Spitfire Ringers Read online

  Spitfire Ringers

  A WWII Novel

  By Ian Lindsey

  Spitfire Ringers Copyright © 2018 by Ian Lindsey. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Elizabeth Norton, www.fiverr.com/elizabet_norton

  Title Page Drawing by Susan Stewart

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: July 2018

  Saoi Consulting

  [email protected]

  ISBN-9781717872494

  For My Wife, Courtney, and my three daughters Sydney, Brooklyn, and Marin

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Prologue

  January 26, 1936

  The sun glinted off the silvery wings of the crop dusting bi-plane as it sped across the landscape. Somewhat unusually, the sun actually sat in a picture-perfect blue sky, which markedly differed from the normally gray northwest winterscape of Oregon’s Willamette Valley. The biplane roared across the empty fields, and then pulled up in a steep climbing turn. Two heads of sandy blonde hair seemed to lean forward against the wind created by the speed of the plane. From a distance, the two heads looked exactly the same, goggles and all. The silver rocket spiraled upward until the radial engine and prop could carry it no higher, then the pilot tipped the nose down and leveled the plane out for a moment before making a mock strafing run on some cows that were too cold to care. The plane banked hard and pulled up over the red barn, missing the motionless weathervane by a mere ten feet, though the weather vane wasn’t motionless after the plane sped past.

  Finally, the plane came into line with a long straight field that had distinct wheel ruts and started to slowly arc toward the ground. The front wheels bounced lightly over the well-worn field while the tail wheel followed faithfully. After pulling up short of the tree line at the far end of the field, the plane turned slowly and began to awkwardly taxi in the direction of the barn. The plane gracefully soared through the sky, but only meandered slowly on the ground like a squat duck.

  Once the plane rested quietly inside the barn, the two nearly identical heads crawled out of the fore and aft cockpit seats onto the wings before jumping to the ground. As it turned out, they were little more than boys, having only turned seventeen the previous September. Of course, they turned seventeen on the same day, like most twins. Dylan Anders was born a scant ten minutes before his brother, Payton, and those were about the only ten minutes he had ever spent alone. They both stood an inch or so over six feet tall, but had yet to put on muscle and fill out as men, though they were both bigger than nearly all the other boys their age. To anyone who didn’t know them they looked nearly identical; similar sinewy athletic build, same sandy blonde hair, same hazel-brown eyes. However, differences did abound. Dylan had a bit more square face, and actually stood about a quarter of an inch below Payton. The easiest way to tell them apart, though, were the nearly ever-present smiles. Payton smiled straight across, without showing his bottom teeth, but Dylan smiled straight up and down, showing all of his teeth. Both smiles showed charm and characteristic warmth that radiated from the twins. Someday the girls would notice too, but that didn’t matter to them at the moment.

  “So do ya think Dad saw us?” Payton more grunted than asked as they struggled to wheel the barn door shut.

  “Doubt it, that new truck won’t get him back from Portland for at least a couple of more hours, and that’s only if he sold everything right away. I hope he gets a couple of Weinhard’s in trade though.” replied Dylan after the door was shut.

  “That is good beer, hope Mom doesn’t find out if he does.” Payton, as well as Dylan, knew that their mother didn’t approve of drinking, but since they had become old enough their dad always managed to slip them a beer or two so they could learn the responsible use of alcohol, or so he said. They both suspected that he just liked having a beer with his sons only three years after the end of prohibition.

  “I just hope Dad doesn’t find out that we took the plane up without his permission, and cut school to do it. Then Mom and Dad both might be a little unhappy with us.”

  “But it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened! At least it would be only a little unhappy!” replied Payton, with more than just a small mischievous grin creeping across his face, presaging the smile.

  “Yeah, it was worth it.” opined Dylan. “Dad couldn’t be too mad; the engine needed turning over anyway. Did you see the Smith’s cows as I dove for them? They didn’t even care! Dumb animals. That was a textbook dive. Anything in the way would have been obliterated if we were flying in a fighter.”

  “But the biplane means that anything in your way today would have been dusted.” teased the taller brother. “I bet fighters are so much different. They are even starting to talk about mono-wing planes in the papers, and all metal! We could have so much fun dog fighting each other if we got our hands on a couple of those. Wouldn’t that beat all!”

  That is what it came down to; the twins loved flying, and they especially loved flying together. They would have skipped every day of school to fly, but they knew that had to study if they ever wanted to fly with Eddie Rickenbacker and the famed aces of the U.S. Army Airforce.

  The twins reached the world about the same time that World War I gave birth to true military aviation. Ever since childhood their father had regaled them with stories of the Red Baron, and his famous American adversary who never quite shot him down, Eddie Rickenbacker, one and the same. The stories struck a chord with the two adventurous souls, much to the dismay of their mother. Eventually, they learned, the two famous WWI aces may have never even been in the same dog fight, but the stories were good even if the accuracy may not have been. They learned to fly the family crop duster as soon as they could see out of the cockpit. They hadn’t quite made it to ace status just yet, but they were both natural pilots, quickly surpassing the flying skills of their father. The only thing holding them back at the moment was the lack of fighter planes to use for their personal amusement. That, however, would come soon enough.

