Blackhawks
June 11, 1940
"They said no," said Janos Prohaska.
"No?" said Stanislaus Drozdowski.
"No," said Janos.
Stanislaus rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache coming on.
"Definitively no?" he said.
"Not permanently," said Janos. Janos was already leaving the military recruiting station behind, headed off to parts unknown. The two of them had been in London for two weeks, but they got lost at every opportunity.
"So, there's hope for us yet?" said Stanislaus.
"Mhm. Too slow," said Janos.
Stanislaus did his best to follow Janos across the street, nearly being flattened by a double-decker bus. Taxi drivers yelled profanities in English at their window as his companion cut a path through traffic, but Janos was never one for niceties. London was busier than Warsaw. Far denser. Still, the atmosphere was turning into one that Stanislaus knew too well after the German invasion. The British were a people holding their breath all the same.
Janos entered a pub, with Stanislaus close behind. Before long they were hunkered at a table, drinking away their frustrations.
"You'd think they've forgotten there's a war on," said Stanislaus. "They should be so lucky that there are pilots looking to join up."
"We're not the only ones. Some of our countrymen spoke of similar...organizational troubles," said Janos.
"They'll change their tune when the bombs are raining down," said Stanislaus.
Janos didn't respond. Instead, he sipped his beer, his gaze fixed on the array of pictures behind the bar. There was a bevy of photos of the countryside, many of them dominated by what must have been the proprietor's family. Children played in fields and beside streams.
"Excuse me," said a mustached man, approaching their table. He was flanked by another two men, including one of the largest people Stanislaus had ever seen.
"I don't speak Polish, but I saw you leave the recruitment station," said the mustached man. His accent came into focus. A Frenchman. "Seems you met a similar fate."
"No luck for you either?" said Stanislaus.
"No. If it was not too much, we though we would commiserate with our fellow warriors," said the man.
Stanislaus checked Janos for approval. He gave it with a slight tilt of his head.
"By all means," said Stanislaus.
"Bien," said the man.
The trio introduced themselves. The Frenchman was Andre Blanc-Dumont. He had gotten out of France during the evacuation at Dunkirk. His squadron was lost in the early days of the invasion. The giant red head was Olaf Bjornson, a Swede. His country wasn't in the war, but he sought to throw his lot in with the British, to no avail. The third member, a man with a wiry. build and a narrow face, was Hadrien De Looff, a Belgian. He hadn't even had the chance to take to the skies, so comprehensive was the German destruction of his nation's air force.
"And the two of you?" said Olaf. "Fighters of Poland?"
"Correct," said Stanislaus.
"You've been in the thick of it longer than the rest of us," said Andre. "You have my respect. If my leaders had any sense they would have intervened to help your people sooner."
"No use dwelling on such things," said Stanislaus.
There was an uncomfortable gap in the conversation, the kind you could fit an elephant in.
"I think we could use another round," said Hadrien.
"I'll help you," said Olaf. The two men left the table for the bar. The establishment was picking up in activity as people off the street wandered in. Many of them were soldiers, from the nearby stations.
"A number of these men will be headed out to Libya," said Andre. "The Italians have poked the lion as well."
"You flew before the war?" said Andre.
"Yes," said Stanislaus.
"Military?" said Andre.
"We both served our country. And lent our services elsewhere," said Stanislaus.
"Oh?" said Andre, raising an eyebrow.
"Spain. Against that bastard Franco," said Janos.
"A worthy cause. Even if it did not work out. A common outcome, it seems," said Andre. He slid around his empty glass.
"You served France?" said Stanislaus.
"Oui. Before the war I was a… how does one phrase it? A stunt pilot. For thrills," said Andre.
"I'd like to see that," said Stanislaus.
"Remarkable how the skills translate to warfare," said Andre.
Olaf and Hadrien returned with the drinks. The bar was abuzz at this point, dense with the conversations of its patrons. Stanislaus thought of similar times in Warsaw, with old comrades. He imagined Janos was on a similar track.
"To a free Europe," said Andrea, raising his glass. "And payback to those Nazi bastards that put us here."
The men clinked their glasses together, foam spilling from the rims. The conversation went late into the night, as it wandered freely from man to man, each telling tales about their homes, their purpose, their dreams. The effect of being strangers in a country and finding other strangers, Stanislaus supposed. Only Janos remained reserved.
In the early hours of the morning, when the dew hung heavy off the leaves and the air was glazed with fog, they stumbled out, all feeling the effect of the liquor. Andre, Olaf and Hadrien bid their goodbyes with a promise to keep in touch. Stanislaus and Janos walked the long march back to the humble flat they were renting from an elderly couple. Fellow Poles.
"That made up for today's disappointment. At least a little," said Stanislaus.
Janos didn't answer.
"Come now. We'll have our chance yet," said Stanislaus.
"Sooner than you think," said Janos.
"What?" said Stanislaus.
"You'll see," said Janos, with a smile on his face, the first real smile of the night.
June 18, 1940
"This is your proposal?" said Andre.
Janos grunted in affirmation.
"It's… unique," said Olaf. "An unexpected plan."
"It seems foolish," said Hadrien.
"More foolish than remaining out of the fight?" said Janos.
Stanislaus could not fault their hesitation. They were in a hangar, on a diminutive runway a few miles outside of London proper. How Janos found the place was beyond him, but he presumed that the man had been looking for one that suited his purposes since they came to the island. The hangar was owned by a man named Stewart Blake, who also performed upkeep on the planes stowed here. The planes in question were a set of eight fighters. Six Hawker Hurricanes and two Spitfires. All currently out of commission.
