Remembrances ...

London Buses in Wartime, England, 1941
IWM

Maggie Worthington sighed as she looked in on her daughter. The poor girl had done nothing but sit at that window and look out on the square since she'd got home from Egypt. She kept herself clean, she would eat, though sparingly, and she would read from her Bible. But she said nary a word to anyone.

Maggie went back to the small kitchen in their flat where her husband, Janice's father, was sitting, reading the Times.

"Geoff, I am so worried about her."

Geoff Worthington blinked rapidly, it was the only way he could keep from crying. His daughter's deep sadness laid a pall over everything. He understood, he remembered what it was like coming back from France in '18. He'd lost mates, good ones, and had seen things which no young man should ever have to see.

"I know, Maggie, I know. She'll come 'round, you'll see. All we can do is be with her. She's had a rough time out there in the desert. Now that she's been discharged from the forces, she's got time to get her head right. You'll see. Don't worry, she's tough, like her Mum."

Maggie shook her head as Geoff went back to his paper. Both she and her husband were struggling to help their daughter. But she knew that only time would, or would not, heal the wounds Janice carried deep inside.

Janice glanced down at the photograph of her late husband, Flight Lieutenant Reginald Morley. When word of his death had met her on the return to England, she had collapsed.

Her own physical wounds were healed, well, as healed as they ever would be, she would bear those scars for the rest of her life. People would still shudder and look away when they saw the left side of her face. Glass fragments and fire had made their mark on the young woman's good looks. Only her Reg could look past those scars and see the real woman within.

A tear ran down her cheek at the thought of her beloved Reg, dead at the hands of the Germans. She glimpsed at his picture again, then broke down, sobbing.

Her parents knew to leave her alone when she was like this. It would pass, it always did. When she'd have a good cry, then she would go back to staring out the window, seeing the faces that were no longer there.

This time though, was different. When the crying jag had spent itself, she stood up and went to the loo. She washed her face thoroughly, then studied herself in the mirror. She looked older, worn. She didn't like that.

Drying her face, she went out to the sitting room. Her mother was there, knitting, socks from the look of it.

"Mother?"

Startled, Maggie looked up, "Yes, love?"

"I'm going down to the hospital, I'm sure they need volunteers or something. Reg wouldn't want me sitting around forever while there's a war on, would he?"

"But Janice, perhaps it's too ..."

"Too what, Mother? Too soon, Reg is gone and I have to go on with my life. Others are being hurt and dying, I feel so useless just sitting here at home. I must do something!"

Her father came into the room, "I was just heading out myself, love. We can catch the bus together."

Janice felt a little of her old self coming back, even for just a brief moment, it felt good. Then a pang of guilt washed over her, but her father had spoken to her about that. He understood, he had been there and experienced things as she had. Far worse, probably.

"Thanks, Da', I'd like that very much."

Corporal Willis O'Donnell and Leading Aircraftman George Frasier stepped off the transport after it had tied up to the pier at Valetta. Other than the offshore breeze, it felt as hot as Cairo, which they had left a week before.

"'Ow long are we stayin' here, d'ya think. Corp?" Frasier was limping slightly, he'd been injured in a Jerry bombing raid less than ten days ago, shortly before they'd shipped out.

"I dunno, Georgie, the bloody Navy hasn't confided their plans to me just yet. But Pilot Officer Preston said to stay close by, I just need to stretch me legs a bit."

The two RAF men were traveling with the remnants of their squadron, back to Britain. Reduced to only six pilots and two aircraft, the RAF had decided to bring the squadron home to build them back up to strength. Neither man was sad to see the back of Africa.

"Will!"

O'Donnell turned around, it was Preston, standing near the brow.

"Sir?"

"Back aboard lads, we're pushing off as soon as we've refueled. There've been a lot of Jerry raids lately, Cap'n doesn't want to get caught here in harbor for the next one!"

"Right then, let's go Georgie. Hope ye enjoyed yer stay in Malta."

"Oh yes, Corp, wonderful time. Bleedin' RAF won't give a man a break, eh?"

"Guess not, Georgie, guess not."

Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram was scanning the skies ahead as Malta materialized on the horizon out of the haze. The wind was up in Africa and a lot of the Mediterranean sky looked more brown then blue.

"Eyes open, Hans! We're close to Tommy-land!"

"Jawohl, Herr Nadelkissen¹! Try to avoid the little black clouds, eh?²"

"Just keep the Tommies off of us, Klugscheißer³!"

Flieger Hans Decker grinned as he continued to guard their six o'clock position. Though Tommy fighters weren't that numerous over Valetta, it only took one to spoil one's day.

Wolfram and Decker had been flying together since Poland. They had managed to survive a shoot down over the Channel on one occasion. Briefly assigned to another pilot when Wolfram was hospitalized, they had gotten back together in time to be shipped off to the Mediterranean.

