Hampshire

1940

8:23 p.m.

Thunderous footsteps filled the halls of Ackner Manor as Drake stormed down the stairs to the grand lobby. Godfrey chased after him, tailcoat flapping behind him. Whatever Godfrey was saying, Drake would have none of it and he continued outside, dark determination filled in his eyes. The other servants performing their duties wasted no time to step out of Drake’s way, a living, walking hurricane.

He stepped into the driver’s seat of his black BMW parked in the courtyard, Godfrey lingering just outside its door. Drake rolled its window, started the engine, and the car came to life. However, Godfrey stuck his hand between the window, stopping it halfway. Drake made a face and growled.

He stepped on the accelerator, and the engine purred. Godfrey stepped away as the car reversed until its hood faced the iron gates leading and trail leading back to London. Drake shifted gears, easing the car towards the gates ignoring Godfrey’s pleas and curses. Mostly curses…

“You’ve gone mad!” the old butler shouted, his face as red as a beet.

Drake continued through the gate while Godfrey chased the car, gloved hands clinging to half-opened windows.

“Master Drake! Lady Irene is gone! Give up this meaningless crusade and come home for Christ sakes-!”

The car came to a halt, and the door burst open, knocking Godfrey back. The butler stumbled and almost fell, but he caught his balance. When he looked up, Drake stood inches in front of him, nostrils flared and eyes shimmering with blue fire.

“Meaningless? That’s what Irene is to you, meaningless!”

Godfrey raised his hands submissively and shook his head. “No… Master Drake. That’s- that’s not what I meant…”

Drake shoved him, sending Godfrey to the ground several feet away. Godfrey groaned at his ruined trousers and coat, soaked with mud and dust. But he didn’t dare stand up. Drake sneered and returned to the car, driving away.

It was pitch black and all Godfrey could see were the paper lanterns hanging from trees on the trail and headlights from Drake’s car scattering the sea of darkness.

Godfrey took a deep breath and exhaled. “That damn fool…”

10:00 p.m.

British aircraft filled the grassy airfields, propellers running and preparing for takeoff. Watchtowers stood in every corner of the enclosure filled with armed sentries and searchlights. Fresh dew covered the blades of grass and the smell of soil and fuel filled the air. Drake watched the lorries and tugs drive about the paved runways of the filled carrying pilots and supplies to their aircraft.

He parked the BMW on the side of an aircraft hanger and ambled towards a group of aircraft some hundred feet away. Beside the group of Lysanders, still being prepped and fueled for takeoff stood another hanger much smaller in comparison than the others. He passed a few pilots that gave him a few skeptical glances before going their separate ways. Fierce winds from a passing aircraft being taxied on the runway blew his hat away and ruffled his coat.

Drake shrugged, finding shelter in the hangar where another aircraft was being repaired. On one side stood a chalkboard where an officer briefed a group of pilots. He walked to a door in the back leading to the locker room. When Drake reached the locker room, a single pilot sat on one of its many benches. He twiddled what seemed to be a photograph in his fingers, pondering.

Drake cleared his throat. “Lieutenant…”

The man raised his head and looked over his shoulder. “Who are you? No — wait a minute. You’re Drake Ackner the banker?”

Drake nodded.

The pilot stood up, buttoned his flight suit and extended a hand. “Just wanted to thank you, sir; all of England’s in your debt right now.”

Drake smiled and shook his hand. “Well, someone has to fund the crown, get you boys everything you need. For queen and country, right?”

“Too right, mate. Um — forgive me sir, but what’s a man like you doing here?”

Drake reached for the photo in his coat and placed it on the bench. He wrote in French on the back, then he handed it to the pilot, but stopped suddenly.

Is this Irene Irons?

The pilot’s hand gripped the photo, and he tilted his head. “Something wrong, sir?”

Drake looked at his red cheeks, boyish smile and short brown hair. He envied this boy’s youth, his patriotism, and righteousness. He almost stuffed the photo back in his pocket, but something seized his body, and when he opened his eyes, the photo was already in the boy’s hand.

He glanced at the photo. “She’s pretty.”

Yeah, she was…

He shook his head to distract himself from Irene’s painful memory. “What’s your name, son?”

“Clement, sir…”

“Clement? You were raised in the countryside?” Drake asked.

“Well — yes sir, I was. How did you know-?”

Drake placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Clement. I need you to do something for me on your mission.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“When you make your supply run, ask for a resistance leader named Charon Dubois.” He took the photo and flipped it over. “Show him this: I need a yes or no answer, that’s it. Do you understand?”

Clement nodded meekly.

Drake gripped both his shoulders and shook the boy. “Wait fifteen minutes, if Charon doesn’t show up, then leave.” Drake tapped Clement’s nose with a finger. “Remember, a yes or no answer. I’ll be waiting here for you tomorrow night-”

They heard a shout as the other pilots scrambled in the hangar towards their planes. An air siren went off, deafening everything around them. Drake gestured his head towards the hallway.

“Go…”

Clement turned away, stuffed the photo in his satchel and slung it on his shoulder, cradling a helmet with a respirator under his free arm. He holstered a pistol by his side and departed. Drake watched him disappear around the corner.

Godspeed…