Michael's Messengers

Michael’s Messengers

by

Lewis Allen Lambert

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

© 2004 Lewis Allen Lambert.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 05/26/04

ISBN: 1-4184-0932-4 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4184-0933-2 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1400-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004105299

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

1. FADE IN

2. POLAND THE FIRST TIME

3. AMERICA

4. POLAND THE SECOND TIME

5. FINISHED IN FINLAND

6. THIRD SET OF WINGS

7. WE ARE IN IT TOGETHER

8. THE EAGLES ARE FLYING

9. THE SCOTTISH AFFAIR

10. THE TWO ENGINE TWO STEP

11 . SARAH

12. SPECIAL DELIVERY

13. LET THE MUSIC BEGIN

14 . THE PLAN

15. ALEXANDER’S RAGTAG BAND

16 . ANOTHER DECISION

17. A NEW START

18. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

19. NEUTRALIZED

20. POLISH SAUSAGES

21 . SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT

22. NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN

23. MY WILD IRISH ROSE

24. COVERING NEW GROUND

25. ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR

26. PAIN AND SUFFERING

27. MY ROSE LOSES HER PETALS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dedicated to the men and women who served

their countries in war and peace and continue

to serve to secure freedom for the oppressed.

To my wife Danielle for her understanding,

patience, and support; to my mother who made

it possible for me to dream real dreams; and

to my Polish grandmother who left in time.

Finally to Reginald J. Mitchell, a visionary and

the father of the Spitfire.

Daniel 10:21, However; I will tell you what is inscribed in the writing of the truth. Yet there is no one who stands firmly with me against these forces except Michael your prince.

Daniel 12:1, Now at that time Michael, the great prince who stands {guard} over the sons of your people, will arise. And there will be a time of distress such as never occurred since there was a nation until that time; and at that time your people, everyone who is found written in the book, will be rescued.

Revelation 12:7, And there was a war in heaven: Michael and his angels going forth to war with the dragon; and the dragon warred and his angels;

Revelation 12:8, And they prevailed not, neither was their place found any more in heaven.

Revelation 12:9, And the great dragon was cast down, the old serpent, he that is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world; he was cast down to the earth and his angels were cast down with him.

PROLOGUE

I started writing this book in September 1940, but never got past the first two-dozen pages. In 1942, my friend Allen Marks asked if he could write about my life. I turned my notes over to him, and we worked on the book together. He gave me his first draft just the other day.

What makes this story worth reading? It’s about a point in history when most people began to realize that life, as we know it, could end. We live in a time when millions of people are being killed, people who don’t wear uniforms, don’t bear arms, don’t covet the treasures of others, and don’t pose a threat to anyone. The final chapter in an attempt to exterminate a race has yet to be written. There will be survivors to tell their stories to their children who will continue to tell them for the rest of time.

Hundreds of thousands of brave men and women are giving their lives to protect their families, their homes and their countries. But in the final analysis of this brutal war, very few joined the fight to prevent the slaughter of millions of innocent people until they and their loved ones were at risk. Regardless of their circumstances, no matter their motives, the men and women who are fighting evil during my lifetime are preserving a world in which these horrors could very well repeat themselves unless we learn to accept every culture, every religion, and every race as a single world family. So far, I have not seen anything to convince me that such evil has been erased from our souls, our hearts or our thoughts. Perhaps by the time my story is told, something will have changed. If not, we are doomed to repeat this bloody history and those who perished before me or after me will have done so in vain.

Nothing that I have achieved so far is extraordinary. My success is simply the luck of someone who has cheated death on many occasions. Any one of the RAF pilots who perished during the Battle of Britain could have surpassed my achievements had he lived. I cheated death and now I can tell you a story that’s hard to believe. I’m the sum total of every survivor of every battle and every holocaust. My story is their story. The truth can be found if you look for it. When the history of this war is written and then revised to suit the politics of the time, you may not find me in those millions of pages, but I’m there, everywhere in everyone.

Jack Meadows

London, England

February 1943

As Jack’s best friend and the only person who knows all the intimate details of Jack’s life, I have faithfully endeavored to document his journey as he told it to me. He is an extraordinary young man who desperately wanted to be loved and accepted. I would have preferred to wait until the war ended to tell this story. Perhaps I’m being pessimistic, but we may not be fortunate enough to have Jack in our lives much longer. At least we can get to know him as he was in early 1943.