"How did you even come across these planes?" said Hadrien. "Shouldn't they be requisitioned by the government?"
Stewart leaned back from his work bench, where he tinkered with the parts of one of the Spitfires. His forearms and face were streaked with grease.
"These were defective. Issues with the assembly line. I know a fella at the plant, offered to take them off his hands, fix them up. This was a few months ago, before the need became quite so severe. I think they've more or less fallen through the cracks, as it were," said Stewart.
"So you propose to fly in defective planes.." said Andre.
"No longer defective," interrupted Stewart. "Mostly. I'm not finished with all of them."
"...surplus planes. Independent of the RAF. As what? Our own squadron petit?" said Andre.
"I think that's the gist of it," said Stanislaus. When it was spelled out like that, even he had to admit the plan was questionable. But, there was no changing Janos's mind when the man committed to something.
"And with him?" said Olaf.
He was referring to the older fellow that stood next to Stanislaus, a recent convert to their cause that Janos met sometime in the past few days. He was the most experienced pilot in the hangar. He just happened to be a German.
"I can see that my presence causes undue strife," said Hans Ritter.
"Indeed," said Hadrien.
"If leaving is best for this group…" said Hans.
"No," said Janos, with more force than the others expected.
"We are in no position to turn away those who would fight for freedom. Even at great personal cost," said Janos. "Hans flew in the Great War. He has been in a cockpit longer than you have been alive." He pointed at Olaf.
There was a moment of contemplation, one that Andre broke.
"Why not? If the old man turns out to be a Nazi, I can shoot him down myself," said Andre.
"That won't be an issue," said Hans.
"I don't know about this entire plan," said Hadrien. "Why not just wait till the RAF will take us?"
"There's no guarantee of that," said Stanislaus.
"Hesitation," said Janos. The others turned to him.
"This entire war exists because supposedly good men hesitated. When confronted with evil, real evil, they chose to hesitate rather than stop it in its infancy. They allowed it to fester and rot and spill over its borders until it has come for us all."
Hans grimaced.
"I've seen the price of hesitation. I've lived it. The ravages of my homeland are fresh in my heart. The same wicked tale plays out in France, in Belgium, in all the countries touched by the Nazi scourge. They bring naught but suffering. Where they flourish, freedom dies.
I may not be able to convince the lot of you, but I know that this is where I make my stand. The Germans are out there now, making their plans, preparing to bring death to this island. It won't stop until all of Europe kneels at their boots. Perhaps the world.
I don't promise a simple solution. There is no quick victory here. I promise struggle. Pain. Even death. But, I promise life as well. A chance to take up the sword of liberty and ram it deep into the heart of those fascist monsters.
Fly with me. Or don't. All I know is that Blackhawk will fly again," said Janos.
"You're Blackhawk?" said Andre.
"He is," said Stanislaus.
"Mon Dieu. You scarcely needed that speech. You could've told me that and I would follow you into hell," said Andre.
"Aye," said Hadrien.
"Blackhawk?" said Olaf.
"The angel of Warsaw. The last man standing," said Andre.
"He was the last Polish pilot in the skies. Shot down more than two dozen Germans before his plane was put down," said Hadrien.
"There's nothing more to say," said Olaf. "When do we begin?"
June 18 was famous for one particular speech, delivered by Britain's belligerent leader, Winston Churchill. In it he promised that this would be Britain's "finest hour." If asked about which speech they remembered from that day, Stanislaus and any of the other Blackhawks would say that they only recalled one. The one that started the legend.
"The planes should be ready within the next few weeks. Faster if I can have some help," said Stewart.
"I propose one modification," said Janos.
"Oh?"
"Paint them black."
July 1, 1940
At approximately 14:20, the Dowding System picked up an incoming Channel raid, focused just south of Brighton. This was consistent with reports of increased Luftwaffe radio chatter in the hours preceding the attack. The target was a small convoy of supply ships, making their way to the home ports.
-RAF After Action Report
"By this point the Jerries were getting bolder. They were probing our defenses more and more. That meant more daylight raids. The Dowding System was a way of figuring out exactly where the enemy planes were and rapidly intercepting them. It was a network of radar and observation posts that sent information to a centralized source, which allowed for quick and accurate responses.
We got scrambled at 14:22. Intercept was at around 14:40. It proved to be a bigger sortie than anticipated."
-Captain Raymond Walsh
"It was a right mess from the start. We came in too fast for our own good."
-Flight Sergeant Erney Reid
"Due to the weather conditions, a large portion of the German wing was able to conceal themselves within the cloud banks. Our squadron engaged what appeared to be the bulk of their forces, which gave the others an opportunity to outflank us. It was…"
-Captain Walsh
"...a slaughter. Tompkins got killed right away. Matias's fuel tank went up and took Lance with him. I had a pair of Germans on my rear that I couldn't shake."
-Flight Sergeant Reid
"My own craft was riddled with bullets. I was...fortunate. None of them hit me or any vital system, but my plane was crippled. I was making a gradual decent as the rest of the squadron was doing their best to regroup. In my professional estimation, we were approaching a near total loss. This was not the only raid, so the chances of quick reinforcements were slim."
-Captain Walsh
"It was curtains for us. Anyone could see it. I was just trying to take as many of the bastards down as I could."
-Flight Sergeant Reid
"At 14:46, after considerable early losses, RAF radar picked up another squadron of fighters appraoching the combat zone. They did not match any known squadrons."
-RAF Report
"I felt a burst of bullets clip my wing. I thought that was it. I was getting ready to bail, when, out of nowhere, this pair of planes roars by me. Jet black. I looked to my right and I saw the Messerschmitts that were following me going down into the ocean."
