Heart in the Clouds: On Victory's Wings, #1

Chapter One

Above Frankfurt

26 October 1942, 12:45 a.m.

Two and a half minutes.

That was how long Flight Sergeant Alec Thomas held his aircraft steady in enemy searchlights. Not just one light either. Three searchlights locked on to him just as he opened the bomb bay doors of his Avro Lancaster. All he could do was hold the aircraft steady while Jimmy Hardie, the bomb aimer lying in the nose of the rumbling aircraft, dropped their payload. Every gun on the ground and every fighter defending the sky above Frankfurt focused attention on Alec’s aircraft for those agonizing minutes.

The longest two and a half minutes of his life.

Bombs gone. Hardie’s voice came over the intercom.

Alec didn’t wait to check if they’d hit their target. He pulled the plane into a corkscrew—diving, banking, and changing altitude, an evasive maneuver to shake the searchlights.

Lighter now that it wasn’t laden with explosives, Alec could control the aircraft more easily through the flashes in the sky from the antiaircraft fire. The drone of the engines drowned out any sound the flak made. If not for the smell of cordite hanging in the air, he might enjoy the light show.

That was one thing he hadn’t been prepared for when he’d enlisted in the Royal Australian Air Force. That from above, a whole city burning looked quite beautiful—if you could forget the horror happening on the ground.

He rarely could.

Alec managed to dodge the lights, but a fighter had already locked on to the aircraft.

With orders not to waste ammunition, the gunners—three in all, now that Hardie had done his job aiming and could use the guns in the nose turret—were only meant to fire as a last resort. But this fighter was as persistent as a mosquito in summer. Skillful flying didn’t shake him.

The sound of guns rattled through Alec’s headgear, and the smell of explosives reached the cockpit. Rear Gunner to Skipper—we got him.

He leveled out the aircraft, letting his heart rate recover from the perverse thrill of the chase. Skipper to Navigator—what’s the course?

Up here, they only addressed each other by their roles. They hardly ever used their names. Apart from it being the protocol hammered into them during training, it helped to think of themselves as part of the machine. It wasn’t far from the truth anyway, Alec thought. They were plugged into a mechanical monster, dependent on it for communication, oxygen, and heat in the subzero sky. The aircraft united them so they could serve it to Hitler, flying as one being with one purpose, across occupied territory and into enemy airspace night after long, cold, lonely night.

He stayed on edge, watching for enemy fighters, as he guided the aircraft northwest over Holland and the English Channel. A full Bomber’s Moon hung silver in the sky, reflecting off the inky water below and lighting their way until Alec spotted the beacons that told them they were above England now.

Another one over, chaps. Alec touched down on the barely lit runway of their Royal Air Force station in Lincolnshire, England.

He switched off the intercom and powered down the engines, which closed down into silence, or more accurately, absence, as his body stopped vibrating from the noise. He disconnected the oxygen supply and intercom and jumped down from the aircraft while the ground crew took control of the plane.

He’d done this postop routine many times before—twenty-one times, to be precise. A number to be proud of considering the fifty-fifty odds facing him each night.

The seven of them caught a ride on the transport wagon back to the kit room. The Women’s Auxiliary Airforce corporal collecting their flight suits grinned at them.

Welcome home, boys.

The WAAFs performed every non-flying duty imaginable on an air station like this. Unlike some men he knew, Alec didn’t mind the female presence, especially when it met him with a smile at the end of an operation. That smile meant he’d survived.

Together, they headed to the locker room to peel off the layers of excess clothing. Sleep called, but he couldn’t head to bed just yet. He was too hungry, with too much adrenaline still in his veins and too many postop rituals to complete. First there was the cup of rum-laced tea to warm them. The station chaplain—Padre, they called him—spoke with them while they drank it. Alec had little to say but accepted the chaplain’s prayers. He happily grasped at any straw that might keep him alive in the sky.

Then an intelligence officer sat the crew down and peppered them with questions about the operation. Did they hit their target? What guns fired as they flew over occupied territory, and where? What were the time and coordinates of aircraft they saw go down? What else did they see? At least, answering these questions now meant he didn’t have to write up a report later.