Allen Marks

London, England

February, 1943

1. FADE IN

M any historians regard the Battle of Britain, especially during the late summer and fall of 1940, as a defining moment of the war in Europe. Some in the highest military and political circles came to that conclusion as early as December 1940. I did, and I can say it now after all these years because I was part of that heroic effort. But on September 25 th 1940, I hadn’t yet come to that realization. As I was tossed around the black waters of the English Channel in my life preserver, I had time to reflect on my brief tenure with RAF. It wasn’t the first time I had left my aircraft prior to landing; it was just the first time I had bailed out over the English Channel.

I had lost an aircraft to enemy fighters while serving with the Polish Air Force in 1939, and had crash-landed with the Finnish Air Force earlier in 1940. But this time, I was frustrated because I knew I would miss one hell of a party back at my air station in England. You see, my RAF squadron had shot down 16 German aircraft today, and I had four of them.

That’s what I was thinking as I bobbed up and down on 10-foot swells, waiting to be rescued on a rather nasty and dark afternoon. I also had time to think about my life up to today’s mission. It was quite a life for a 20-year-old born in Poland and raised in the United States. I was a naturalized American citizen serving in the RAF since April 1940, along with other foreign-born volunteers who believed Britain was the last line of defense against the Nazis and Hitler. Most of my fellow airmen were British subjects who came from all over the Commonwealth, and a few were hardy idealistic American pilots who had joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1939 and 1940.

While my fellow volunteer pilots were training in their respective homelands, and my American friends were learning to handle the intricacies of air-to-air combat in Canada, I already had 18 German kills over Poland.

2. POLAND THE FIRST TIME

I was born in a small town in western Poland near the German border on March 14, 1920. My mother, who was Polish, was a secondary school teacher. My father was a physician who had been born in a German village near the German-Polish border. He was a noted heart specialist who traveled to various clinics and universities in both Germany and Poland during my formative years. I really didn’t know him well, since he was not at home when I needed him the most.

I was born Jacob Grunfeld, the son of Herschel and Hannah Grunfeld. I spoke fluent German as well as my native Polish. Since the area where I lived had many mixed Polish-German families, I understood both cultures well and got along with everyone. My father was well known and respected in both countries. He had fair skin, reddish blond hair and strong Aryan features. I think there was a Norseman in the family a few generations back. My mother was also fair skinned with dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, but decidedly lacking Aryan features. We weren’t very religious; my mother didn’t keep a kosher house.

She was one of the few women in town who maintained a career outside the home. Both she and my father were very busy with their careers, so I spent most of my days alone. I suppose I was an early latchkey child. I spent some of my lonely afternoons with relatives while I waited for my mother to return. My father was away weeks at a time.

Mother made sure I knew something of Judaism and introduced me to the local rabbi at an early age. I learned about the Jews from both a religious and a historical perspective. I learned about the pogroms of the past, and the current ones in my country and surrounding countries. I felt threatened because of these stories. I learned as a young boy that most of my countrymen did not consider me Polish. To them I was Jewish, someone less than everyone else save my fellow Jews.

In 1931, I began to study for my Bar Mitzvah, an event that would eventually take place 5,000 miles from where I studied my Haftorah. Much to everyone’s surprise, my mother became pregnant that year. I assume my father was responsible, although he was rarely home. No one suspected otherwise and it was never a topic of gossip. But to this day, I wonder.

Mother had a difficult pregnancy. She was 34, and not a physically strong person. Back then, women rarely had children in their thirties. In her third month, she took a leave of absence from her teaching position because she needed to stay off her feet. It was during this time that I really bonded with her. I took care of her. I became the de facto man of the house two years before my Bar Mitzvah, the traditional day of transition when a Jewish boy turning 13 becomes a man. Mother had her good days and bad days. When she was feeling well, we would talk and read books for hours. I was her pupil; she was a natural teacher and loved her work. Since mother was a high school teacher, she taught me many things that most 11-year-olds did not know. I grew up fast in 1931. Little did I know how important those lessons would become in just a few months.

Mother experienced severe bleeding in her seventh month. My father was not home, as usual, so I summoned our family physician, who was quite upset over what he found. He took my mother to the hospital and told me to stay home. That’s the last time I saw her. Mother died that night and the baby, a boy, was stillborn.

Though my father traveled extensively as a respected medical teacher and practitioner, he and my mother were very much in love. I, on the other hand, was never close to him. I respected him; he provided us with a good home and tried to pay attention to me whenever he was home. But we didn’t click. My father was devastated by my mother’s death. He gave up his lucrative career and rarely left his room. I took care of him as I had my mother. We talked about her often. In fact, we rarely spoke of anything else. He had a few visitors, mostly family members. He received numerous requests for his services, but he ignored them.