-Flight Sergeant Reid
"A squadron of planes, all painted black, cut through the clouds and began to take apart the German forces. They all flew masterfully. In all honesty, I was jealous of the skill on display that afternoon."
-Captain Walsh
"I had a habit of walking along the shore. Once the raids started, I began to watch for planes overhead. It drove my mother mad with worry, but I would slink out and find a nice dune from which I could watch the sky. I was young and I had little sense of the danger, particularly at that early point in the battle.
This was memorable for more than one reason. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach, a pit, as I saw the British planes were being outgunned by their foes. I felt quite helpless at that moment, aware that there was little I could do.
The battle changed when a number of black planes burst onto the scene. They flew like nothing I had ever seen before. It was mesmerizing, the acrobatics on display. It gave me hope."
-Evelyn Chance, eyewitness
"By the time I got a sense of what was happening, it was over. The Germans were downed or on the run. One of the black planes flew next to me. Its pilot, some old chap, gave me a salute, before they peeled off. Incredible."
-Flight Sergeant Reid
The raid concluded at 15:01. Four RAF planes were lost, with three pilots KIA. Three more damaged and requiring repairs. Sixteen Luftwaffe planes were shot down, with five that retreated. Fourteen of those shot down were accomplished by the intervening party, the squadron that would soon be known as the Blackhawks.
-RAF Reported
"It seemed a miracle. We would be in desperate need of those soon."
-Evelyn Chance
August 14, 1940
The air raid siren rudely removed Stanislaus from his dreams of better times and better food. He slid out of his cot, hastily throwing on his uniform as the other Blackhawks did the same.
"Typical Germans. No respect for the necessity of sleep," said Hadrien. "No offense Hans."
"None taken," said their older companion.
"I was on a tropical island…" said Olaf with a yawn.
"Always an island with you," said Andre.
The men hustled to the hangar. As always, Janos had beaten them there and was already halfway through preparations for takeoff. Stewart Blake was no longer the only staff. The streak of blond hair indicated his daughter, Zinda was up and working, performing last minute checks on the fleet. There were also a handful of other workers, a tacit endorsement by the RAF of their unorthodox enterprise.
"Where's the fire, sir?" said Olaf.
"Another attack on an RAF airfield. South of London," said Janos.
The radio spat out numbers, coordinates, information. Stanislaus did his best to listen as he prepped his craft. He was one of the two in the group that favored their modified Spitfires over the Hawker Hurricanes, with Olaf being the other.
"Turn that up," said Janos. "Turn the radio up."
"...initial reports include a specialized attack squadron defending the bombers. Marked by red streaks on their wings and fuselage…"
"von Tepp," said Janos with a growl. "The Metzgergeschwader."
Janos climbed into his cockpit, as the ground crew led him out. Stanislaus prepared to do the same. Andre leaned over to him.
"What was that about?" said Andre.
"An old foe," said Stanislaus.
"It means Butcher Squadron," said Hans. "And they've earned the name."
It was here, up in the sky, behind the roar of the engine and the whirring of the propellers that Stanislaus was at home. Other pilots complained of the mounting fear as they approached a sortie. Stanislaus found the opposite. He grew calmer the closer to death he arrived.
"Stay in formation till we've got eyes on," said Janos over the radio.
"They aim to take out the fighters on the airfield," said Andre.
The Blackhawks cleared the cloud cover, the open air revealing the battle at hand. Trails of smoke raced into the sky, the remnants of bombing runs on the airfield. British planes were already mid-duel with their German counterparts.
"Blackhawks to battle," shouted Janos, echoed by his allies.
Stanislaus picked his target and pitched the joystick toward it. The Spitfire hurtled across the sky. The Messerschmitt he was after was busy chasing another pilot, so he didn't have the awareness to notice his new threat. Stanislaus lined up his nose with the craft and blasted out a spray of bullets. They caught his target in the cockpit and the plane plummeted.
The Blackhawks cut through the aerial skirmish, turning the tide, duel by duel. Stanislaus shot down another two planes.
"Check your five o'clock, Drozdowski," said Hadrien.
Stanislaus heeded the Belgian's advice, but the glare of the sun made it hard to see. A shadow split his cockpit. On instinct, he tilted his Spitfire sideways, ducking it lower. A line of bullets raced past, where his plane had been. Out of the direct sight of the sun, he could see a squadron of planes coming from on high.
"The Metzgergeschwader," said Hans.
"Keep it together," barked Janos.
The new enemy formation barreled through their ranks. He witnessed a series of explosions on the airfield, as dive bombers slipped past their screen.
"Put pressure on those bombers," said Andre. "They are getting by."
"Captain. Captain you're getting too far out of formation," said Olaf.
Stanislaus looked around, trying to identify Janos's plane. He found it, the lone black craft on the outskirts of the fight. It was locked in a dogfight with three red striped planes.
"I'm going to help him," said Stanislaus.
"We have to maintain pressure on the bombers," said Andre.
"Go boy, go," said Hans. "We'll hold the line."
Stanislaus flew toward Janos's plane. The captain was holding his own, but the three Butcher planes were no amateurs. It was only so long before they found their opening, won the battle of angles and timing.
He got lucky with the first plane. His entrance into the duel was so sudden that the other pilot never had time to adjust course. A single burst of his cannons carved off the Messerschmitt's left wing. The other two quickly changed their tactics to account for the new opponent. They took a wide loop in opposite directions, seeking to box in Stanislaus and Janos.
"von Tepp is here," said Janos.
The two Blackhawks countered their foes, staying out of their direct line of fire with skillful maneuvers. The force of the turns he had to perform pressed Stanislaus to the back of the cockpit, his muscles screaming out. The blood in his head seemed to race in and out, making his vision swim.
