CHAPTER EIGHT
January 1941
By the start of the new year, death was everywhere. Oliver had been shot down over the outskirts of London just after the first of January, and John Stephens had plunged into the English Channel after taking down three enemy Messerschmitt Bf 109s. Still, Thomas kept fighting. He was feeling more and more at home in the cockpit; the Spit had become almost like an extension of himself. He didn’t even have to think about how to get it to do his bidding anymore; it bobbed and wove with the slightest tick of the column. And even though the logical part of his brain reminded him that he could die at any moment, he felt invincible soaring through the heavens, at one with the bright blue sky.
The condolence letter home to Oliver’s mother would be difficult, and as Thomas sat down to write it late one night at the base in South Wales where they had been stationed since late summer, he couldn’t help but think of his own mother. He owed her a visit, but he hadn’t been granted leave in quite a while. It was an all-men-on-deck situation. Nearly every night since early September, the Luftwaffe had bombed London. The city was burning, people were dying, and it was up to the RAF to put a stop to it. Some nights, it felt impossible. Other times, Thomas looked down at London below and marveled at the way the churches and monuments still stood tall, thumbing their noses at the Germans.
Thomas’s mother still lived there, not far from St. Paul’s Cathedral, and despite the fact that the bombings were continuous, she was insistent upon staying put. This is my home, Thomas, she’d written in her last letter. If I let the Germans force me to leave, they’ve won, haven’t they?
He had replied right away, reminding her that the Germans would also win if they managed to take her life. Won’t you consider departing for a time, Mother? he’d asked. Harry’s aunt Cecilia in Loughton would love to have you stay for as long as you’d like. I’m certain I can take a few days’ leave to help you get settled. But he hadn’t received a reply, and now, as he began to write the letter honoring Oliver’s life, he tried not to think about what it would be like for his own mother to receive such a note one day. After all, they had only each other; his father had died when Thomas was a boy, and there was no other family to speak of.
Dear Mrs. Smith, he began. As you may know, Oliver and I were friends since the first day we met at Desford. He had a special way about him, a talent for making the fellows double over with laughter. Now, though we still try to maintain some sort of levity, if only to save ourselves from succumbing to fear and sadness, it’s simply not the same. Oliver died a hero. As you must know by now, he shot down two German planes near London on the very night he died. Your son saved dozens, if not hundreds, of lives. It’s little consolation, but—
Thomas had just paused, considering exactly how to frame his words of comfort, when there was a loud knocking. He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. A knot in his stomach, he set down the pen and walked to the door.
“Clarke.” It was Thomas’s CO, his expression weary.
“Sir? Has something happened?”
The CO hesitated for a moment. “It’s your mother, Clarke.”
Thomas’s vision went blurry for an instant. “My mother, sir?”
“Her home was hit,” the CO said, not quite meeting Thomas’s eye. “She didn’t make it. I’ve just received confirmation.”
Thomas’s mouth went dry. “Sir, you’re saying—”
“She died, Clarke. I’m very sorry.”
“No, no, that can’t be.” How many flights had he flown over London? How many plots had he chased off, how many planes had he downed? He had fooled himself into thinking that he could keep his mother safe. After all, there were signs that the RAF was regaining control of the British skies. And every time he soared over the city where he’d been born and raised, every time he saw the dome of St. Paul’s, he imagined that he could see his childhood home below the smoke and clouds. “When?” he asked. “I thought there hadn’t been a major attack since the twenty-ninth of December.”
That was the night the Nazis had dropped more than one hundred thousand bombs on London, pummeling the city’s heart.
His CO hesitated. “She was injured that very night, Clarke. Apparently, her home was hit directly. It took rescuers a long time to sift through the rubble, and she was barely alive when they found her. She never woke up, and it took some time to identify her.”
Thomas wanted to scream, but he was paralyzed. “Do you know—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you know exactly when she died, sir?” What good was he doing in the cockpit if he was powerless to save the person he cared most about in the world?
“Six days ago. I’m very sorry.”
Six days. Six days when he’d been worrying about Oliver’s family. Six days when he’d smiled and laughed and believed everything was normal. She’d been gone that whole time, and he hadn’t felt it. Somehow, this was as hard to bear as the death itself.
“Clarke, you’ll need to take care of arrangements,” the CO said after the silence grew heavy and thick. “I will plan for you to have a few days’ leave.”
“But I should be here. Who will stop the Nazis?”
The CO cracked a tired smile. “There’s a whole squadron of men out there trying to do just that. And many other squadrons across Britain, Clarke. We’ll make it without you for a day or two.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You must.” The CO’s smile faded. “I’m led to believe you’re her only kin.”
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t until that moment that Thomas realized how very true those words were. He was alone in the world now.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, sir.” Thomas could barely hear his own voice over the rushing sound in his ears. He longed to look into his mother’s eyes, to see her bright smile, to feel her thin, fragile arms around him once more. He could remember her patiently teaching him to read, walking him to his first day of school, smiling as she proudly served a roast for just the two of them nearly every Sunday afternoon of his boyhood. He could see the worry in her eyes the day he told her he was joining the RAF, but also the pride. Be well and safe, Thomas, she had said, cupping her small, worn hands on either side of his face. Just come home to me.
As his CO bid him good night and Thomas closed the door, he realized there was no one else in the world to wait for him now.