The bomber jacket, p.23
The Bomber Jacket, page 23
He was glad Fiona was coming with Gretchen. The Scottish girl was witty and charming, her letters fun to read, though she was somewhat reserved in person. He hoped it would seem more like a reunion of friends, rather than a meeting of a rejected suitor with his cherished sweetheart.
By the time the Flying Scotsman pulled in, an hour late, his nerves were jittery from all the coffee he drank to fill the time and fight the damp chill of a finicky English spring day.
He spotted her immediately through the clouds of steam rising from the engine. As usual, she was fashionably attired. A heather blue plaid wool suit, with its slim skirt and fitted jacket, showed off her trim figure. A matching beret sat at a perky angle on her dark brown hair. Gretchen was still airy, light, and if possible, even more beautiful.
She greeted him in her old way, "Oh, Henry, dear, how delicious to see you," gave him a light kiss on the cheek, took his arm, and said to Fiona, "Look, it's our Henry." It was as though that night a year ago had never happened.
Fiona tilted her head and smiled, taking his other arm.
After dropping their luggage at Lucy’s house, the four of them went out on the town. How his heart survived that weekend, he never knew. He was only able to recall a fog of music, color, and alcohol. All scented with Gretchen’s perfume.
A week later, all hell broke loose. The Nazi Blitzkrieg, with its combination of Stuka dive bombers and Panzer tank divisions, rolled across Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. When King Leopold III of Belgium surrendered, the British Expeditionary Force and its French allies were cut off and in late May retreated toward the only port remaining open—Dunkirk. There they were trapped.
Henry, along with every citizen of Great Britain, devoured each snippet of information that seeped through the censor’s filter into the press and onto the airwaves. When it was over, they learned what happened on that sandy shore of France, barely twenty-nine miles away.
Somehow, in a few days, the British saved 200,000 of their boys and 138,000 more French, Polish, and Belgian troops, ferrying them across the Channel in every kind of floating device they could muster, but leaving more than 50,000 British soldiers and countless allies behind, many dead or wounded from the Luftwaffe's strafing, and the German army took the survivors prisoner.
Fiona’s cousin Malcolm, a member of the 1st Royal Scots disappeared into the haze of war. Wounded, killed, or prisoner, no one knew.
Like others in harm’s way, Henry’s heart soared as Winston Churchill, named prime minister on May 10, rallied the English to prepare for an impending German invasion.
"We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be; we shall fight on the beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets, and on the hills. We shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for the moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, will carry on the struggle until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, sets forth to the liberation and rescue of the Old."
As a representative of that New World, Henry set forth on his own liberation and rescue of the Old, taking a job as a civilian ground crew at an RAF airbase east of London. Doing so put him in violation of the Neutrality Act, but he no longer cared. He was going to do his part in the face of the invasion everyone was preparing for.
That didn’t come.
Instead, starting in mid-July, there was the dizzying sky dance of British fighter pilots fending off German Messerschmitts intent on destroying the Royal Air Force. Through the bright summer months and into the brilliant days of September, Henry prepped and maintained the Spitfires and Hurricanes that took countless young men, barely out of their teens, into the bullet-riddled skies over the island he now thought of as home.
At night, he drank with them in the pubs as they washed away their gut-wrenching fear with pints of warm ale and youthful bravado, and then the next day, he repaired, refitted, and restored the planes that sent his new friends to their soaring death in the clouds. It was then he began to introduce himself as Henry Smith.
Gretchen and Fiona visited monthly through the summer, bringing a girlfriend or two for a night of dancing and merriment. If Henry could manage a few hours off, they spent the evening with the pilots and ground crew in a nearby tavern. If he managed a rare overnight pass, they went out on the town in London, among the crowds partying as if there were no tomorrow.
The visits helped Henry forget, for a few hours, the mounting toll of lost friends. The burning cities. The droning planes. The dropping bombs. But he could not forget for long. The faces of those young men stayed with him as he worked longer and longer hours to be sure that it wouldn’t be the plane’s fault if the pilot died.