He saw history about to repeat itself, as a third Butcher Squadron plane emerged from a nearby cloud, its sights set on Janos. Perhaps he could evade it, but the timing was too tight for Stanislaus. He rolled his Spitfire into position and opened fire.
His foe was ready for it this time, with the plane skimming by the onslaught. It countered with its own volley. Stanislaus heard a disconcerting crack, as his cockpit was punctured. The smell of gas struck his nostrils, then heat on the back of his neck. The plane was on fire. The Spitfire was no longer responsive, as he fought with the joystick. The rudder must be damaged. It began to spin, caught by inertia and gravity. The entire craft was flipping end over end. His surroundings bled by faster and faster. Only glimpses of the battle above were granted to him.
One of those rapid flashes of color and light showed Stanislaus that one of the Butcher Squadron craft was after him still. Out to finish the job. He felt the rattle of another spray of bullets riddle the fuselage. The fire was growing, he could feel the heat pressing on his neck. How long before he was cooked?
Out of desperation as much as anything, Stanislaus squeezed the trigger on the joystick. He timed the repeated pulls for that brief window, when the nose of the plane was on the upward swing. Through luck as much as skill, he saw the bullets hit true, as the Messerschmitt peeled off, on its own death spiral.
The force of his descent was nearly too much to overcome, as he grasped the edge of the cockpit and pulled. He managed to get the emergency release to open it. His legs braced, then pushed with all their force. He willed his body to not be caught on the spinning Spitfire. Into the open air, he tumbled, his limbs flailing outwards, without grace.
Stanislaus waited for a long time to pull the cord on his parachute. He knew what happened to vulnerable pilots as they floated to the ground. He would not share their fate. The parachute plumed out, the cables yanking against his shoulders. He gripped the chords and tried to steer towards open land, but it was unclear how much effect he had. The ground rose to meet him, a sloped patch of greenery by a muddy stream.
The force of his landing sent him rolling down the slope. The fabric of the parachute caught on his limbs, as he fell in a tangled heap. A splash told him that he hit the stream even before the water seeped through the parachute. The particular angle that his body was slanted at, legs up, torso down, meant Stanislaus's face was pressed into the rising water. He sputtered and gasped, working to free his arms from the grip of his chute. That the instrument of his survival would kill him in such a mundane way was an irony unable to be appreciated in his growing panic. The water surrounded his face. His boots scrabbled on the mud, chasing for purchase, until at last they found it. Stanislaus drove his heels down, as he slid out of the stream. He twisted his body till it came free, emerging from the parachute as a snake sheds its skin. He could not help but laugh at the absurdity.
His laughter was interrupted by the muttered speech of another nearby. A man stood, hunched over by a large rock in the mud. The man was speaking German. He noticed Stanislaus the same time that Stanislaus drew his service pistol.
"Nein," said the German.
Too late. On reflex, Stanislaus pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man in the neck, the splatter painting the rock. The German pilot fell back, hitting his head on the rock, before landing in the mud by the stream.
Stanislaus looked at his pistol. It was different when you could see their face clearly.
"Oy. Drop that gun," shouted someone up the slope.
"We got one," said another, a younger voice.
There was a pair of men, an old one and a teenager in British uniforms coming down the slope. The older man held a gun, the younger only carried a baton.
"I'm on your side," said Stanislaus.
"Don't sound like it," said the old man. "Drop it."
He threw the pistol to the mud.
"Check that other fellow," said the old man.
His younger companion obeyed.
"If you're on our side, where are you from?" said the man.
"Poland."
"What's a Pole doing in a field in England?"
"Fighting the war. Same as you," said Stanislaus.
"It's a German. A dead one," said the teenager. He looked ill.
The old man lowered his rifle.
"Well done I suppose. We're part of the Home Guard. Sent to collect any downed pilots. May as well follow us."
Stanislaus barely heard him. He was too busy watching the sky.
September 9, 1940
"Where's Andre?" said Stanislaus.
"Check the Windmill," said Olaf.
"Again?" said Stanislaus.
"It's one of his favorite spots," said Olaf.
Stanislaus grumbled. It was a bigger hike than he had planned. Olaf sat in a chair that looked dainty when it held his prodigious frame. He nursed a glass of amber beer. The tables were all outside, on the street, a result of the interior of the pub having collapsed a few days ago during one of the bombing runs. The bar itself and the inventory was intact, which the proprietors took as a sign that they were to remain open.
"For the troops," they said. "And the folks round here."
The troops were out in force, occupying all but one of the tables. They drank like it was their last day, which it might well be considering the circumstances. The men who frequented this place were foot soldiers and pilots of the middle class. He wasn't quite able to crack the code, but there was an element of class consciousness that permeated British society. The fact that so much of the RAF was built off the backs of middle class men appeared to sit poorly with members of the aristocracy. They were not used to owing their survival to those below their station in such a public manner. Olaf sat alone, appearing to take in the various conversations.
"That one," Olaf said, tiling his glass toward a man whose face was in his hands. "He is an American. He's been moping here since the morning. I passed him on my way to the store. I am curious how long the others will tolerate him, before they throw him out."
"Well, happy people watching," said Stanislaus. "I'll be back for you once I get the Frenchman."
If the atmosphere of London in the months past recalled that of Warsaw on the eve of conquest, the current destruction reminded him of its siege. The Germans were bold with their attacks. Whole fleets of bombers came in the midst of the day, to drop their deadly packages on the people of the city. Entire neighborhoods were rubble. The nights were lit by the fires that burnt out of control.