By the time this was all done, Alec was well and truly starving. He made a beeline for the mess and ate in silence amid the familiar clatter of the room, until the hot meal thawed him out.

He slunk toward his dormitory just as the first gray light of dawn stole in. The adrenaline was long gone, and fatigue made every limb heavy. But before his head could hit the pillow, he took out his logbook and a red-ink pen. After filling out the details of the aircraft and crew, he wrote in the duty column, OPS—FRANKFURT (coned in searchlights for 2 1/2 mins). Then he wrote 22 and circled it.

His twenty-second mission. If he survived eight more, he’d have finished his tour and could, perhaps, go home.

Survival wasn’t statistically likely.

But he got through tonight. That was a sweet enough dream for now.

The Vicarage, St. John’s Church, Kenilworth, England

20 November 1942

8:02 a.m.

So many kisses.

Not the passionate kind. The well-meaning, peck-on-the-cheek kind.

Maggie supposed grief did strange things to people. To the parishioners of Kenilworth, Warwickshire, grief at the sudden death of their beloved vicar’s wife made them want to embrace and kiss her daughter. She couldn’t explain their lack of reserve. Where was the famous British stiff upper lip when she really wanted it?

She frowned at herself in the mirror as she fidgeted with the corner of an embroidered cloth on her dressing table. In the reflection, she saw her childhood room behind her. A simple, modestly sized wardrobe sat in front of pale wallpaper flecked with a small floral pattern. Neat quilts, knitted pillows, and even the teddy with a missing eye she’d had since she was four adorned the comfortable bed.

For the past three and a half weeks since the funeral, it was a luxury to sleep on those soft pillows. After today, she would be back to the hard straw mattress and scratchy blue blankets in the WAAF sleeping quarters of a Lincolnshire RAF station.

Hurry up, Maggie! Breakfast is getting cold!

Maggie shook her head to clear it. How long had she been sitting here staring, unaware of the passing time? It wasn’t like her to be so still for so long. But then, grief did do strange things to people.

You don’t need to shout! Maggie shouted back down the hall to her sister. It was their private joke from childhood, when they were constantly chided by their mother about their noise and lack of propriety.

Their mother. The one they’d never see again. Not in this world anyway.

Her father’s firmly closed study door rebuked her as she passed it on the way to the dining room. She would have to work up the courage to knock before she left.

Do you really have to go back? Rosie slumped in her seat at the breakfast table as Maggie took a bite of national loaf. She’d coated it with margarine and enough of Mrs. Bickham’s apricot jam to make it palatable.

You know I do. The war didn’t stop when Mother died.

No, but Father did.

Poor Rosie had been the one to find their mother sitting in her usual chair with her Bible in her lap. At first she’d thought Mother was reading, but when she didn’t reply to Rosie’s cheerful greeting, the sixteen-year-old had realized something was wrong.

Her heart, the doctor said. Probably an underlying weakness that no one had known about.

Be kind to him, won’t you? Maggie glanced down the hallway toward the closed study door. He’s hurting.

Rosie nodded, but her frown deepened. In the past few weeks, their father had distanced himself from them. After the funeral he disappeared into his study, leaving Maggie and Rosie, along with their housekeeper, Mrs. Bickham, to receive the steady stream of callers paying their respects. If Maggie transcribed the entirety of the conversations she’d shared with him in her weeks at home, the words would fit neatly onto one foolscap page.

Maggie’s finger rapped on the breakfast table as she considered what she would say to him now.

Will you be all right? Rosie asked.

Once I get back to the aerodrome, I’ll be busy. Grace said the new squadron has arrived, so I’ll have no time to think about anything else. Maggie could see her sister was bursting with questions, but she had already said too much to Rosie. Now don’t ask me anything else about my job—you know I can’t say!

She stood, smoothing down her uniform, as if it would steel her to speak with her father, just as Mrs. Bickham walked into the room. Round and warm and lovely as usual.

Oh, you do look lovely in that uniform, my girl. How it makes your blue eyes shine! And your hair all done up like that suits you so well.

