Flames over France (21 page)

Epilogue

“God, what a homecoming.”

Armstrong stared at the Liverpool skyline, shrouded in drizzle. The others — Kalinski and the Poles, Pittaway and his crew — were spread out along the destroyer’s rail.

“Oh, I dunno,” the New Zealander commented. “It’s good to be back.”

They had been among the last personnel to be evacuated from the south of France, on the day the anticipated armistice had come into effect. Most of the French pilots had flown their aircraft to North Africa; the Poles, to a man, had elected to come to England. The French had fought gallantly to the bitter end, but it had been hopeless. Hopeless ever since, weeks earlier, France’s politicians had lost the will to fight.

But there were Frenchmen who would fight on; Armstrong was sure of that. British, French, Poles, Belgians, Czechs, Dutch, Norwegians — a bond of nations strengthened by their first-hand experience of the evil that had descended on the continent of Europe.

There remained a small offshore island, facing the direst challenge in a thousand years of its history. Armstrong knew, they all knew, that the great battle to come, the battle upon which Britain’s survival and the fate of the free world depended, would be fought and decided in the air.

Pittaway tapped him on the arm. He looked up, and saw a pair of purposeful, shark-like aircraft drop down through the drizzle. The Spitfires flew low past the destroyer as it continued its passage through Liverpool Bay, then disappeared inland, their outlines blurred by the rain.

Yes, thought Armstrong, Pittaway was right. It was good to be back.

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