The escape game, p.2
The Escape Game, page 2
“Oh, and there’s a man at work who keeps asking me out.” Not that Beryl was interested in dating anyone, but her mother had always been intent on her daughter finding a husband. In the past, Mum had tried to match her up with any male close to her age. Surely this topic would pique her mother’s curiosity. “His name is Freddie, and he works in production. He’s nice enough, I suppose.”
Mum glanced up and looked at Beryl, as if she wanted to hear more. Beryl brushed dirt off the dark blue wool skirt of her warden uniform, finding a tear. “Oh dear. I wonder when that happened.”
Mum glanced over. “I can mend that,” she said, reminding Beryl of the government slogan to “make do and mend.”
“I wish we had thread in here so you could fix it tonight. My next shift is in two days though, so you have time to mend it before then.” Beryl made a mental note to bring a needle and thread to the shelter for future use.
At the sound of the ack-ack antiaircraft guns being fired, Mum jumped, dropping her knitting in her lap, her eyes wide with fear. She started trembling, so Beryl reached across and patted her on the knee.
“What are you making, Mum?” Beryl tried to distract her mother again. “A jumper for me?” She forced a smile to lighten the atmosphere.
Mum glanced down at the gray wool, a partially completed item between two knitting needles.
“Or maybe a nice cap for yourself?”
Mum shook her head. “Mrs. Hughes’ baby.”
“Mrs. Hughes? Did she have a baby?” Beryl wasn’t certain if Mrs. Hughes was a neighbor or not but feigned interest to keep her mother talking.
Frowning, her mother picked up the knitting and studied it. “Not yet. It’s for Mrs. Hughes’ grandchild, her daughter Alice’s baby.”
“I see, and does Alice live with Mrs. Hughes?”
“Yes, Alice’s husband is away with the army.”
“So, what is it that you’re making?” Talk of the army could put Mum in a funk too.
“A baby blanket.” Mum held it up for Beryl to see. “It’s rather drab, but I couldn’t find any yarn in pretty colors.”
Beryl opened her mouth to reply when a loud boom shook the ground. Mum screamed and tossed her knitting in the air. Beryl scooted over next to her and wrapped her arms around her mother. “It’s all right, Mum. We’re safe in here.” She firmly believed what she said, having seen people in Anderson shelters survive very close bomb landings. She had to believe it for Mum’s sake. “Dad built this shelter to be quite sturdy so we’d be protected.” However, she couldn’t vouch for anything outside the shelter.
Mum felt so weak and frail as she shuddered inside Beryl’s arms. Where was the strong woman who used to be her mother? The ground shook slightly, indicating more bombs had fallen, but Beryl couldn’t tell how close they were. In fact, they sounded as if they were getting farther away, or was she just hoping? Much as she wanted to get out of the shelter and go back into the house, Beryl knew she must practice what she told others, to stay sheltered until dawn or until the all-clear sounded. One never knew if the Germans were going to send another bombing attack during the same night. Not only that but the light of day would reveal the damage done. Sometimes the attacks left unexploded bombs in the ground, so it was safer just to stay in the shelter and wait until morning when the damage crews could assess the situation.
“Mum, remember what you taught me when I was a wee girl? You told me to recite a Bible verse from the Psalms, ‘What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.”
“Psalm 56:3.” Mum quoted the reference automatically.
“That’s right. It rhymes.” Beryl took her mother’s hands in hers. “Let’s trust God to take care of us. Let’s pray for everyone in the British Isles.”
Mum looked from her hands to Beryl’s face. “And James.”
“Yes, and James.” At the moment, they didn’t know whether he was still in England or on missions over enemy country.
She and her mother held hands and prayed until there was no more noise outside. The night became quiet while they prayed first for themselves, then for James, then for their country, and then for peace in the world. At some point during the night, they both fell asleep.