Stanislaus picked his way through the mix of ravaged and untouched streets. He saw a boy reading a book about the history of London in the middle of a ruined bookstore. The people here were afraid, but they were resilient. They were growing used to sleeping in bomb shelters, in subway stations below the streets when the air raid sirens blared out their dire warnings. He had seen many of the children evacuated, sent to rural areas, away from priority targets or even overseas. It made him wonder what was becoming of his people. Were their spirits broken? Or would they refuse to be tamed by this new regime?
The Windmill was taken by the locals as proof that the British could not be beaten. It was a theatre on the edge of a busy street best known for its nude shows. Of course Andre loved to spend his downtime patronizing the establishment. Stanislaus found him sitting in the back, in the middle of a show.
"Ah, Stanislaus. Finally decide you need to unwind?" said Andre.
"I needed to find you," said Stanislaus.
"And so you have. Have a seat, enjoy the show," said Andre.
The crowd whistled and jeered as the dancers crossed the stages. If nothing else, Stanislaus could appreciate the craft of the costumes, the skill of the dancers. They weren't so bad to look at either. In less pressing times, he would have liked to stay and watch.
"We have to leave," said Stanislaus.
"Booo," said Andre. "Let a man have his fun."
"Captain's orders. He wants to go over our plans."
"There is a price to this interruption. When I am too tense in the plane, it is because you have denied me these pleasures," said Andre.
"A heavy weight, but one I shall bear all the same," said Stanislaus.
Back at the outdoor pub, a small crowd had gathered around the subject of Olaf's observations.
"He's a loon," said one man.
"A mope," said another.
"I miss my friends," said the American. "I miss them so much."
"What is this?" said Andre. It was at least a distraction. The man had complained the entire walk back.
"That fellow keeps blubbering about losing his friends. Something about his light going out," said Olaf.
"That will be me without the Windmill," said Andre.
"Stow it, will you?" said Stanislaus. "Olaf, time to go."
Olaf finished his beer and set down his tip.
"The light won't come back. No matter what I do, it just doesn't come back," said the American.
"He is drunk," said Andre. "Heroically so."
One of the soldiers in the crowd tipped the man's drink over. He made a half-hearted attempt to save it, but it emptied its contents onto his lap. The others jeered.
"Oh no. He's gonna cry," said a soldier.
"That's all he's good for," said another.
Olaf stopped walking.
"I'm sorry. I can't do this," cried the American.
One of the soldiers gave the American a light push. In his inebriated state, it was enough to topple him from the chair. He fell hard on the sidewalk, to the laughter of much of the crowd.
The instigator had barely time to turn back to his peers before he was hoisted off the ground by his shirt collar. Olaf roughly flung the man out of the way, not with any true violence, but without much concern either.
"What's the idea mate?" said a rough faced soldier.
Olaf ignored him and picked up the drunk American. He assisted him to his feet, unsteady as they were.
"Just havin fun," said another soldier.
Olaf shouldered his way through the crowd, American in tow.
"He may be pathetic, but he is not worth your scorn," said Olaf.
When a soldier made like he was going to follow, Andre barred his way.
"Not worth it my friend," said Andre.
"Leave them. Bunch of nutters," said someone else.
Olaf led the American far enough away that none of the soldiers would try anything. The man appeared confused. Existentially so.
"You should be alright now," said Olaf.
"I don't know that that'll ever be the case again," said the man.
"What is wrong with you?" said Andre.
"I'm lost. I lost my friends. My powers."
"Powers?" said Stanislaus.
"It'll never be the same," said the man. "I need to find Sandra."
"There is always tomorrow," said Olaf. "As long as we persist to see it."
"Tomorrow…" said the man. He wandered off from the trio, into the depth of the night.
"Americans," said Andre. "One look at the world as it is and they turn into nihilists."
Stanislaus took Andre and Olaf to the Blackhawk hangar, where the others awaited them. They found Janos in the midst of a debate with Hans. Hadrien awaited them at the doorway.
"Finally. They have been going on like this for nearly an hour," said Hadrien.
"This information has to be passed on. The RAF must know," said Hans.
Janos didn't answer. His palms lay flat on a map of England, a series of red circles around London and its surroundings.
"What is this?" said Olaf.
"Know what?" said Andre.
"Well captain?" said Hans.
"A contact of mine. On the mainland…" said Janos.
"You have contacts back in Europe?" said Andre. "For how long?"
He checked Stanislaus to see if he knew. It was less a shared fact and more of an overlooked secret. Stanislaus had long noticed how often the captain would slip away for private meetings. How often his knowledge of raids outpaced even the RAF warning system.
"I do. I didn't think it was worth sharing," said Janos.
"Unbelievable," said Andre.
"The point of the matter is they've sent me a warning. There's a raid mustering. In the next week or so, the Germans are going to throw everything they have at London," said Janos.
"What else?" said Hadrien. "I heard the two of you talk about more."
"My contact says that they're deploying an experimental craft."
"What does that mean?" said Olaf.
"A new weapon. One with unheard of destructive capabilities," said Janos.
"What's the matter then?" said Olaf. "Why is this an issue?"
Janos stared at them with cold eyes. Stanislaus knew even before Andre blurted out.
"von Tepp must be flying escort. With the rest of the Metzgergeschwader," said Andre.
"Yes," said Janos.
"You're worried if the RAF scrambles an early response the Germans would delay it. You'd lose your chance to get von Tepp," said Stanislaus.
"You can't be serious," said Hadrien.
Janos was silent. He didn't meet their eyes.
"All this for what? A chance to even your score with him? At the risk to how many people?" said Andre.
"This is too far Captain," said Olaf.
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Janos. "He has to die."
The men stood, without knowing what to say.
