THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (24 page)

T
he sun was sinking, and Ryk feared that he might be too late to reenter the fray. As he headed northward alone, he was very much aware of the danger. He constantly scanned the skies.

There, below and headed in the opposite direction, was a lone Heinkel. Ryk turned in an abrupt dive and was soon behind the German. No need to take unnecessary chances. He would approach directly behind the bomber, and slightly higher; he would be too high for the belly gunner, and too low for the top gunner to fire without blowing his own tail off. Ryk squeezed the button.

Damn. Just as he began to fire, the German turned into a cloud.

For the next fifteen minutes, Ryk replayed his escape from Poland, with the roles reversed. He kept above the clouds, weaving and waiting for the Heinkel to emerge. Each time it did, he dove to the attack. But the bomber always seemed to find another cloud. Ryk managed only one short burst before he lost his quarry. It was getting too dark to continue the hunt.

Up ahead, Niehoff now had no idea where he was, with all the twists and turns. He had suffered additional damage with the last machine-gun burst from the Spitfire. To have any chance of getting home, he needed to get rid of his bombs. Quickly. He ordered the bombardier to dump. As the bombs fell through the clouds, Niehoff gratefully felt his plane lighten. With luck, he would make it back to France.

Below the clouds, many Londoners had taken to the subways or basements as the air raid sirens wailed. But some were unperturbed, and were sitting down to dinner. A few would regret it. A string of bombs shattered windows and buildings along a residential street in East London.

Barbaric, said the British. In retaliation, Bomber Command was ordered to attack Berlin the next night. They had long since learned that it was suicide to fly over Germany during the day.

Göring—Meyer—was humiliated. The Führer was enraged. The Luftwaffe received new orders: prepare a full-scale assault on London. Two weeks later, the Blitz began.

For the people of London, the time of testing had come. For the RAF, there was a respite. London, not the airfields and aircraft plants, would now be the targets of Hitler's marauders.

O
ne Saturday evening in the middle of the Blitz, Ryk and his fellow pilots received a welcome message: the weather would be cloudy and stormy for the next 36 hours, with heavy rain. The Luftwaffe would be unlikely to appear. They should take the opportunity to get a good rest.

Ryk—now Pilot Officer Ryk—flopped in his bunk. He was dozing off when a familiar figure loomed over him. Gabe was holding himself unsteadily erect with crutches.

“There's a party at the officer's club this evening, and I've been asked to bring you along.”

Ryk didn't want to go; he wanted sleep. But the party was special; Gabe promised he wouldn't regret it. Ryk resisted; most of his friends were still sergeants, excluded from the commissioned officers club. He didn't feel comfortable or even very welcome. Gabe assured him he would feel more than welcome tonight. For a change, there would be women present, from neighboring air bases. Ryk grumbled, but pulled himself out of bed.

As they entered, Ryk was surprised to see that he was one of the guests of honor—those who had recently shot down their fifth German plane. There was a banner, with three English names and Ryk's. As he and Gabe came in the door, there was a cheer, and Group Captain Sutherland came over to congratulate him.

Ryk gravitated to a group of Polish officers who were engaged in an animated discussion of recent action. Ryk wasn't very interested. On the other side of the room, the Brits had a better idea; they were flirting with young women. Ryk detached himself from the Poles and casually made his way across the room. He hoped his English was good enough to hold up his end of a conversation.

As he passed a small group, Sutherland stepped back, inviting him to join.

“I believe you know Pilot Officer Lois Winslow,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

Ryk was puzzled. He had met surprisingly few British women at all, and he certainly would have remembered her.

She could see his expression, and quickly solved the puzzle. “303. Climb to 12,000 on a heading of 85.”

Hers was the familiar voice that had directed him into battle.

“Ah, my guardian angel,” Ryk replied, kissing her on the cheek and hugging her.

She had been at the University of London, but had dropped out to work with the Air Force. Her parents lived in a village close by. They loved to see her wards—she said it with a smile. Ryk wasn't quite sure what the word meant; he would have to look it up. Perhaps Ryk would like to drop by some weekend, if and when things calmed down, and visit her family. They often had her Air Force officers in for parties on weekend afternoons, but only when the weather was bad enough to keep the Germans back where they belonged. He knew how to get in touch with her.