When the nighttime bombing raids began in London, Henry told the girls to stay in the north where it was safer.
Ironically, the German Air Force’s concentration on bombing English cities eased the pressure on the RAF. But that didn’t ease the pressure Henry put on himself. Finally, in late October, he collapsed with exhaustion, which turned into pneumonia and a week in the hospital.
On his release, Gretchen and Fiona took him to Edinburgh, where Fiona's uncle and aunt offered him a place to recuperate. Because he was an American civilian, he was not obligated to return to the English airbase. Thanks to the motherly care of Fiona’s aunt, who was silently grieving the unknown fate of her son, Malcolm, Henry was soon on his feet.
With the help of Fiona's uncle, by mid-November, he found work and lodging at Drem Aerodrome, twenty miles east of Edinburgh.
Thus, life settled down into a pattern. Once more he found himself in smoke-filled nightclubs, dancing to the tunes of Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman.
With Gretchen. And his heart began to hope.
Again.
seventeen
December 1940
Except for the intense cold, Henry thought the dim, gray December morning could be mistaken for Eastern Pennsylvania, rather than Eastern Scotland. Even in work slacks and shirt, mechanic's overalls, a fleece-lined jacket, and a cap, Henry wouldn't say he was warm, except for the few minutes each hour when the overhead blowers kicked in and practically melted him if he were directly below them.
His work gloves were too cumbersome for the fine work he was doing on the Hurricane’s engine. Blowing on his fingers to warm them, he turned so more natural light fell into the engine compartment. A spotlight would be nice, but Drem rationed its electricity. He tuned out the clang of metal on metal, the roar of another Hurricane in a back corner, and the hiss of welding equipment as someone repaired a Tiger Moth, used for pilot training.
Being the only American on this Scottish airbase, he received resentment at first.
Why the hell aren’t you Yanks helping us fight off the Huns? Why did Roosevelt only send some bloody rusty, outdated destroyers?
But once they found out he had been at Biggin Hill during the height of what Churchill called the Battle of Britain, they treated him like a hero.
All the RAF pilots and, by association, the ground crews that kept them flying and fighting during those September days were treated like demi-gods. Lavished with praise by the press, lauded by Churchill with his words, “Never was so much owed by so many to so few,” they had, against all odds, fought off the Luftwaffe and turned back Hitler’s planned invasion.
Henry felt he was neither an interloper nor a hero. He was a man in a foreign country, caught up in a foreign war, because he couldn't bear to be away from the woman he loved.
The sound of a slamming door and a blast of December wind caught Henry’s attention. The air stirred up the smell of oil, gasoline, and stale cigarette smoke permeating the metal Quonset hut, but these were so familiar they rarely registered in Henry’s senses.
He retrieved an oily cloth from the back pocket of his grease-stained overalls and wiped his hands on the only clean spot. Stuffing the rag back, he plucked the sweat-stained cap from his head and raked his fingers through his cropped blonde hair.
As he resettled his cap, he noticed an officer crossing the hangar floor towards him. When the new pilot dipped his head in a silent hello, Henry nodded in return. Angular features, pale complexion, and high cheekbones hinted at some Norse ancestry.
After eighteen days at the aerodrome, Henry knew most of the men, a majority of whom were on a three to six-week rotation. The aerodrome was responsible for coastal patrol and was a temporary respite assignment for pilots from RAF bases in England. The latest unit to report was the 258th Squadron, which had arrived on December 4 to join the 607th, both flying Hurricanes.
There was an easy camaraderie between the aircrew and the ground crew, but Henry had learned not to be overtly friendly to new pilots, as class distinctions in British society put him in the lower ranks. Some pilots from titled families let him know it.
“Good day,” the man said in a distinct Scottish burr that marked him as hailing from the northern part of the country. Henry was beginning to learn that there was no one Scottish accent. “Getting my plane ready for me?”