Maggie reached up to touch the braids tied at the back of her head. She much preferred to curl it and wear it out, trying hopelessly to imitate Greer Garson. But plaiting her dead-straight locks and pinning them in a dark clump behind her head was much more practical, even if it did make her look closer to Rosie’s sixteen years than to her own twenty.

I have to keep it up off my collar. It came out like the apology it was.

Let me get one last look at you. Mrs. Bickham held her at arm’s length, her hands clamped on Maggie’s upper arms. You’re a brave girl, Maggie Morrison. You remember everything that your mother ever told you, and don’t go getting into any trouble with those Brylcreem Boys.

"Any more trouble, you mean?" Rosie piped up from the breakfast table.

Maggie shot her a glare.

We all have to have our heart broken once. Mrs. Bickham smiled. But once is enough, mind.

Maggie broke away. I should say goodbye to Father.

She knocked and waited for his answer before she entered his dark-paneled study, feeling like a four-year-old about to be scolded. Even though it was early, he was already at his desk reading. Her father had a broad range of literary interests, but this morning he had several of what looked like Spurgeon’s sermons open on the desk. His face looked gaunt and ghostly in the light from his desk lamp.

No hint of a smile in his eyes, he glanced up briefly, registering her blue uniform before returning to his work.

You haven’t changed your mind, I see. He fixed his eyes on the page.

No. This is what I signed up for.

Well then. You’ve made your choice. Goodbye.

His cold and final words were like a slap in the face. She couldn’t even plead with him for compassion, because he wouldn’t lift his gaze from his desk. She swallowed to stop the prickling tears from fully forming.

Goodbye, Father, she whispered.

Mrs. Bickham gave her an apologetic look when Maggie returned to the breakfast table. Have you got something to keep your hands busy?

Her sister and Mrs. Bickham were some of the few people who knew the strategies Maggie had honed to keep anxiety at bay. Even now, living as she did in a dormitory full of strangers, she was able to disguise that she sometimes felt the irrational beast of panic clawing at her chest.

Knitting was her mother’s idea originally. To keep your hands busy and give you something to focus on. Maggie and Rosie had spent a good deal of the last week unraveling cardigans and vests. Some old things of Father’s and one or two of Mother’s less fashionable items that they couldn’t bring themselves to wear were sacrificed into the multicolored balls of yarn that Maggie stuffed into her bag.

I’ll be fine. Really, I will, she said as she hugged them both. Maggie hoped she was right.

Chapter Two

The Savoy Hotel, London, England

20 November 1942, 1:00 p.m.

Sipping her hot tea, with a double-tiered plate of petit fours in front of her, Maggie let the cares of the last few weeks slip away.

These are so pretty—it’s a shame to eat them. But it won’t stop me. Maggie grinned as she popped an intricately decorated cake into her mouth and savored its rich sweetness.

Her dearest friend, Grace Deroy, sat opposite her. Two years older than Maggie, Grace had already completed most of an art history degree at Oxford when she’d enlisted in the WAAF. They’d only met during training, but Grace was the kind of friend who had walked into Maggie’s life and made her feel as though Grace had always been a part of it.

It was Grace’s idea for Maggie to travel back to the aerodrome via London. Maggie insisted that it didn’t make sense to go so far out of her way, but Grace was adamant Maggie needed cheering up. Maggie had hesitated. Grace hailed from one of the wealthiest families in the country, so she never thought twice about mundane things like wasting money on extra train fare. However, Grace had met Maggie at Charing Cross station and whisked her straight to the tea room at The Savoy.

It’s a jolly surprise to bring me here, Maggie said. Do you think we’ll see any film stars? She glanced around the opulent space, trying not to look like she was gawking. She loved the cinema and relished the thought a real star might be somewhere close by.

Well, the surprises don’t end there. Grace grinned. Father booked us a room here for the night.

He didn’t! Maggie widened her eyes in disbelief.

He’s at some sort of a meeting and won’t even be able to meet us for dinner. Grace’s eyes sparkled. I’ve got the whole afternoon and evening planned.