Originally they were supposed have gone over to Libya to support the Afrika Korps, but then the High Command had decided that suppressing the island of Malta might ease Rommel's supply situation. The army was doing well against the Tommies, but the flow of supplies was often choked off by ships and aircraft operating out of Malta.

So they stayed in Italy, which didn't bother either man, the food was good, the wine was better, and the girls, well, they were friendly. Decker had a steady girlfriend named Maria, Wolfram wouldn't play though, he had a wife back in Berlin to whom he remained faithful.

Didn't bother Decker, not at all.

They hit a patch of rough air which brought Decker's attention back to his job. Damn, I should lay off the vino when I'm flying the next day, wouldn't do to get Ernst and himself, of course, killed while he was woolgathering!

The transport bearing Preston, O'Donnell, Frasier, and the rest of their ruined Hurricane squadron was well clear of the harbor when the ack-ack guns began firing and the men could hear the familiar screech of the Ju 87 sirens.

"Damned things are unnerving when you're on the ground." Pilot Officer Preston muttered.

"Rather meet 'em in the air, eh Sir?" Frasier offered.

"Quite, bastards ain't so scary when we get in among 'em with our kites. Easy meat as long as you 'ware the stinger in the tail."

Frasier looked puzzled, O'Donnell nudged him and said, "The tail gun, laddie, bleedin' Stukas got a tail gun."

"Oh right, Corp, I knew that."

The men were glad to be away as they saw the swooping gull winged shapes drop their loads on the harbor. They did get to see at least one German aircraft fall from the sky, streaming smoke and flames all the way down to the surface of the water.

"Poor buggers." O'Donnell muttered.

"Corp?"

"Nothin' lad, just sayin' they're men, just like us. Hate to die like that, hate to see anyone die like that."

"Ya know, Corporal, if they hadn't started the f**king war, they wouldn't be dyin', now would they?" Preston had turned to look at O'Donnell and Frasier, a serious look on his face.

"Ye're right, Sir, still and all ..."

"I know, Corporal, I know."

Frasier thought of Flight Lieutenant Morley, he remembered the man's face as he'd looked getting into his Hurricane for the flight he didn't return from. He remembered uncovering the man's body in the desert ...

"F**k the Jerries, Sir. Kill 'em all."

Preston looked briefly at the young man, then back towards the smoke arising from Valetta ...

"Quite right, Frasier, quite right."

¹ Pin cushion. Wolfram has been wounded more than once, his squadron mates say that he has more holes than a pin cushion, hence the nickname.

² Anti-aircraft artillery bursts appear as black puffs of smoke in the sky.

³ Smartass.

Wenn wir fahren gegen England!*

Junkers Ju 87 Sturzkampfflugzeug "Stuka"
(Source)

The formation crossed the coast of the Cherbourg Peninsula shortly after leaving their base at Théville. They were still gaining altitude, their orders were to intercept and bomb an English convoy which was expected to make landfall at Southampton around noon. Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram grinned as he recalled his gunner, Flieger¹ Hans Decker, complaining that they would miss lunch, again.

"It's not right Herr Feldwebel, this will be the third day in a row with us in the air while the rest of the Geschwader gets lunch. I'm tired of brötchen and cold cuts, a hot meal would be nice!" Decker had been very insistent on this as they had preflighted their aircraft. "Why can't one of the other Staffeln take this mission?"

Wolfram had stopped in mid-stride, turning to his gunner he smiled and said, "I'll take that up with the Reichsmarschall² the next time I see him, ja?"

Wolfram smiled again as he remembered the look on young Decker's face, for the briefest of moments the lad had taken him seriously.

"How are you doing back there Junge?" he asked over the intercom as he looked back over his shoulder to see how his wingman was doing. As always Jürgen Meyer's aircraft was exactly where it was supposed to be.

"I'm all right, I'm surprised you can't hear my stomach rumbling over the noise of the engine." Meyer answered.

Wolfram snorted, the lad was still exercised over missing lunch.

"Ah, I thought it was the wind making that noise. You'll live."

Bill Evans was deck crew on a small steamer out of Felixstowe. His ship was sailing in convoy with ten other small ships, bound for Southampton. Evans was looking forward to a bit of shore leave. He'd been working this route since the Germans had invaded France and had been at sea the entire time.

He was taking it easy at the moment, the First Mate was harassing someone else for a change. He thought about lighting his pipe, then thought better of it, their cargo was highly flammable. So he sat back and watched the sea and the sky. He enjoyed days like this, clear, warm, and without much wind. A perfect day to be out on the water.

As he leaned back against the bulkhead he saw small spots way up to the southeast. After a moment, he realized that they were aircraft, a lot of aircraft. So he headed for the deckhouse, better to report and look a fool than not report and get his arse chewed by the Captain.