Two months after my mother’s death, my father decided to practice medicine in our town. He no longer had the stomach for fame or fortune. I suppose he blamed himself for his wife’s death. I suspected later in life that he felt guilty for her unwanted pregnancy and for not being home when she needed him. He knew she was having a difficult pregnancy, yet he maintained his busy schedule. His life had now changed forever. He was left with a son whom he never really knew, one that no longer needed him.

3. AMERICA

I n the late fall that year, my father decided to leave Poland. He didn’t tell me why. He just came home one day and said we were going to America. We were on our way before the end of the year. I soon realized that my father, in addition to being a brilliant physician, was politically astute and realized the implications of Adolph Hitler’s ascendancy in Germany. I suspected he planned our exodus for several months. His decision to leave Poland in 1931 was the most important decision in our lives.

We arrived in New York City two days after Christmas. In a matter of days, we were in Baltimore living with a relative about whom I knew nothing. My father obtained a teaching position at Johns Hopkins University, a very prestigious medical school. He also studied for his accreditation to practice medicine in the United States.

I made my Bar Mitzvah in March 1933. My father, my uncle and his family, and a few colleagues from Johns Hopkins attended the austere and rather solemn ceremony. We were not known in the Baltimore Jewish community. My father spoke some English, but he was reclusive. He kept to his work and to the few colleagues who shared his days. We tried to assimilate quickly because we knew anti-Semitism was not restricted to Poland or to Europe, it was alive and well in America. I had spent my first two years in Baltimore struggling to learn English. Since my mother had done such a wonderful job as my teacher, I was years ahead of my class in most subjects, despite my language problems. This further alienated me from my classmates. I was not only a Polish immigrant who barely spoke English, but I was smart and Jewish. I had my share of fights, most of which I probably could have avoided if I spoke English better. I was very combative, because of what I had learned growing up in Poland. I always felt I had to defend myself even if I didn’t really understand why.

By the time I was 15,1 had mastered English almost as well as German and Polish. I was beginning to feel comfortable in Baltimore when my father came home one day and announced we were moving. He had accepted a position in a hospital in Kansas City, Missouri. He also informed me that he had changed our names. Dr. Herschel Grunfeld became Dr. Harold Meadows and I, Jacob Grunfeld, became Jack Meadows. I sometimes think that my father was insecure about his Jewish heritage. He wasn’t religious and he didn’t look Jewish, if you know what I mean. He could pass for one of Hitler’s elite SS officers. Only his name was a problem. Why Meadows? Well the English translation of Grunfled is Greenfield but that, in my father’s opinion, was still too Jewish. What is a green field but a lush meadow?

Kansas City was no Baltimore. There were few ethnic neighborhoods. There were no Greek, Italian, or Polish restaurants. At least I couldn’t find them. We were in the heart of gentile America, a few Jews, some Catholics, but oddly enough not much prejudice. What did little Jack Meadows have to fear? As long as he kept his pants on, who’s to know? Because of my mother’s teaching skills, I was able to finish high school at age 15. After six months in Kansas City, I bade my father farewell and went off to college in September 1935. I decided to go back to the East Coast to attend Johns Hopkins University. I majored in political history, with a focus on European history. I also majored in German language studies, since the school didn’t offer a Polish language program. I graduated in 1938, and at the age of 18,

I was ready to begin the rest of my life.

*****

I was freezing my arse off. I was tired, hungry and getting pissed off. I should have been rescued by now. I had reported my position before I bailed out. I had received confirmation of my position. It was getting dark, and I knew that hypothermia could occur even when the air temperatures were in the sixties and seventies. I had to make it. I had to keep awake, or I would die for sure. Just thinking about my life was not enough. I would keep awake by telling my story out loud. I would shout once in a while. Perhaps someone would hear me.

*****

One of my father’s friends, Dr. Roger Livingstone, had been an accomplished combat pilot in the First World War. I think the flying bug bit me the first time I met him. He owned an old Stearman airplane and offered to take me up with him the day we met. Now that I was back in Maryland alone, Dr. Livingstone became my mentor, both as a father figure and a teacher. He not only taught me to fly, but he taught me several combat maneuvers. Before I graduated college I was a very good pilot, perhaps even a neophyte fighter pilot. Mr. Hitler and Jack Meadows were on an intersecting course. Some day our paths would cross, not literally but close enough.