"I know captain," said Stanislaus. "I know and I still think its wrong."
"I don't know the details, but I can guess. Its the reason so many continue the fight long after any sense has left them," said Hans.
No response.
"You lost people," said Hans.
"The first town in Poland that was bombed was Wielun. It was near the border. No military presence. But that was enough for them," said Janos.
The others knew where this was going.
"They did their damnedest to wipe Wielun from the map with their bombs. When that wasn't enough, they strafed the civilians as they fled. Including my brother. My sister. And both of my parents. That is what von Tepp is and that is what he brings wherever he goes," said Janos.
The others didn't respond right away. They were each wrestling with their own version of this tale, their own call to action. It was easy to claim a righteous desire for freedom. Stanislaus knew that revenge was a far more motivating factor for many.
"I'm sorry Janos. I truly am," said Hadrien. "But, I've lost people too. My father. My brothers. Killed in the invasion. If I could get the men who slew them I would, but not at this expense. Not with this many lives at risk."
"Captain you've earned my trust. You've given your own where others would not. Hadrien and the others are right. We can't fall to their level. If passing that information to the RAF compromises a chance at von Tepp, then so be it. It is not for us to endanger the lives of thousands," said Hans.
"The rest of you feel the same?" said Janos.
The others agreed. Stanislaus could see that Zinda was eavesdropping from the rear of the hangar.
"Even you? My oldest friend?" said Janos to Stanislaus.
"We may have to go through hell to win the war, but I refuse to take the devil's bargain while we're there," said Stanislaus.
"Then it's settled. You've placed your trust in me to lead the Blackhawks. I can't betray that, even for vengeance," said Janos.
Janos, Andre and Hadrien left to report their findings to a nearby RAF station. Hans found Stanislaus on the airfield, appreciating the night air.
"He may resent it now, but it's better for his soul. For all of us," said Hans.
"I know," said Stanislaus.
"Would that I could go back and warn myself about how dangerous the Nazis would become… I thought my country would have the strength to choose the path of the angels. I never imagined we would allow such evil to sprout," said Hans.
"You've made your choice all the same. If not your country, at least you've taken a stand," said Stanislaus.
"I am fortunate. I could flee, to fight another day. So many of my countrymen lack that choice. Sometimes I wonder if my back had been well and truly against the wall, if I would have still chosen to dissent. With no way out," said Hans.
"It's easy to speculate. Hard to know," said Stanislaus.
"I know what the captain would do. And that's enough for me," said Hans.
September 15, 1940
"This is it," said Hadrien. "The big one."
The cacophony of flak guns and bombs going off supported his claim. The horizon was covered in smoke plumes as the city burned. Stanislaus could see dense formations of bombers and their escorts above the clouds.
"The entire fighter group is being scrambled," said Olaf.
"Then we had best not leave them in the lurch," said Andre.
"Blackhawks to the skies," shouted Janos.
Stanislaus waited his turn by his Spitfire. He played with the straps on his helmet, last minute adjustments. He noticed Zinda was lingering.
"You have something to say Ms. Blake?"
"I want to help," she said.
"You have helped plenty. Without you, half these planes would be scrap metal by now," said Stanislaus.
"You misunderstand. I want to fly. With the Blackhawks."
This caught him off guard. Zinda was an adept pilot. He had watched her train, in one of the prop planes her father kept in the secondary hangar on the edge of the airfield. He detected a certain flair in her, similar to Andre's finesse behind the joystick.
"Now? In the midst of all this?" said Stanislaus.
"When the need for help is greatest," said Zinda.
"Ms. Blake…"
"Zinda."
"Zinda. I have seen you fly. I know you have the capacity for it. But trust me when I say that now is not the time to begin."
She was dejected.
"This is not a blanket denial. I doubt you are the type to accept such a declaration. Only that your first time alongside the rest of us should not be a battle of such magnitude. I look up there and wonder if I will survive it. Do not inflict such a burden on yourself. Should I make it through I will teach you to be a fighter pilot myself."
"Then you had best survive this fight. If only to keep that promise," said Zinda.
Stanislaus climbed into the cockpit with a grin. He gave Zinda one last wave as he taxied toward the runway, to join the butchery in the sky.
The sky had never felt so crowded as it did today. Everywhere Stanislaus turned, there was a group of planes, flying in formation or locked in conflict. Bullets and flak filled the air, death on the edge of his vision at all times. Janos led the Blackhawks into the fray.
"Our brothers in the 303 are already here," said Janos, referring to a Polish force of pilots.
They weaved through the ballet of screaming hulks of metal, unleashing death on their enemies in a white knuckle test of skill. The acute passage of time ceased, replaced instead by the state of supreme concentration, one's consciousness reduced to one decision after another, a string of choices to keep oneself alive a moment longer. All that could be asked for was that it was enough to survive the ordeal. Andre and Olaf traded kill counts over the radio, while Hans and Hadrien called out warnings and advice to one another. Janos worked as the conductor of this mad dance, redirecting them to pockets of particular peril, to alleviate their fellow flyers, as they dove back into the German tide again and again.
"Check the southeast. You may get your shot yet captain," said Hadrien.
"Form up," said Janos.
The squadron regrouped on his signal. They had scarcely done so, when Stanislaus saw what Hadrien spoke of. Soaring through the flak-filled airspace was the largest vessel he had ever seen. One would be forgiven for mistaking it for a mirage, a fever dream conjured up by the madness of combat. It resembled a naval battleship more than a plane, so large was its wingspan. Stanislaus could see the vast shadow that it cast on the landscape below. The craft was painted dark red, adorned with the iron cross of the Luftwaffe. It was supported by dual sets of wings, with six sets of propellers on each. Its frame bristled with turrets, which already spat out death in all directions. It was accompanied by a squadron of blood striped planes. The Butchers.