"Ships at ten o'clock." Wolfram heard over his radio. He looked in that direction, sure enough, he could see the wakes of a number of ships.

"Make sure your harness is tight Hans. Targets ahead."

Again the radio came to life, Wolfram recognized the Staffelkäpitan's³ voice, "All flights, attack in succession."

As he watched, the lead flight prepared to attack. Soon they would go into the steep dive which virtually guaranteed good bomb hits. Provided the pilot didn't lose his nerve and pull out of his dive too soon. Very few Stuka pilots lost their nerve.

The First Mate yelled at Evans to man the single 20 mm gun that was just forward of the hold, and just aft of the fo'c's'le. Though he had minimal training on the gun, it was better than the man they told off to be his loader.

"Miller, just load each one of these into here, like this." Evans demonstrated by loading the first magazine, the Oerlikon was simple enough, but Miller didn't seem all that bright.

"Ow, do I know when ta' reload the thing?" Miller asked.

"When the bloody gun stops firing or when I yell at ya. After you attach the magazine, go grab another. Keep 'em comin'!"

Evans adjusted the gun to his height and then swung it around to get a feel for it. Looking up he could see that for the moment his ship wasn't being targeted. But others around him were. He was quickly in action.

Looking through the window on the floor, Wolfram was watching for his target to appear, when it did, he punched the speed brakes out, then moved the throttle to idle as he pitched the aircraft's nose over. And there it was, just above his crosshairs, perfect.

Glancing over at the marks scribed onto the canopy glass, Wolfram could see that he was spot on, 60 degrees of dive, that mark aligned with the horizon. Looking forward he could see that his target was nicely centered along his line of attack. Then he saw that the ship he had chosen was starting to slip to his left, damned thing was maneuvering!

He adjusted for the ship's movement and he was dead on once again. At five hundred meters he pulled the bomb release, then retracted his speed brakes. Pulling back on his stick, he grunted as the G-forces pressed him down into his seat.

He could barely make out Decker yelling over the intercom. As the blood flow returned to his head, he could make out what the man was yelling, at the same time he heard Decker's gun hammering at something behind them.

"Englische Jagdflieger! Break left!" Decker was screaming.

Then there was a harsh thump aft and he could no longer hear Decker, the man's gun also fell silent. Wolfram knew they were in deep trouble.

"Hold your fire!" Evans could hear the First Mate screaming from just behind him, "You'll hit our boys!"

As he tracked the Stuka which had just pulled off of its bomb run, he saw a Hurricane in hot pursuit. As he looked away to find another target, he saw a thin stream of smoke issue from the German plane he had wanted to fire at, "Looks like the flyboy nailed him!" Miller yelled.

In the next instant a burst of antiaircraft fire from one of the other ships blotted the Hurricane from the sky.

Wolfram tried to see to the rear, he couldn't see or hear Decker. Then he heard the man's gun firing again. Perhaps the intercom was out. With his tail covered, he realized that he needed to concentrate on flying, he had just seen one German aircraft banking too low, the aircraft's left wingtip had caught a wave, sending the Stuka cartwheeling out of control and into the sea.

The convoy entered the Solent just after one o'clock, the brief action had scattered the ships and they took some time to reform. No further attacks had been forthcoming. The gunners aboard the various ships claimed seven dive bombers shot down and three fighter aircraft.

In reality, three German aircraft had been lost, the lone fighter shot down, and claimed by the gunners, was a Hurricane from 501 Squadron.

No ships had been lost, only one had suffered any appreciable damage.

Upon landing back at Théville, Wolfram discovered that he had lost one of the radios in his aircraft. Which accounted for the loss of the intercom system. Decker was unhurt, though still angry at missing lunch.

"Come on Junge, there's a café downtown which makes a very nice beef bourguignon, I'm buying."

"What the Hell is a bourguignon?" Decker asked.

Wolfram chuckled, "Ah, the ignorance of you provincials, it's a stew of beef braised in red wine, often red Burgundy, and beef stock, flavored with carrots, onions, garlic, and herbs, garnished with pearl onions, mushrooms, and bacon. I think you'll like it."

"And you're buying?"

"Natürlich, your gun saved us! It's the least I can do but feed you!"

The two Luftwaffe airmen received a pass, Decker was not disappointed with his meal.

Wolfram had noted that they were on the schedule again tomorrow. Again at lunchtime.

He made sure Decker was well fed.

Evans and Miller went ashore after their cargo was unloaded. They too went into town and headed for the nearest pub. Both reported for duty the next day very hungover.

They would be heading out again tomorrow, before lunch.

* When we drive against England! (German marching song)

¹ Airman (German)

² The rank of Hermann Göring, commander of the Luftwaffe and Hitler's number two man.

³ Squadron commander (German)