Sutherland scowled slightly; air control was not a dating agency.

“Only when the Boche have disappeared back over the Channel,” she quickly added. “When I start giving you overly detailed instructions how to get back to base, you can take that as a special invitation. But you can come any weekend.” She gave him, not her own address, but the address of her parents.

Ryk suddenly didn't feel quite so tired.

She wanted to know how he had gotten out of Poland. He provided a brief report of the flight of the Red Baron.

“There's someone I'd like you to meet,” she said, taking his hand.

They headed toward a corner, toward a tightly packed group of pilots. They didn't seem to be acting precisely the way officers and gentlemen should. They were jockeying for position; occasionally, there was just a hint of an elbow.

“Ah,” said Lois, with a touch of envy, “some girls just have it.”

As they approached, Ryk caught the eye of one of the civilians just as she turned. She broke away from her admirers and rushed to Ryk, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Ryk, Ryk. I was afraid I might never see you again. I'm so glad you got out of Sweden.”

“Anna. Anna.” For a few moments, that was the only thing he managed to say.

They began an animated conversation in Polish.

At least the other officers were gentlemen enough to fade away and to leave the two alone. One by one, they turned their attention back to Yvonne and a number of other vivacious young ladies who worked for the government. Where was not exactly clear; the pilots were having the worst time trying to get telephone numbers.

Ryk and Anna talked of their adventures; they had so much to catch up on. Anna recounted her difficulties during her first morning in Britain, substituting the Air Force Meteorological Service for Naval Intelligence and not mentioning any names. Ryk was astonished that anyone could be so enthusiastic about weather forecasting, but he was grateful that someone was doing it.

Ryk tried to ignore the way she rubbed her cheek with her left hand, displaying her wedding ring. The message was unmistakable. Only too clearly, Anna was still deeply in love with Kaz. Or, thought Ryk, grasping at straws: she was still deeply in love with his misty, fantasy memory. Unlikely they'll ever see one another again.

Anna rubbed her cheek again. “Message received and understood,” said Ryk lightly. Anna blushed, and, to make amends, leaned over and did up the top button of his tunic. As he felt her hand brush against his chest, he briefly grasped and squeezed it. She looked him softly in the eyes for a few seconds, then gently withdrew her hand.

Someone cranked up a gramophone and started to play Glen Miller records. Beer was flowing; the party was warming up.

Would she like to dance? The speaker was a boyish officer with pilot's wings. Anna wondered if he was shaving yet. Yes, she'd love to.

Anna hadn't danced to Glen Miller before. She swung from one pilot to another; she hadn't had so much fun since the war began. A dark thought intruded: what a horrid war. So little fun, so much danger for these marvelous young men. But she suppressed the thought as she went on to the next partner. Each seemed more lively than the last.

The music switched to Vera Lynn. “We'll hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line.” Each time they came to that phrase, the dancers joined in the song. Then, “Bless 'em all, bless 'em all....” The dancers stopped, formed lines with arms around their partners' waists, and swayed as they sang along. “There'll be blue birds over, The White Cliffs of Dover....” Then, “Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.”

The music turned sentimental. “We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when.” Anna was in Ryk's arms; he had worked his way back to her side as the dancing resumed. How wonderful to meet again! They talked of their fun as teenagers. The time Ryk and his daredevil friend Radek scaled the church steeple to put a chamber pot on the peak. It could have been even better. They could have used a tin pot; that's what Ryk wanted. Because it was porcelain, the priest quickly solved his problem with a well-aimed rifle shot. Anna had a confession. Radek mentioned the plot ahead of time. She talked him into switching from tin to porcelain. The priest had been a mountain climber thirty years before, when he was a young man. She was afraid he might take a tin pot as a personal challenge; it could have ended badly.

“Oh, Anna, how could you betray me?” said Ryk in mock disappointment.

A Wing Commander tried to cut in, an officer from a neighboring base. Ryk pretended not to understand, responding in Polish: “Don't you realize what a royal hash you're making of the war, sir?” But he spoke with a smile. Anna put her hand to her mouth to hide a giggle. The Wing Commander graciously backed off; perhaps the young lady didn't speak English.

