towards Saint-Émilion, we left most of the refugees behind. I think everyone is going as far away as they can.”