CHAPTER 2
RAF Kirton in Lindsey Airfield, England
June 1941
The familiar drone of aircraft engines filled the night air as Kenneth Bordelon and his squadron mates strode to their Spitfires waiting on the taxiway. He scanned the sky, disappointed to find the usual shroud of fog missing. A clear night was an open invitation for the Nazi bombers who would have better vision for their targets. Gray figures moved among the planes, tending to all the things trained ground crews do prior to flying a combat mission.
The staccato words of the briefing officers from the 71st Fighter Group raced through his mind as he adjusted the parachute harness on his back:
“You’ll be flying sweeps over northern France.”
“German fighters have been active.”
“You must outrun them before you run out of gas.”
“Look for any enemy movement—trains, convoys, airfields. Hit them hard and fast and get out of there.”
“Save some ammo in case you have to fight your way back across the channel.”
Although a veteran of dozens of sorties into German-occupied France, Kenneth’s gut still clutched with fear as he paused in the shadow of his plane’s wing to steel his nerves before stepping up into the cockpit. He would be leading his flight of three Spitfires on this morning’s mission. The other pilots were depending on his experience and he on them for mutual support if they were to be successful. Looking up at the sky, he saw the stars, knowing they’d be gone by the time his mission was underway, a dangerous mission that required clear thinking on his part. Good thing he had quick reflexes after years of playing football and baseball. That plus his training had prepared him for the inevitable meeting with German fighter planes. And if his number was up, then he hoped he had the courage to accept his fate. Back home in Louisiana, he knew Mother would keep praying for him. She believed in that stuff, so it couldn’t hurt. He needed all the luck he could get. A brief thought flickered through his mind that he had no one else, no girlfriend who would miss him if he were gone.
Only one girl had interested him enough, but when the Germans attacked England, romance went out the window as everyone left Oxford to go to war. A twinge of remorse hit him knowing he’d missed his chance to give Beryl a proper goodbye kiss. Wonder where she was now? Last he heard, her brother James was joining the RAF, and Kenneth hoped he might run into him sometime. But he hadn’t yet. Wouldn’t old James be surprised to learn that his American friend was also flying for the RAF? Yes, sir, a proud member of the volunteer Eagle Squadron, flying for England even though his country hadn’t entered the combat yet.
Kenneth motioned to his wingmen parked on either side of him to climb into their cockpits and prepare for engine start. He checked his gear. His goggles sat on top of his leather helmet. His parachute attached to its harness was in place underneath him, his first aid kit attached, and his Mae West life preserver was on. He attached the oxygen hose to the plane’s receptacle and fastened his oxygen mask to his helmet. After tugging his leather gauntlet gloves up, he gripped the stick with one hand, the other on the throttle.
Kenneth gave his wingmen the signal to start engines, and the planes whirred and sputtered to life. After a quick scan of the cockpit instruments and a check of his rudder and stick controls, Kenneth waited for his crew chief to give him a thumbs-up. He radioed “Ranger flight check” for a radio check from his flight mates and received a crisp “Toop” and “Threp” response in his headset. Hand signaling the crew chiefs to pull the chocks, they were cleared by ground control to taxi into position for takeoff.
Switching to tower control frequency, the three Spitfires in his flight taxied into position on the runway with Kenneth in the lead. Finally, the radio crackled the signal, and Kenneth released the brakes and pushed the throttle all the way forward. The engine roared to reach maximum acceleration, and gently pulling back on the stick, he lifted into the early dawn sky.
The three planes climbed. Within minutes, Ranger Two and Ranger Three had joined in formation, one on each side of him, about a hundred feet off his wingtips. Flying Ranger Two was Frank, the pilot from Texas. Ranger Three was Joe, the New Englander from Boston. They circled to the west of the airfield, then began joining in formation with other Eagle Squadron members. Kenneth swelled with pride at the sight of all twelve Americans in their RAF Spitfires lined abreast to deliver a blow to the Nazis. The four flights of three stayed together as long as they could for mutual support in case they encountered German fighters.
