//------------------------------// // Cliffs of Dover // Story: The Ace // by Erstwhile Tail //------------------------------// September 20th, 1940 2:30 pm One of the many Airfields surrounding Dover, England John stared up at the clouds high above him as he laid on a lawn chair, nearby was what passed for a main shelter during stand by for days of rain, however today the clouds were nothing but white and fluffy. 'Must be nice,' Thought John,'to be a cloud, floating around with few problems...' John made a face, as he tried to think of problems that clouds had, and for the absolute love of him, he was unable to think of any. Being scared of heights, that was more ridiculous then a sailor who hated the color blue, what about storms... No you were part of the storm usually... After that, John had to admit that the 'life' of a cloud was a desired one. Wait, why was he thinking like this? John had never just sat and stared up of the clouds and thought of their problems before. But they didn't have wars, or husband clouds having drinking problems, or the cloud wife leaving with the cloud kids, or cloud politics... "Oh for Christ's sake!" John suddenly exclaimed. Sitting up, and throwing the newspaper out of his lap, the paper landed front page up, which read, 'SECOND BOMBING OF LONDON THIS MONTH, OVER A HUNDRED KILLED, EVEN MORE MISSING!'. John then heard Welsh and Scottish shouting. He turned to the other pilots and ground crew sitting around waiting to be called to duty, many were dozing, others reading or writing. One was drawing, which, if Johns memory was correct, was his 15th or 16th one this week. And it was only Tuesday... or maybe Wednesday. Someone had burned the calendar when throwing cigarette buds... better that then the barracks. Then, there was a loud smashing sound. Like a hammer on a wing. Everyone looked over to see what the commotion was and that's exactly what that was, William, being welsh, was in a shouting match, with a young, yet very experienced Scot, about the trim of the wings. The Scot, who John thought his name was, Donald, or... was it Douglas... they were identical twins after all. The Scottish Twin had a look of horror, as William hammered the end of the wings and made what he would usually call fine adjustments. Finally the Twin had enough, and somehow snatched the hammer out of Williams hand as he was bringing it back for another swing. William, not realizing this, smashed his hand against the wing. The swear that followed was heard in Japan. "BLOODY FUCK!" All the men near John began to snicker and chuckle. As William grabbed at the Twin, who darted out of the way. Anger and Hate replaced by fear and terror, as the much smaller, and younger Scott tried to outrun the Large angry Welshman. "Ten quid says that Donnie there not gonna have kids." Said Jimmy as he chuckled. "I'll take that bet," Replied David, "And I'll raise to 100 bucks... pounds... or quid... pence? 100 Unites, If Donnie has to pee out of a hole in his ass as well." The pilots all laughed as David and Jimmy shook on it. John rolled his eyes, about to go back to sleep, when a gunshot was heard, along with the high pitched yelp of a Teenage Scott. The pilots that were awake, and those who had been woken or gave 2 damns, all ran, some grabbing and cocking their pistols that they had all been trained to use. Running behind a repair hanger, they found William, smoking pistol in hand, one Scottish twin hand's on the pistol's barrel, the other Twin sitting against the hanger wall, legs parted, to avoid the bullet that had just missed his... important bits, the hole in the ground now smoking. "Donnie! Ye a'richt." Asked Douglas, the one holding the barrel of the gun, "Ye still heve ye baws?" Donald, evidently the one who had pissed off William, quickly checked to make sure all of him was there. Which given the fact only one shot was fired and there was no hole in him. Seemed likely. By then the pilots had left. Evidently not wanting to be seen as accessories to whatever punishment William was about to get from the Sargent Cock. Donald was helped to his feet by John, while David separated Douglas and William. The 2 still arguing in strong Scottish and Welsh Accents, no one understood what they were saying, but given the context they doubted it was poetry. Or Shakespeare, or a children's book. John took William aside, while David, being extremely strong, even by American standards, which was just higher than the British average. Just picked up the twins and threw them over his shoulders, the twins arguing on how to kill William, while the Yank was obviously questioning their whole plan of tying him to a bomb and dropping him on the first German Warship they saw. After several hours of negotiations, the Scottish twins were willing to drop the whole thing, if they had access to Williams special Locker. After William denied such terms, he was reminded of the fact he'd tried to shoot a fellow RAF member in the plums, he suddenly