“Aye,” Henry replied automatically.
“Ye’re not from here, are ye?” The Scot looked at Henry intently with dark brown eyes that could be intimidating, despite the pilot’s youth.
“You can tell in one word?” Henry chuckled.
“Ach, nay. T’was the way ye nodded your head.”A small smile broke the solemnity of the pilot's face, and a gleam in his eye hinted at some drollness.
They both laughed. The pilot took off his dress cap and tucked it under his arm.
“No, that’s not it,” he contradicted himself. “They said, ‘Go check with the Yank and see if your Hurricane is ready.’ So I saw there’s only two Hurricanes bein’ tinkered with, so I figured I’d try the first one. And I figured from your accent, that you must be the Yank.”
Henry nodded, warming to the Scot already, almost against his will, and instinctively held out his hand in greeting. He had been wary to make friends with the pilots at Drem, knowing they’d head back south after a couple weeks and possibly die in a fiery crash or drown in the sea. He had kept to himself, spending his spare time reading history, as usual.
“Henry… Smith,” he said, using the Anglicized version of his last name, which he had found created less hostility in this land at war with Germany. Unbothered by the grease on Henry’s hand, the pilot shook it firmly without hesitation.
“Colin,” he introduced himself, then crossed his arms and leaned his broad shoulders against the plane. “MacAuley,” he added, “Though if you checked my birth certificate it’d say Domnhall Cailean MacAmhlaigh.”
“How on earth do you spell that?” Henry replied, shaking his head in amazement.
Colin complied and added, “As for pronunciation, you fairly well say the beginning and ending of a Gaelic word, but swallow the middle of it.”
Henry blurted out, “Well, truth be told, my birth certificate reads Hans Albert Schmidt.”
The two men eyed each other. “Been a Yank long?” Colin replied softly.
Henry knew he was referring to family lineage. “My grandfather moved to America in the late 1880s.”
Colin nodded. “My clan’s been in the western highlands since the thirteenth century. But I’ll not hold that against ye.”
Henry felt his shoulders relax as he released a chuckle. “I’ve only been in Scotland a couple weeks, so I’ve not seen much. What part of the highlands?”
“West highlands. Achiltibuie on the Coigach peninsula. Sure ye’ve never heard of it.”
“No, can’t say as I have. Still learning to find my way around East Lothian and Edinburgh.” Henry gave the capital it's Scottish “burra” ending.
“Aye, I see ye’re larnin’ the way to say the names.” Colin’s formality seemed to be dropping away quickly, which made Henry warm to him even more.
"Aye," Henry replied, and they both laughed. Henry liked Colin’s down-to-earth way.
“So why are ye here… at Drem?” Colin asked.
Henry shrugged. “Fixing airplanes.”
“Yanks aren’t in the war.”
“They would be if they’d seen what I’ve seen,” Henry replied with uncharacteristic ferocity. He stared back at the Scot.
Colin nodded. “You’ve been in the south, I hear.”
At Henry’s surprised look, Colin smiled wryly. “ 'Tis a small place, an aerodrome, and though I’ve only just arrived, I’ve already been given all the scuttlebutt. And a Yank ‘tis a rare thing, let alone a Yank fixing RAF planes, so you come up fairly soon in the conversation.”
Henry shrugged again. “You with the 607th?"
“Temporarily. Until my unit, the 603rd out of Edinburgh, comes north on rotation,” Colin replied. “I’m just off extended leave. So we’re both outsiders.”
“How’s that?” Henry asked, confused. “You’re the native.”
"Most of the Highlanders are in the Royal Guard, or those that grew up on the water in the Royal Navy. Like my brother. Not too many of us took to the air, in spite of livin’ in high places. How long have you been here?”
“Nearly three weeks, actually.”
“Well then, that makes you an old timer,” Colin replied, the smile leaving his face, “especially with what you’ve seen.”
Henry nodded. “Aye,” he said, then brightened, “I can show you around, sir.”