What seemed like only minutes after takeoff, the squadron was over the point where each flight was to split off from the group to head to their assigned destinations. Kenneth rocked his wings, signaling his wingmen that it was time to separate from the larger formation and follow him to their target area. As the sky lightened, the sun’s early rays streaked across the English Channel below, exposing the brilliant white cliffs of Dover with the gleaming stone South Foreland Lighthouse perched on top while they winged their way to France. The scenery was beautiful and peaceful from up here in the sky, and war seemed far away. But the peace wouldn’t last when they were spotted by the Luftwaffe, the German air force.
As they approached the coast of France, keeping radio silence, Kenneth waggled his rudder pedals, signaling Ranger Flight to spread out to about five hundred feet in a line abreast in their most offensive formation. They changed course again and headed east toward known military staging areas, flying over a patchwork of browns and greens of cultivated land and hedgerows. Straight ahead, Kenneth spotted the marshaling yard and what appeared to be a convoy of troops loading onto their trucks. Suddenly the first volley of enemy ground fire greeted them as tracers cracked past his cockpit. But he pressed the attack and squeezed the trigger to fire a salvo into the enemy convoy. Fire from Ranger Two and Ranger Three also ripped through the Nazi formation.
Pulling up to get lined up for reattack, Kenneth sighted enemy fighters. “We’ve got company, boys! 109s at three o’clock, slightly high.”
The intercom crackled with Frank’s voice. “They’re turning on us!”
“I’ll get them,” Joe said, veering away with an enemy plane diving in on his tail.
They were still sixty miles west of their target.
The sky exploded with more weapon fire as the Spitfires dove and turned, soared, and evaded the German planes. Kenneth fired his guns while making a close pass at one of them. Another 109 swooped by, firing at him. He was pulling Gs and jinking his stick for all he was worth to avoid gunfire from the 109 on his tail. A noise like hail on a tin roof rattled the Spitfire as bullets peppered his plane. Smoke began streaming from his engine.
Kenneth scanned the sky, looking for the other two Spitfires. With horror, he watched Frank’s plane take a hit and spiral downward. “Bail out! Bail out!” he shouted through the radio, his gut clenching as he searched for signs of a parachute, proving his friend made it out.
Joe was engaged with one of the remaining Messerschmitts and let go a burst that hit the enemy plane. A cloud of black smoke emerged from the plane. “Got one!” shouted Joe.
“I’m hit. Heading back,” Kenneth said as his plane shuddered from the damage it had gotten.
“I’ll cover you,” Joe said.
Kenneth turned his plane toward the channel. Maybe if he could make it that far, he could bail out and be lucky enough to be picked up by friendly rescuers.
Time was suspended. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
The shimmering water of the channel rippled ahead as he began to lose altitude. No time to jump now. His only choice was to ditch in the channel. He just hoped his years as a lifeguard would serve him well out there.
He pulled the throttle to idle and lowered the flaps to slow down as much as possible. Gripping the stick, he pulled back to stall the aircraft and drag the tail over the water before the nose fell as the water came closer. Kenneth braced for impact as the Spitfire hit with a tremendous splash, skidding to a halt. He only had minutes to get out before the plane sank. He jerked on the canopy hatch, but nothing happened. Maybe he should have tried to open it before the plane hit the water, but he didn’t have time. The thing was supposed to slide to the rear, but it didn’t, so he beat on it as hard as he could. Finally, with both hands on the latch, he pulled with all his strength, and the canopy slid back over his head.
He jerked off his oxygen mask and tossed it out of the way. Next, he hit the quick-release latch on his harness to free himself of the parachute, a sure anchor if he couldn’t get rid of it. He managed to push out the pilot’s door on his left-hand side just as frigid water began to rush into the cockpit. He climbed out as quickly as he could, pulling the release valves of his life vest, allowing it to inflate. He swam away from the plane before the channel water could suck him under. A growing ring of gasoline widened, and Kenneth swam farther away to avoid it, spitting out salty water. As the tail section of the plane disappeared under the water, Kenneth looked around for signs of rescue. But no one was in sight, not even a lonely fisherman. Overhead, he heard the sound of Spitfires heading home. He waved, hoping they would see him and let the base know he was still alive.