"This is an all-call," cracked their radio. "Priority target is that massive ship. Concentrate firepower. Do not let it reach the city proper."
"You heard the man," said Janos. "Let's get in there and see if it's got a soft underbelly."
"Olaf, help me split their defenders," said Hans.
The two Blackhawks cut away from the formation, flying a wide line. Their gambit had a degree of success as several of the Butcher's broke away in pursuit. Stanislaus could see that a large portion of the RAF fighter group was folding in on the craft. If its pilots were concerned by the attention, it did not show in their bearing, which remained unchanged.
"No telling where all the guns are," said Hadrien.
"Stanislaus, Andre go high. Hadrien follow me below," said Janos.
He pulled the joystick back to climb. His Spitfire shook from the stress. Even from this distance Stanislaus could hear the roar of the vessel's guns as it opened up on the waves of British fighter planes. The sky burst into flames as their ranks were cut open by the gunfire.
"Don't get caught by that," said Andre.
The two planes reached the apex of their arc. They nosed down, headed at an angle that would skim them over the flying fortress. Stanislaus waited for an opening, then squeezed on his trigger. The Spitfire's cannons opened up. The bullets hit true. With horror, he saw many of them fully deflect off the hull of the craft. Some of them seemed to be absorbed by its armor. Other volleys of bullets had similar results.
"What is that thing made of?" said Stanislaus.
"All pilots, be aware, enemy craft is highly resistant to cannon fire," said Janos.
"Our grace period is over," said Andre. "They are on to us."
Four Butcher Squadron fighters swung upwards, in pursuit of Stanislaus and Andre. They looped wide from one another, drawing their pursuers away from the vessel, to give their fellows a better window to attack.
"Circle back so we can trade," said Andre.
"Copy," said Stanislaus.
He was interrupted by a blue glow that filtered through the cockpit. Currents of light ran down the flying fortress, along the plating that was being pelted with bullets. It fed into pools of light that surrounded what revealed itself to be a gun port. A long silver barrel slid out from the craft. The blue light surged around its base. There was a sound like a sudden intake of air, then the barrel lanced out a beam of blinding light, which immediately cut a swath through a squadron of Hawker Hurricanes. The survivors performed evasive maneuvers, but the beam tracked them and bisected another two before dissipating.
"Stanislaus watch out," said Andre.
The Butcher Squadron pilots had not been so caught up in the display as to forget their quarry. He yanked hard on the joystick, violently pitching the Spitfire to the left, as a stream of bullets shot by, one of them tagging the end of his right wing. He regained control, as he continued to lead them back around to Andre.
The two pilots reached the end of their routes, as they flew by one another. Stanislaus fired upon Andre's pursuers, while his comrade did the same. Stanislaus shot down one of the Messerschmitts. Andre reported that he downed both his targets. The lone survivor began to flee back to the larger formation alongside the flying fortress.
"I've got a friend I just can't shake," said Olaf.
"On my way, but there's heavy traffic," said Hans.
"We'll make our way to you," said Stanislaus.
"Watch that craft, it's got more tricks," said Janos.
As if on cue, another beam of light shot out, this time aimed at the ground. An entire strip of urban sprawl went up in flames, including what appeared to be an AA battery. Wherever it traveled, nothing remained.
"Running out of moves here," said Olaf, a rising note of panic in his voice.
"Hold fast," said Hans.
Stanislaus found Olaf's plane in the chaos. It was weaving through a tight bit of airspace, with a trio of Messerschmitts close behind. He could see Olaf's predicament. Too far south and he'd be impossibly close to the flying fortress. Any attempt to climb or dive would leave him open to his pursuers. He was trapped, hoping to fly circles away from them.
His own intercept course was interrupted by a formation of Stukas, each still possessing their payload. He shot at them, his bullets igniting one of the payloads. Shreds of shrapnel tore through another two Stukas.
"Dammit, they hit me," said Hans.
"You alive old man?" said Andre.
"Alive, but my plane's got a few too many holes in it. I'm not going to reach Olaf in time."
Stanislaus saw the Messerschmitts closing in on Olaf. They were seconds away from having a bead on him. He willed his Spitfire to move faster, but the distance was too great. A splinter of light flew through the space that the Messerschmitts covered. It stopped at a point and erupted outwards, like spines of light. Through blinking eyes, Stanislaus saw the remains of the enemy fighters fall to the earth. The point of golden light zipped to another dogfight. Another eruption. It continued to flit from one conflict to another, as German planes rained down.
"That behemoth's nearly over London. We've got to find a weak spot," said Janos.
"I've got an idea," said Hadrien. "Get in formation."
The others agreed, moving to regroup. As he did so, Stanislaus saw the light fly by his window panel. It was a golden man, with a finned mask. His entire body raced with luminescence. The flying man shot his beams at the flying fortress, but whatever it was made of proved resistant to that as well. All it resulted in was another blue outburst.
The Blackhawks flew together. Stanislaus saw that even if the RAF was winning the overall battle, they were dangerously absent from the attack on the fortress. There was too much attrition in the space around it, so the pilots were growing wary of a frontal assault. This meant there was less to distract its gunners or escorts from their squadron.
"What's your plan Hadrien?" said Janos.
"That ship's got bomb bay doors," said Hadrien.
"And?" said Andre.
"I'm willing to bet that the interior isn't as tough as the exterior," said Hadrien.
Stanislaus could envision it already. A risky ploy. The amount of turrets on the belly of the craft showed that its designers anticipated such a vulnerability.