“I've been waiting to say that for months,” Ryk whispered in Anna's ear. The Wing Commander—the RAF's answer to Col. Blimp—had dragged his feet on resetting his Spitfires' guns, and relented only when faced with a mutiny.

The music started again.

“Who's taking you home tonight?” Anna and Ryk were now dancing cheek to cheek. “Please let it be me,” Ryk sang softly, accompanying Vera Lynn's words. Anna didn't respond, pretending that Ryk was simply continuing the sing-along.

The music stopped. Holding hands and looking into her eyes, Ryk repeated, “Please let it be me.”

“Oh Ryk, Ryk, please don't ask,” she said, kissing him softly on the cheek.

Music again drifted across the floor. FOR ALL WE KNOW, WE MAY NEVER MEET AGAIN.... TOMORROW WAS MADE FOR SOME. TOMORROW MAY NEVER COME. FOR ALL WE KNOW.

“Tomorrow may never come,” Ryk choked as he spoke the words. “Life is so uncertain.”

Uncertain.... The fleeting life span of pilots. Anna felt a sudden pang, a surge of soft emotion; she might never see him again.... It wouldn't be immoral. This was wartime.... Or maybe he was hinting that Kaz was gone; there was no point in waiting. Her tenderness toward Ryk was overwhelmed by her longing for Kaz. In the background, she could now hear the words of the Anniversary Waltz: COULD WE BUT RELIVE THAT SWEET MOMENT DIVINE. Oh, Kaz, Kaz. There were tears in her eyes.

They were close. Anna looked first into one of Ryk's eyes, then the other.

He asked: could he see her again?

She paused. Yes, she guessed so. Lois had offered an open invitation. Maybe she could meet him at the Winslow open house some Saturday or Sunday, when the weather was too bad for Germans to be flying.

Ryk sighed.

Nevertheless, he would eagerly take her up on the offer.

On the trip back, Anna couldn't help but notice that the bus was only a third full; it had been packed on the way to the party. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Would she ever see Kaz again? Or Ryk?

Perhaps she had been right to throw herself so completely into her work.

Anna was sitting beside Yvonne. As the antique bus bumped and creaked along the back roads, the two women said nothing. Anna didn't notice, but Yvonne, too, had tears in her eyes.

For Ryk, the evening could have turned out worse. Seeing Anna brought all those pleasant memories rushing back. And a week later, he received a very small package in the mail. A button from an RAF officer's uniform. It was Anna's way of saying sorry. Apparently someone had told her. Pilots who had fought through the Battle of Britain were entitled to leave the top button undone.

Ryk took the button as a small sign of encouragement and faithfully carried it into combat as a good luck charm.

A
small flight, of only a dozen bombers, was approaching the coast. A British squadron would intercept them. The 303 could stand in readiness, in case additional Germans came.

A single Spitfire taxied out to the end of the grass runway and immediately began its takeoff run. It rapidly climbed away, toward 15,000 feet, in a curving turn to the right until, in the distance, it faded out of sight.

It was the last anyone would see of Joseph Frantisek.

At the beginning of the Luftwaffe's onslaught, a memorial service was scheduled each time a pilot was lost. As the casualties mounted and the pilots approached exhaustion, memorial services for all the losses of the preceding week were held immediately after the Sunday chapel service; or, if the weather was clear and the Germans threatened, it was postponed until the first rainy day.

At first, Ryk attended each of the services, even for the pilots he had not met. But the services became painful, and unnecessary, reminders of their mortality; he stopped going.

Joe's service would be different. As Ryk was the last one to fly with Joe, he was asked to say a few words.

“We are here to pay tribute to one of the best pilots in the Battle of Britain, one who shot down seventeen enemy planes, more than any other man.

“I had the privilege of flying with Joe. In a few short days, he taught me skills that have helped me survive. I owe him my life.” Ryk wasn't telling the whole truth.
De mortis nihil nisi bonum:
Of the dead, nothing but good.

“Joe was a joyful and irrepressible individualist. He was happiest alone, chasing Germans out of his sky.