was very sharing with his locker. John sighed, looking outside, the whole morning was gone, and only the afternoon was left, the slowest part of the day. He was due for the evening patrol with Yankee and Camel. John checked his watch, 1:45pm. Perfect time for reading some For Whom The Bells Tolls a new Ernist Hemingway novel. Several Hours later, after being THOROUGHLY BORED with his novel. He decided to change the oil in his Spitfire. He removed the panels covering the engine, and set to work. He was trained how to repair and service his plane, not to mention he felt that he could rebuild it should the situation present itself. He was very happy getting his hands dirty, there was something about just disassembling, cleaning, and servicing that just brought him peace. On most of his days off he'd service one of the many machines on his property, from his car, to his motorcycle. He even was being paid by an old family friend to help restore his 1880s era steam traction engine, which was named Priest, as the old family friend was a clergymen. John, hummed to himself, grabbing a wrench of the table, and unfastened the bolts of the oil filter, the oil came out and into the oil pan. Once the oil had been drained, he cleaned the filter, reinserted it, then adjusted a few other things while he was at it. Including the torque of the plane's crank shaft. John reassembled the parts he'd removed, eventually putting the cover back on the engine. By now it was almost time for his patrol. He'd just gotten changed into his flight gear when Sargent Cock stopped him when he exited the barracks, "Patrols canceled, there's a severe Thunderstorm and Gale in progress. No way in hell anyone is getting into the air. You can go home lad." He waved him away and promptly left John. Who was a bit ticked that he'd had such short notice on this, but was grateful nonetheless. John put his flight goggles on. He primed the fuel ejectors, stood up, and kicked the starter motor. The engine roared to life, as John revved the tiny engine. He smiled, as he lowered his goggles, and turned on his headlight on the front of his bike. He put the bike in first, and motored past the Scotts who waved as they were cleaning the machine guns on a Hurricane. William ran up, and John slowed so that he could jump in the passenger sidecar, also getting his flight goggles on. As the rain began to fall, John rode his motorbike away, heading to the main road. John was staying at Williams house, as a Luftwaffe 109 fighter had crashed into his house... the irony was that he'd shot it down, while most of the things were salvageable, the structure was compromised, and was under repairs. The odds of it happening were astronomical, and the Twins sometimes joked about the supposed jinx of John's Spitfire. To which John would promptly tell them to shut up. The rain and wind felt like cold plunged daggers into the exposed skin. But John lived for this, the thrill of the speed in such dangerous conditions. A sudden spray of water from the front wheel of the motor bike blinded John for a second when he turned around a particularly sharp bend. Instinctively he braked, the back of the bike slid around hydroplaning on a large pool of water. "Oh Fuck me..." William said as he gripped the sides of the sidecar for dear life. The bike spinning around water splashing all over the places as the bike hydroplaned on the standing water, before John got it under control, with the reflexes and strength that he'd gained from being a RAF Pilot, he manage to get the bike under control, and continued on their way. Albeit, at a slower rate. Later that night, John, after helping put William's and Mary's, his wife, kids to bed. Which after stopping his two sons from thinking they were birds, and his toddler daughter from eating a Lug Nut, John was once again reminded of the joys of being a bachelor. John found William in the study, sketching something on his desk. As it was facing away from the door, William hadn't noticed John enter the room. John, looking over William's shoulder saw what looked to be a LMS 8F steam locomotive, one of the last designs that he and John helped to build before joining the RAF. Above the mighty British Locomotive was a Spitfire, and a Hurricane. William then sighed then got up and turned around, jumping at the sight of John being only inches from him. "Bloody hell... What do you think your up to!? Going to give me a heart-attack, you blithering idiot!" He said, laughing before giving John a nice shoulder pat, "Your sneaker than a bloody spy..." He raised an eyebrow, "You wish I was a spy, but unfortunately I'm your best friend." The 2 men laughed and cracked open a couple beers, and chatted over the next hour. Their conversation ranged from small talk, to cricket, taxes, politics, before inevitably settling on the war. "You think we'll get out of this?" John asked. William sat there, thinking, swirling his beer, before nodding, "Yeah, but I'm not sure at what cost