Colin nodded. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve been to Drem before, while I was at university. Belonged to the Flying Club. That’s how I learned to fly. Before the war. By the way, ye’re not RAF. Don’t have to call me sir.”
“It’s part of the job. Respect and all.”
“Well, don’t call me sir when we’re alone,” Colin growled.
“No sir, sir,” Henry replied with a straight face.
Colin grinned in return. “Cheeky Yank. Want to grab some lunch?”
“Sure, the Parachute Café does a decent fry-up.”
The first time Colin saw an airplane, he was seven years old.
Colin's father promised a surprise on the last day of their visit to the aunts, uncles, and cousins on the Isle of Lewis, a ferry ride off the west coast of Scotland. He couldn't imagine what could be any more of a surprise than seeing the Bronze Age Callanish stones standing like tall, stiff sentinels on the flat inland plain—Scotland’s less famous version of Stonehenge.
The ride on land had been an all-day venture in the back of wagons that jolted and jarred over the rutted dirt road. With the kindling they brought, they lit a fire to roast the basket of clams, fish, and crabs caught first thing in the morning on the shore near their uncle’s croft. Colin’s brother and sisters were content to play tag and hide-and-seek with their cousins in the shadow of the standing stones. But Colin ignored them and walked slowly between each stone, staring up at its straight, towering edges, touching the strange, pagan carvings.
"They say Merlin put these here, they did," his Uncle Niall teased him.
"Bosh," Colin's father replied. "Don't be filling the boy's head with such nonsense. This is the twentieth century, now. ‘Tis a modern age. We need to teach him to be a man of science.”
"Science?" His Uncle Niall had laughed. "And what need of science will ye have in the west of Scotland and these islands here?"
"The science that will help us get better crops. The science of agriculture."
"Seems the lad is more into archeology, Bryan, the way he's eyein’ up those stanes.”
Colin had a taste of a different science on Monday when his parents and siblings visited the new aerodrome in Stornoway.
A distant cousin of his father, Matthew MacGuire, ran a single-plane airfreight service from the islands of Lewis and Harris to the isle of Orkney in the north, and the mainland city of Inverness. Colin’s da told them Matthew had been in the Royal Air Corp during the Great War.
Colin's first glimpse of the airplane astounded him. A brilliant red, it stood next to the hangar at the end of the dirt runway. He had seen pictures of airplanes in magazines and newspapers, but it wasn't like seeing one in person. Colin stared, afraid to go closer. He felt a need to touch, to feel, to make sure it wasn't something he was imagining, the same need the stones had inspired. The need to be right next to it, to see the rivets in the wings and the tread in the tires. It was enough to make him jittery.
He imagined, unlike the stones—a substance he was well familiar with living in the rocky coastal uplands—the airplane would crumple under his touch, like the delicate wings of a moth that he once tried to free from its cocoon.
His older brother, at thirteen, seemed to think he needed no one's permission for a closer look and got a sharp reprimand from his father when he tried to climb into the cockpit. "Alasdair, get yourself back here and mind yer manners, lad." Colin hadn't moved a step from his father's side, though he nearly shook from the need to get closer, to touch.
When Matthew MacGuire chuckled, “Come on. I know ye’re dyin’ to see it up close,” Colin looked at his father for permission. At his father’s nod, Colin walked to the plane with the pilot, who picked him up and walked him all around it, explaining the purpose of the rudder, how the propeller worked, and how long it took to take off.
“It’s a refitted Avro biplane fighter with enough room for a pilot, a passenger in the seat in front of him, and some freight behind. Made for short runs.”
Colin listened enraptured, while Alasdair trailed behind, stormy-faced. Then the pilot said something that made Colin's stomach wrench with possibility. "Would ye like ta see inside her now, sit in the pilot's seat, and get the feel of 'er?"
Colin looked around for his da. He probably needed permission for such a profound step, but MacGuire just laughed. "Your da is busy talkin'. Come on now."