  ***

  June 5, 1936

  Again, in complete opposition to the usual weather standard of the Pacific Northwest, this June day stood sparkling blue, with the sun just peaked and starting its downward march to the horizon. Unfortunately, that sun somewhat dismayed Payton as he stared up into it, trying not to get smacked on the head by the baseball arched high into t
he sky by the rival shortstop. Payton fought the sun as best he could, his glove directly in front of his eyes while he retreated from his third base position into the outfield, but he fought a losing battle. Just then, he glanced down briefly behind the plate, where Dylan was catching. Dylan casually pointed to the sky, directly at the ball so Payton would find it. It was simpler for the twins to work as a team, especially after the years of practice. Payton found the ball by following Dylan’s directions, and caught it without anyone else knowing that he didn’t have the slightest clue where it was almost until it stuck in his glove.

  “Nice catch” muttered Dylan as they both headed into the dugout.

  “Yeah, thanks for the help,” his brother answered.

  “Taylor, Anders, Anders.” bellowed the coach to indicate who was up to bat “Let’s get some runs and win this thing!” The score was tied headed into the home half of the ninth, so only one run would win it.

  The one thing the twins loved nearly as much as flying was baseball. The talents the boys possessed suited both passions. The keen eyesight, lightning hand-eye coordination, and quick decisions served them well, letting them excel at baseball and flying. The crack of the bat lured them almost as much as the rumble of the radial engines turning the prop.

  Dylan and Payton had always played on the same teams; Dylan catching while batting fourth and Payton playing third while batting fifth for as long as they could remember. After they finished their chores around the farm they generally played some ball with their friends, if they weren’t trying to find a way to take the plane up. Nothing could bother them when they were tossing a ball around or flying, for they didn’t have a care in the world. They loved baseball and flying, but they knew their future was in flying, at least they hoped so.

  The bat cut the air as Dylan took his warm up swings, waiting for his turn at bat.

  “Hey, Dylan, I bet he gives you a first pitch fastball leaning towards the outside. He thinks you won’t swing at the first pitch.” Payton half whispered to his brother from the dugout.

  Dylan turned and replied “It’s a good guess, and I bet after that he’ll give you a rolling curveball to you first pitch to try and get one over.”

  “Then we’ll just have to teach him not to be so predictable.” Payton answered.

  Sure enough, after Taylor was put out on a sharp line drive to the shortstop, Dylan sauntered up to the plate and ripped the first pitch fastball for a double into the left-center gap. Then, Payton sat on the curveball and drove it into the right-centerfield gap to push his brother across the plate for the game-winning run. The crowd of mostly family and friends did their best impersonation of a roar with delight, cheering mightily for the hit. Ebbets Field this was not.

  After the congratulatory celebration from the team, and the pep talk from the coach, the twins wandered to the backstop in front of the bleachers where their dad sat.

  “Nice hitting boys, guessed what he was going to throw you, huh?” queried the elder Anders. “Nothing like getting the game winning hit, always something to remember. Especially today. You boys got some mail.” The boys reached through the fence to get the offered envelopes, eager after recognizing the seal of the US Military Academy for the return address. They tore open the letters and read quickly.

  “We’re in!” they both yelled at the exact same time. They said the same thing at the same time a lot, another quirk of twins. “We’re going to WestPoint!”

  “Thank God, your mother thought one of you would get in and the other wouldn’t. She’s been worried ever since I told her the mail was here. Hop in the truck and we’ll run home to tell her.” With only two Academy appointments per state, it was no small thing that both brothers were accepted.

  The boys scrambled into the truck while their father took the wheel. Without showing it, they knew he was proud of them. Maybe they could talk him into a beer to celebrate.

  “You know, boys” he said “things are going to be quite different at WestPoint than they are here. New York sure isn’t Oregon, and you’ll start out as the lowest cadets there are. Just remember, stand up for yourselves and for each other, and always be there for each other. You are lucky that you have each other, so use each other’s strengths because you don’t have to go it alone. Stick together and you will do far better than you ever could alone. You are in now, but that is just the beginning.”

  They were in. Dylan and Payton Anders took the first step toward joining the Army, toward making the Army Airforce, toward flying fighter planes. Now they just had to ride a train across the country and start school. Soon they hoped they’d be able to fly back.