to be frank. London seems to be bombed almost on a nightly basis now, I hear that they have doubled their watch guard." John nodded, "And is it worth it? I mean, the death toll doesn't seem to have gone the way we wanted." William gave a shrug, "To be fair, with this new fangled Radar combined with spotters on the sea and ground, I hear we've increased warning time from almost a minute, to nearly 5-10 Minutes. I mean, every minute counts. When lives are at stake." The 2 men, now having the mood dampened, got up from their seats after finished their beers in silence. William turned to John. "You should get some sleep, we're going up tomorrow." He then walked past John heading for the door of the study. John nodded, "Right, oh, and William" William looked back stopping in the doorway, "Hm?" "Thanks for putting me up for the next few weeks, I really appreciate it." "It wasn't your fault you shot down a Jerry right onto your house!" William said snickering. "You cheeky bastard." John said, "Better watch out or your shed will suddenly be housing a flaming hurricane." "Unless you drop it on your house." William said. Both men stood in silence, before laughing, their friendship's roots strong as ever. As the rain and thunder sounded outside, the 2 men said their good nights, before going to their respective rooms. As John laid in his bed, he listened to the rain outside, the thunder and lighting would have fascinated and captivated anyone, but John had flown through who knows how many types of weather. He'd flown through storm after storm, a Typhoon, not to mention that gale during his flight training. He'd known a another trainee died after the bi-plane they used to train in was caught in a gust and flipped over on landing, there was no chance of survival but somehow the trainer survived, his name was Jeremy or perhaps Jezza? He'd only known him for a few days, and that was almost 2 years ago. John only got close to a few pilots that were experienced, so that he didn't feel as guilty when a pilot got shot down, injured or killed. Mainly the American volunteers, true, David was an amazing pilot and had almost an ace's worth of kills in only a few dozen missions, mostly patrols of the coast. There were few American Pilots in the RAF that were experienced enough to be effective. As the Americans had few pilots who had decent combat experience, and fewer who would volunteer to join the RAF. John wondered if they really could hold their own against the Luftwaffe, Germany's air force. And how bad would a ground invasion be? Had the Brits, a world Superpower, finally bitten off more than it could chew? These thoughts with many others were running through John's head as he drifted off to sleep. Pondering about the future of the World, and what the Nazis would do, if they took all of Europe, which by the looks of it was extremely likely, what chance would the rest of the world have at pushing them back? Would they even attempt if they had the resources of a whole continent and a decent chunk of Africa at their disposal. John tried to shake the thoughts from his head, before he gave up and settled in for the night, turning out the light and pulling up the covers of his bed. As he laid in bed, slowly winding down into sleep, he remembered during the days of the French offensive, the last ditch effort of the French to turn the Germans back before they took Paris, whenever there was a storm that was strong enough to ground the planes, the Germans would always come in as a kind of second wave utilizing the storm as a kind of cover. John after hearing the stories and reading what few declassified reports he could, and what he's seen in the papers, had an unsettling feeling deep in his gut, that this next air raid would be one hell of a doozy. However, he knew that the Luftwaffe had changed tactics recently, about 2 weeks ago, on the 7th of September they diverted the majority of their attention from the airfields, to London and other major cities, along the south east coast of Britain. This had allowed the pilots and ground crew to properly repair and service their aircrafts, and their airfields. Allowing them to have breathing room. But, would it last? is this the new calm before a worse storm? Is this a precursor to something larger, perhaps a land invasion, perhaps... defeat for the British Isles? With that settling thought in his head, he finally drifted off to sleep. John's dream was, odd, to say the lease, he was in his Spitfire, the controls were slow and poor to respond, a glance in the rearview mirror saw him trailing smoke and fuel. With a Jerry on his tail. But that wasn't the odd part, in fact he'd had this dream several times. The location was never usually the same location, sometimes it was over London, sometimes it was over Dunkirk and the cliffs of Dover, and once, though he'd never been himself, New York City, through he was however unsure on where exactly in the city as he'd himself had never traveled there, though