"It'll be near impossible to get a straight shot on it," said Olaf.
"Then we had best make it count," said Janos.
"Olaf, Hans and Andre will run a screen on incoming fighters. Stanislaus and Hadrien, you'll cover me while I go for the kill," said Janos.
"It won't be long once they open that the bombs start falling," said Andre.
"Even if it works that explosions got to be big," said Hadrien.
"No choice but through this," said Janos. "Blackhawks to battle!"
"Blackhawks to battle," the others shouted.
Stanislaus flew tight alongside Janos and Hadrien. The other three did their best to draw fire from the Butchers that remained. It was hard to stay out of the line of fire of the turrets. It took all of Stanislaus's skill to stay on target.
A ray of light swam past the Blackhawks as their defender skimmed the edge of the fortress. With a flick of his hands a bank of turrets exploded, glass and metal raining off of it.
"Not all hard points," said Hadrien.
"Here it is," said Janos. "Look alive."
The bottom of the craft shifted. Massive metal plates pressed out, then slid horizontally as the bomb bay doors opened up. The doors were angled to make it difficult to properly aim at the belly of the vessel. Any glancing hit would be as useless as all the others.
"I'm going to dive and swing up," said Janos.
"We've got you," said Stanislaus.
A spurt of blue light hit their golden ally, who plummeted downwards, caught in the haze of smoke and debris. No more help from him.
Stanislaus and Hadrien mimicked Jano's descent, careful to hang back enough that they could spot incoming threats.
"On our seven," said Hadrien.
A pair of Butcher Squadron fighters raced into view. The lead plane had a red maw marked around its propellers. Janos's plane wavered slightly from its path.
"von Tepp," Janos said.
The Butchers let loose a volley. Janos pivoted from his route, ducking into a harsh dive. Hadrien wasn't as quick. A line of bullets ripped through his wing and into the fuselage. Stanislaus suspected it had hit the cockpit, but his ally's plane stayed flying. Stanislaus fared better, though a few hits cut into his tail. He could tell from the immediate feedback in the joystick that his rudder was damaged.
"You alright Hadrien?" said Stanislaus.
"Still alive," he said. There was a strain in his voice that worried Stanislaus.
The shadow of the fortress was spreading over London. They were within a minute of whatever apocalyptic bombardment was aboard the craft.
"Captain? Can you complete the arc?" said Stanislaus.
"Not after that," said Janos, his plane already turning from their formation. "One of you needs to finish it."
"Captain…" said Stanislaus, but it was too late. The man was already gone, on the trail of von Tepp and his allies.
Stanislaus could see the bomb racks slot into place above. He thought of the boy in the ruined book shop, of all the people in the tunnels below. His joystick fought him with every course correction, his nose unwilling to tilt fast enough.
"Don't worry friend. I can handle it," said Hadrien.
Hadrien's Hawker was sloping up at a dangerous pace. He could practically see the bolts come loose as the wings shuddered from the forces exerted on them. Smoke churned out of the engine, obscuring the cockpit, as Hadrien outpaced Stanislaus upwards.
"What's going on over there?" said Andre. "Stanislaus?"
"Just about to wrap things up," said Hadrien.
Stanislaus might have said anything in those moments. Or nothing at all, a silent witness. All he knew for certain was that as Hadrien's plane careened into the bomb bay of that massive ship, time almost skipped for a moment. The explosion came late, as if it gave Stanislaus the courtesy of fully appreciating what was to happen here. The blast rocked the top of the cockpit, putting splintering cracks into it, as Stanislaus pushed downward, to avoid the unfurling flames. The explosions ran the length of the craft, spitting fire out of any and all openings. Blue light coursed out of one of the cannon openings before being replaced by the orange glow of the fire.
Stanislaus brought his Spitfire behind the fortress ship. Whoever piloted it was trying in vain to turn it, as the wings tilted right and the entire frame appeared to sag. Fire and smoke belched out of it. The armor that once defended it resolutely now appeared a prison as the craft held together externally, while the interior combusted into an all-consuming inferno. The fortress came down just off the coast, able to limp that far on the vain hope of survival or simple chance. The rear part of it grazed the beach, sending up a spray of sand and earth. The flames resisted the intervention of water, as the orange glow was swallowed by the waves.
"He died for all of us," said Andre, a glass held high. "A Blackhawk now and forever."
"For Hadrien," said Olaf.
"For Hadrien," they echoed.
Victory was a muted affair at their hangar. One by one the group excused themselves, content to find their respite in solitary pursuits. Stanislaus waited for Janos by the edge of the hangar doors. Their captain finally relented.
"A British officer came by earlier," said Janos.
"Oh?" said Stanislaus.
"They said in light of our performance today and in the weeks leading up to this, the RAF is willing to formally incorporate the Blackhawks into the command structure," said Janos.
"What did you say?" said Stanislaus.
"I told him to leave."
"Mhm."
"And that if they need us, they know where to reach us."
"Bold," said Stanislaus.
"I've been talking to Hans. He knows an island, in the Atlantic, used to be some aristocrats estate. He suggested we use it. As a base. Take Blake and the others and start out own operation."
"As what? Mercenaries again?"
"No. On the side of the Allies. But with the freedom to fight the war our way," said Janos. "I think we've been granted some leeway after today."
Stanislaus finished his drink.
"Did you get him?" said Stanislaus.
"Yes."
"Was it worth it?"
"Yes."
"Worth Hadrien?" said Stanislaus.
"I don't know… No," said Janos.
"I hope that's true captain. I really do," said Stanislaus.
There was nothing more to say. All that was left was two men under the stars and a war that they would make their own.