Never had Maggie thought she would be able to stay even one night in the same hotel where film stars and even royalty stayed. She could never afford this kind of luxury, no matter how much she yearned for it.

I can read your mind, but you mustn’t worry. Grace interrupted Maggie’s racing thoughts. I’m treating you to a glamorous little London adventure before we get back to that mud at the aerodrome. Now eat up, Corporal. That’s an order! Grace called over the smartly suited waiter to order another pot of tea.

So what have I missed while I’ve been away? Maggie’s eyes swept over the tiny treats as she made her next selection.

Grace prattled on for a few minutes about the new Australian squadron at work and how interesting it was to meet airmen from far-flung places. Apparently the new squadron included airmen from New Zealand, Canada, and Rhodesia. But they’d been greeted by truly abysmal English weather, and according to Grace, that made them all tetchy.

They’re bored, but the sky just won’t clear for them. They aren’t bad company though, and several are very handsome!

Grace Deroy! Maggie chided playfully.

Oh, I wasn’t thinking for myself! I thought another romance would cheer you up.

Maggie laughed. I’m no good-time girl, Grace. And neither are you, for that matter. Besides, you know how terribly things ended with Ralph.

Yes, but surely one kiss wouldn’t hurt? I mean, what a wonderful distraction! Grace teased.

No, I’ve now sworn off airmen for the duration.

When their giggles subsided, Grace asked, Did you write to Ralph about your mother?

Maggie nodded. He didn’t reply. She glanced at her hands to avoid Grace’s sympathetic look.

He was a coward to break it off in a letter.

A few months ago, Maggie would have defended him with every breath in her body. Grace had never liked Ralph Archer, said he was all bluster and show, only after one thing. She’d told Maggie directly that a man who flirted with other women when the girl he was stepping out with wasn’t in the room was bad news. But Maggie insisted he was no philanderer, just the outgoing, charismatic sort who couldn’t help the attention he got from women. She’d kept telling herself that, even when he’d been posted to a new air station and the letters trickled to nothing.

Maggie shrugged. Poor form, but not cowardice. Her fingers twitched, with a sudden urge to reach for knitting needles, so she changed the subject. So what does our afternoon hold?

Grace explained her plan. Her pleasure at seeing Maggie’s jaw drop when she told her they had an appointment at a hair salon on The Strand showed in her grin.

You look like Gene Tierney with your hair set that way! Grace complimented Maggie as they looked at their reflections after visiting the coiffeuse.

The hairdresser’s magic fingers had coaxed Maggie’s dark-brown hair into curls and an elegant roll at her temple. Still off the collar and able to accommodate her cap, but this time with more glamour than practicality.

Hardly, Maggie said, but she was still pleased with the woman staring back at her from the mirror. Her face had been quite plump before the war, but it had slimmed down like everyone else’s had in the last few years, making her look more sophisticated.

If her mother knew how much Maggie enjoyed the compliments about her looks, she would roll in her grave. A strange feeling passed over Maggie, a dull ache at the idea her mother would never again scold her for her vanity.

Grace put her hand on Maggie’s forearm. Maggie tried to force the corners of her mouth up, but with a friend like Grace, she didn’t need to pretend.

She’s in a place with no more pain and no more tears. That’s got to count for something during this blasted war, doesn’t it? Grace said softly. Now, lipstick.

Grace passed a deep burgundy crayon for Maggie to apply. Living with her parents, Maggie was never allowed to go near makeup. Grace had introduced her to the idea. Maggie still remembered the first time she’d worn it.

Do you mean to tell me that you’ve never worn lipstick before? Grace’s incredulous expression had been reflected back in the mirrors that they had shared with so many others in the bathrooms of the barracks during WAAF training.

My mother said I was vain enough without it, Maggie had mumbled.

Grace had given a wry smile. It’s not vain to draw attention away from these awful, thick stockings. It’s simply humane.

Now, two and a half years on, Maggie outlined her lips with expert precision, handed the crayon back to her friend, and watched her apply it. Grace by name, graceful by nature. Grace was blessed with the type of tall and elegant figure that not even the clunky WAAF uniform could fail to flatter, and her honey-colored hair always did exactly what she asked it to even without the help of a professional.