he'd wanted to. Recently however his mind had decided on the English channel, off the coasts of the cliffs of Dover was an ideal place to be put in a hopeless situation. Oh how he loved the stresses of war. But this time, he wasn't over the Cliffs of Dover, in fact, he wasn't sure on where the hell he was, there was cloud cover, enough so he could see bits and pieces of the ground, but too much to piece together land marks. As bullets dinged off the fuselage of the mighty machine that was the Spitfire. He rolled inverted and pulled back on the stick, forcing the plane into a dive, the BF-109 sticking onto him like glue, the 2 warbirds tore into the cloudbank. Both losing sight of each other, both were blind. Three seconds past, then Five. Six. Seven. John's Spitfire burst through the bottom of the cloud bank only to see... a cloud city? With flying creatures, that at the speed John was going to fast to make out exactly what the creatures were... they looked too... equine. But before John could make anything else out, there was an explosion, at first, John through it was him, before... William's flaming wreck that used to be his plane, John could still see him, writhing in his cockpit still alive, burning. John screamed, unable to do anything for his friend, but watch. His friend's plane, the mighty war machine, tear apart and disappear behind a lower cloud bank. John stared, before being jerked back to reality as his plane was being sprinkled with a stream of led from the same 109, John pushed the stick to the left to roll, nothing happened. He tried the right, nothing. He looked to the aileron flaps, they were not responding, neither were the rudder or elevators on the tail of the plane. John couldn't even fire the machine guns, he desperately tried to open the canopy, but that wouldn't open either. He punches the glass, desperately, as the plane starts to stall, the engine having taken several direct hits, finally cut out. The ground, dotted with small houses with thatched roofs, with more equine like creatures. He looked at the front of the plane, and saw the ground rushing up to him, he raised his arms in a pointless block, and just as the plane hit the ground. He stopped. He cracked open an eye, and saw what had stopped him. There was a glow around the plane, and an odd harmonic sound, like lots of tiny windchimes blowing in a soft breeze all at once. It was difficult to describe, then a shadow formed into a horse, with wings and a unicorn horn. Her eyes were huge, curious and caring, she smiled. John only blinked in a mix of confusion and surprise. What was this place, and what the hell was going on? "The gate has opened" The equine said. The voice was feminine, and had a soothing, but firm voice, like a caring sister who is trying to steer a younger child from doing something, really, really stupid without upsetting them. John tried to open his mouth, but before he could, the Equines horn began to shine brighter, John shielded his face with his hands and arms. There was a intense tingling feeling all around him, not quite like pins and needles, but pleasant. John felt something wrap around his body, like a thin blanket, then he wasn't in the Spitfire cockpit, but back in his bed. He sat bolt upright, sweating. The events of his dream, especially the beginning played in his mind. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, seeing he'd been asleep for a good 6 or 7 hours, the rain was still coming down, though much lighter, and the lightning and thunder was fewer and less intense. John then noticed the notepad and pencil on the nightstand. He never bragged but he was a decent artist, he could make art where it counted. He grabbed the pencil and notepad, drawing the Equine. He began with her head, the big curious eyes, her horn. The crown in her hair that he'd only just remembered. The way her mane seemed to blow in some unseen breeze, and how there seemed to be stars in her mane, the night sky it occurred to him. An hour later, John was staring at the drawing, the Equine. He had signed and titled the sketch, he labeled it the 'Dream walker". He probably would have kept staring at it, had William not knocked on the open door, John looked up. "Hey breakfast is ready, hope you like eggs." He said, John nodded, then William left the way he'd came. John had quickly freshened up, and gotten dressed. He was walking down the stairs, and as he reached the bottom of the stairs onto the ground floor, he had failed to notice the ball on the ground in the hallway, stepped on it, and it slid out from under him, causing him to fall backwards. He fell on his back, hitting the wooden floor hard. John pried open his eyes, seeing William staring down at him, with one of his sons, Edward, or was it Tommy, John could never keep the 2 boys straight. "I swear you can't even walk down the hall without getting downed." William chuckled. "Yeah, yeah get it out of your system" John groaned as he was helped up by