  ***

  April 17th, 1940

  Four years at WestPoint treated the twins very well. They’d both taken to the physical activity eagerly. The goal of General MacArthur, a previous Superintendent, “Every cadet an athlete” suited the twins just fine. They’d run through the rough and tumble obstacle course as part of physical training, and still kept enough stamina to play on the baseball team. They’d been motivated to keep up the baseball too. One hundred years earlier, as legend told, then cadet Abner Doubleday conjured the game of baseball while on leave from the academy. Thus, the twins were playing on the field dedicated this day to Maj. General Doubleday, and as fourth year co-captains, Payton and Dylan had the honor of serving as catchers as the first pitches were thrown out by former players General Douglas MacArthur and Lt. Colonel Omar Bradley. As they both walked out to hand the ceremonial baseballs back to the generals, unintentionally and almost simultaneously they said: “Nice pitch, sir, I’m sure it was a strike.”

  Both senior officers laughed at the curious effect of the same words coming from two people. Bradley chided MacArthur “Douglas, I didn’t know you had gotten the school to put out clones that look the same and speak the same!”

  “Brad, WestPoint is always trying to build the perfect soldier. Where are you from, boys? What’s your field of study?” replied MacArthur as he turned to the young cadets.

  “Oregon, sir. We grew up in the Willamette Valley south of Portland” Dylan answered crisply, as only a soon-to- be lowly 2nd Lieutenant can answer a General.

  Payton finished off the answer, “and we’re both studying mechanical engineering, sir. We want to be pilots.”

  “Well, I think there will be a future for pilots in the army, especially sharp eyed smart ones. Don’t forget the infantry though. Only men on the ground can hold off the enemy. Whether it is Germans or tigers, a plane can only do so much.” MacArthur clipped out like only a General can to two not quite 2nd Lieutenants.

  “Yes Sir!” both twins yelped as they handed over the baseballs, saluted and trotted back to the dugout for the game.

  Besides baseball, Payton and Dylan slogged through the books well enough to graduate with honors in a difficult engineering curriculum. It never hurt to have a study partner, and usually one of them would understand the homework well enough to explain it to the other. They’d learned more about the radial piston engines on their old crop-dusting planes than their father could ever have hoped to teach them, but they also knew that he had taught them more than any of the other cadets knew about flying. Some things just can’t be learned in school.

  As with most college graduates, the endless human struggle to answer the question “Why are we here?” has mostly been distilled down to the immediate future in the most simple of terms.

  This time, though, it was Dylan asking Payton “Well, what now after graduation?” However, the question was not unique. Most kids walking out of their university, college, or academy ask the very same question. Only philosophy majors try to answer the longer range “Why” question while still in school.

  They both figured that they needed to find someplace where they could fly. The faster the plane the better as far as they were concerned. However, the best planes didn’t come from America at the moment. The Germans had the Bf 109 Messerschmitt and the Brits had the Supermarine Spitfire, which were both widely conside
red the best planes in the world. The USA would catch up quickly but wasn’t close yet.

  “We could always check in with that guy in New York.” Payton ventured.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Dylan offered quickly.

  Occasionally the bright lights of New York City beckoned just 50 miles down the Hudson River. An easy train ride took them to Grand Central station where they could spend a holiday weekend wandering between the swanky hotels before ending up at a youth hostel or a room above an Irish bar.

  A few weeks earlier, on their self-proclaimed last weekend in New York, both young men had a grand time. Stops at their regular haunts, as well as the most expensive dinner they’d ever had at the Plaza Hotel made it a weekend to remember. One particular gentleman they certainly didn’t forget. After the expensive dinner, Dylan and Payton had retired to a pub more within their means on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. There, they ran in to this peculiar fellow and struck up a conversation when he started talking about flying. He called himself Colonel Charles Sweeney, but he certainly wasn’t part of the United States Armed Forces. He was, in fact, a mercenary. He’d fought in various freedom efforts ever since he’d been kicked out of West Point just after the turn of the century. Both WestPoint and Sweeney considered themselves better off for ending the relationship. He’d fought for the French Foreign Legion, as well as for the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. At some point along the way, one government or another had appointed him a Colonel, so he used that as a title, warranted or not.

  Moreover, on this day, the Colonel was recruiting pilots to help the French. He recognized the glint of adventure both twins possessed in their eyes. That small look singled out pilots to the Colonel above all else. The Colonel didn’t need to look too hard for adventurous young men in New York City. The U.S. government turned out to be his biggest problem on more than one account. He had two major problems; one personal and the other policy. The personal problem troubled him little, as the FBI frowned on his mercenary ways and made his life a little difficult. Getting to Europe at the right time would solve that problem. The more pressing problem went all the way back to the Great War. Americans, rightly or wrongly, blamed the debt incurred saving Europe for causing the Depression. Therefore, the US had become more or less an isolationist country during the Depression. Even as the Depression ended and war broke out all over Europe, Congress had passed the Neutrality Act. For the better part of three years it kept America at bay and threatened to fine, jail, and strip any citizenship rights from any American who went to fight with any foreign army. The Neutrality Act seriously hindered Colonel Sweeney’s efforts.