When they stepped back on The Strand, a man in air force blue whistled. Maggie thrilled at being admired by a stranger, but she held her chin high and tried not to look delighted. She was sure Gene Tierney, had she been here, would do the very same thing.

Outside Australia House, The Strand, London

20 November 1942, 4:25 p.m.

So what’s our poison tonight, gentlemen? Jimmy Hardie turned to face the group and walked backward a few steps. Booze, cards, or loose women?

Jimmy waggled his eyebrows until Al Graves gave him the answer he so clearly wanted. All three if we can manage it.

But can either of you afford any of those things? Alec draped his arms across their shoulders and leaned his face between theirs, hoping to move the conversation on. I thought I just cleaned you both out.

They had just left the billiards table at the Boomerang Club for Australian servicemen, and Alec’s pockets were full of their money.

You can shout, Thomas, Davis chimed in. Since you are the one with the promotion.

Not yet, Alec said.

It was just the suggestion of a promotion, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted it. What he wanted was to get the final eight ops of this tour done before his luck ran out, and never risk his neck flying over enemy territory again. But his possible promotion was the reason they were picking their way through the bombed-out streets of London and not the muddy airfields of Lincolnshire. He’d earned the crew a transfer to a new squadron and three days’ leave between postings.

Less than a week ago he’d been called into his wing commander’s office and told the news. The top brass were forming a new and mostly Australian squadron.

There’s a whole lot of new blood coming in too, of course, but they also need more experienced crews, which aren’t as easy to come by as we’d like them to be. You and your crew are being transferred to Bottesford, his commanding officer had said.

Alec had protested. He liked the idea of having Australian commanding officers, but changing to a newly formed squadron, even a RAAF one, would mean slowing down the number of operational sorties he flew while the new crews got up to speed.

Sir, I’m so close to the end of my tour. I don’t want to be transferred to babysitting duty, he’d said.

If I wanted you to babysit, Thomas, I’d have sent you to be a tutor at a training unit. You’re going to lead by example. I’m recommending you for a commission too, so try not to make me regret this. He’d been dismissed before he’d had a chance to say anything more.

Why don’t you want a commission, Alec? Jonty Ables asked in his rich Edinburgh accent.

The question brought Alec out of his memory and back to the present.

Don’t you want us all to salute every time we see you?

Well, with you, I would insist on it, Ables, he said.

Joking was easier than thinking it through. There were plenty of perks to being an officer, but his focus was on surviving this tour.

Eight more ops.

They’d been lucky so far. He didn’t want to risk change in case it threw off the delicate streak of luck they enjoyed as a crew.

Months ago, fresh from a conversion unit where they’d been upgrading their flying skills, the assessors had tossed the seven of them into a room to see if they could put up with each other long enough to complete a few simple tasks. Since then, they’d enjoyed the military privilege of eating, sleeping, living, and working in one another’s company all day every day. Brothers in arms. Changing something might end their lucky streak.

They headed west along The Strand, carefully skirting the craters opened by German bombs during their blitzkrieg and the sandbags lining the streets, reinforcing the buildings. He hadn’t seen London before the war. Others claimed it was a glorious city, but he found it difficult to picture the streets in a better time, a sky without huge gray barrage balloons defending it. Not without a lot of imagination.

It’s getting dark. Soon we won’t be able to see a thing. I vote we head to the dance hall, Jonty said. Then it’s every man for himself.

Jonty prattled on, provoking the others into speculating about the girls they would meet. He reminded Alec of a puppy bounding at the heels of its owner. Jonty’s enthusiasm never waned. Alec and the others had had trouble understanding Jonty’s accent through the intercom on their first few ops. But he talked enough that they’d soon learned to grasp it.

When they were in the air, Jonty had the loneliest job of them all. Positioned in the tail of the aircraft, far away from the rest of the crew, he was the one most likely to cop a German bullet during an operation. But his irrepressible attitude to life in the face of that meant Alec forgave him for his relentless, unnecessary chatter.

"I just