William, rubbing the back of his head, he knew that there would be a large sore there sooner or later. The breakfast, made by Mary, was as always the absolute best. Mary was one of the best cooks John had ever had the pleasure of eating from. Not that his list of said cooks was a long one, but hands down, she was the best of the ones he'd eaten from. This breakfast, was a new one, and omelet with some cheese and bacon in it. It was absolutely spiffing. The bacon added the right amount of flare that the previous versions of the breakfast had been missing. "Mary, you've done it again, you need to open a restaurant I swear to God." John complimented her. "Thanks John, it only took me a couple months to perfect. William will attest to that," She said glancing to William, who turned a bit green at the thought of the failures that paved the way for this success, "Any feedback on your part?" "If anything, more of it." William said giving out a massive chuckle. Mary rolled up her sleeves and began to clean up the dishes she'd used in preparation of the fantastic meal. Their kids, the rain still coming down outside, the thunder and lightning having subsiding except for in the distance, were stuck inside, and were arguing over who got to be the captain of their imaginary ship, the HMS Chicken, no that isn't a joke, but kids will be kids. No matter how... dimwitted they may be. Perhaps he errored in putting off getting into a relationship, maybe it was time he started a family, settled down, passed on his knowledge before he kicked the bucket, after the war of course, whether that ended with the Jerries flying the Nazi flag above Buckingham palace, or the Brits giving their asses a good hiding, hopefully the second one, as John was unsure if the world would be worth living in if they lose the war. "You boys going up today?" John snapped out of his sad, and darkened thoughts, "um, beg pardon?" "Are you 2 going up today" Mary asked for a second time. John nodded, "Yeah seeing how the storm seems to have quieted down, I'd say that the Jerries are on their way, probably to catch us off guard." "I was afraid you'd say that..." William replied, "I was hoping to just take the day off, guess we have a bloody war to fight. Let's hope it will take a while before the Germans decide to bomb us..." There was a pounding on the front door, William got up, and walked to the door, seeing who it was in the adjacent window. "Looks like the RAF is going to strike us first!" he called back before opening the door. Mary and John, strained to listen to what William and whoever was from the RAF were talking about from the tone they figured it was nothing good. They found out soon enough. William, rushed back in, worry spread on his face, "We've just had several civilian boats give warning of over 100 planes flying over the English channel. We're being scrambled. They'll be here in less then half an hour." He said hastily, giving a kiss to his wife, before grabbing his flight jacket, John grabbing his as well. William, hugged his children, saying he will return. John felt a pang of sadness at this, though he couldn't figure out why. He pushed the thought out of his mind, there would be time for that later, he knew that there was a whole armada of planes on their way, with God knows how many tons of bombs they are ready to drop on civilians and military targets, as bombs don't discriminate. The 2 men ran out the front door, the officer getting into his Land Rover, he looked back, calling out as he drove off, probably back to the airfield or another house, "Give 'em hell lads!" John noted how he didn't recognize the 2 men, maybe from another shift or something. John, with speed and experience, quickly primed and started the motorbike, quickly starting and giving it a rev, William scrambled into the side car. John, gave the throttle a boot-full, by the time they got onto the road, he was about to shift into third gear. They tore down the road, John's Ariel Red Hunter tore down, turning the fuel into speed and power. They tore down the road at speeds that would rival any of the newer streamlined express locomotives that came around in recent years, at one point they were touching 90 going down the hill. John admittedly had fine tuned the Motorcycle, allowing it's top speed to increase from 87 to about 105 and from 500cc engine, too an modest 775cc engine. William, normally hated the speeds that they were doing, especially in the rain, and through the rolling hills of dover, was keeping his fear to himself, at times telling John to not stop when they came to a intersection, all while keeping his eyes on the sky, scanning for the dreaded sight of a German plane high above them ready to pounce on the people of Britain. But they would have another thing coming if the plucky Brits and the RAF had anything to say about it. The white cliffs of Dover, were about to be stained red and set ablaze by the coming aerial assault, that would end for some like no other.