The cold water heightened his senses more than a strong cup of coffee would. He felt his body, checking for injuries. Either he didn’t have any or was too numb to feel pain. How far was he from shore? Could he swim that far? The weight of his uniform and boots would make swimming difficult, but dare he take them off and put himself at greater risk of hypothermia? In the preflight briefing, the weatherman said that the channel’s average temperature in June was around fifty-five degrees. Based on that fact, he would only have consciousness between two and six hours. He sure hoped he didn’t have to test that prediction.
Treading water, he scanned the horizon, searching for a boat to rescue him. Good thing he could float. He thought of his childhood pal Billy who couldn’t float no matter how hard he tried, sinking like a rock if he wasn’t wearing a life preserver. Kenneth continued treading, watching the sun move across the sky. Pushing up his sleeve to see his watch, he saw that at least two hours had passed already since takeoff, although he didn’t know exactly what time he landed in the water. His mind moved on to other things to think about—childhood memories, school, and his little brother, Kevin. Wonder what Kevin would say now if he were still alive? Would he laugh at seeing his hero in such a predicament? Funny what you think about when you wonder if your life is about to end.
If Dad were still alive, would he be proud of his son or think him foolhardy? A veteran of the last war, Dad had wanted nothing to do with another one. Kenneth’s thoughts traveled back to his time at Oxford. What fun times he’d had there. He’d made lots of friends, but James had been his closest in recent history. It sure was nice of James to introduce Kenneth to his pretty little sister, Beryl. She was different, not your typical flirty college girl like the others he’d met on campus. No, she was a smart cookie, one he’d have liked to have known better.
Something splashed near him, bringing him back to the present. Were there sharks in the channel? If there was, he hated to find out the hard way. At least there weren’t any gators like back home. However, at this point, he wasn’t sure which he would prefer.
Why exactly was he here anyway, treading water between England and France? Not because he’d been forced into service. No, he had to be one of those daring adventurers who chose to fight for England because he wanted to. After living there for several years, England was like his second home, and the people were his friends. Somebody had to stop Hitler from destroying everything. And Roosevelt didn’t seem to think Hitler was a threat to the United States. It still boiled his blood to think of his own country sitting on its hands while Europe was taken over by a power-hungry maniac. Besides, Kenneth had to admit his motives weren’t all noble. He liked the thrill of adventure. Flying Spitfires was fun, even more exciting than riding his motorcycle. However, this kind of adventure was not the kind he’d imagined.
Kenneth’s legs were numb from the cold water, and his movement slowed. How much longer could he keep this up before hypothermia took over? The sun’s glare glinted off something in the distance, and as he focused on it, he saw a boat coming toward him. His pulse quickened with excitement of being rescued. But as the boat drew closer, he saw the black swastika on the boat’s hull and flag. Germans. Guess it was too much to ask to be rescued by an ally. He began rehearsing the standard response he was supposed to give when captured. That is, if they gave him a chance to talk instead of shooting him on sight.
As the boat slowed to a stop near him, he recognized it as a German minesweeper. Someone shouted through a megaphone in German. Kenneth didn’t know what he said but guessed. He held his hands up as if in surrender, his mind racing through air force protocol about being a prisoner of war. A ring buoy was thrown near him, and he grabbed hold as they pulled it back to the boat beside the ladder they’d tossed over the side. With his last ounce of strength, he grabbed the ladder and tried to pull himself up while rifles were trained down at him. A Nazi naval officer dressed in a blue, double-breasted wool coat with brass anchor buttons nodded to Kenneth and the men, and they leaned over to help him.