By the time I was 19,1 was as good as any U. S. Army pilot who had just completed advanced flight training. Unfortunately, I was too young for the Army Air Force cadet training program. In the spring of 1939 there was no imminent danger of war for America, so there was no way I could become a commissioned officer before my 21st birthday. There was no emergency that would allow me to obtain an exception. My father even called upon some of his politically connected friends, but to no avail. However, I had an opportunity to join the Royal Canadian Air Force, as many other Americans did in 1939 and later in 1940.

It was my father who told me that Poland was going to be at war with Germany soon. He still had many colleagues and friends in Poland and Germany who wrote to him with dire predictions of Hitler’s intentions. They also informed him of the plight of the Jews in both countries. My father said if I wanted to fly, if I wanted to do something for Poland and the Jewish people, he could arrange for me to join the Polish Air Force. I was astounded. Here was a man who ran from his homeland, denied his Jewish heritage, and rarely ever talked to me about his feelings. Yet he encouraged me to return to Poland to help the Poles fight the Germans. In my opinion, both the Poles and Germans were my enemy. Why should I put my life at risk for the sake of Poland? But my father suggested I do it for the Jews of Poland and Germany. This must have been something he deeply felt, after all these years of hiding behind ‘Dr. Meadows.’ I took a few days to think about it and decided it would be exciting. Didn’t I have the best flying instructor in the world? I felt combat ready.

My father took care of any potential problems about my age before I left. He had a friend in the hospital records department and another one in the Missouri county government. They worked together to record my birth and issue me a new birth certificate with a birth date of March 14, 1918. This document probably would not have fooled the U.S. Army Air Force, but the Polish Air Force would be very accepting of this 21-year-old pilot. So was the passport office in our State Department. This slight deception started my brief five-month career with the Polish Air Force.

By the end of May, 1939, I was living near a military airfield in Poland with men who in the old world would have had nothing to do with me as Jacob Grunfeld. But as Jack Meadows, a Polish expatriate, an accomplished pilot with an American university education, I was treated like a long-lost relative.

*****

A small craft approached, its searchlights bathing me. I was about to be rescued. It was a small fishing boat outfitted for this type of mission. I assumed the owner was compensated fairly for his work. I thanked him and I thanked the two chaps who pulled me in. They gave me brandy and a blanket. The brandy burned my insides, and then I slept for what seemed like several hours. We were less than an hour from a small coastal watch installation on the southeast coast of England. They helped me out of the boat and hustled me into a small hotel, where I was given a change of clothes and a hot meal. Other than my initial conversation with my saviors regarding the extent of any injuries, no one spoke to me until I sat at the table to eat.

The proprietor asked about my unscheduled swim. I told him I’ve been with RAF about four months and had shot down four German aircraft today before being hit and bailing out. Halfway into my explanation, he stopped me and said, You’re a Yank, when did the Yanks get into this war? I told him I had volunteered to fly for RAF because I wanted to get a head start on my country’s entry into the war. He seemed satisfied. I didn’t want to talk too much. Perhaps he was a German agent. I told him I am a flight lieutenant and had eight confirmed kills in the last three weeks. He said he read that some RAF pilots had twice as many in just a week.

I let his remark pass unchallenged and reflected on the 18 aircraft I had shot down while serving with the Polish Air Force. I think 26 kills in less than 13 months for a 20-year-old is okay. In fact, I might be the youngest multiple ace in Europe. I finished my dinner and thanked him for his hospitality. The proprietor said someone would pick me up at 0600 hours to take me back to my air station. I slept very well.

4. POLAND THE SECOND TIME

M y first few weeks in the Polish Air Force were difficult. I thought I could fly well, but my fellow pilots were even better. My good friend and mentor Roger Livingstone had been a combat pilot in 1918, flying bi-winged aircraft that were slower and less maneuverable than the single-wing fighter aircraft I was learning to fly. Even these aircraft were really no match for the modern German fighter. The Polish PZL P. 11 fighters were mostly three to five years old. Even so, I wasn’t used to this speed of flight, the quick need for decision-making and the immediate repercussions if I made the wrong move.

Air-to-air combat was no longer the gentlemanly sport it had been in 1918. Back then, pilots just wanted to knock your aircraft out of the sky. They saluted you as you went down, hoping, I’ll bet, you’d survive the crash to fight another day. The Polish officers who knew the Germans well said this time around, they were trained for the kill. If you bailed out, they would come after you on your descent. I questioned them on this because Poland had not yet been invaded and none of these pilots had faced a German pilot. They advised me to learn my lessons well and not ask so many questions.

There was a great deal of fear among the younger pilots. The older ones who had fought some 20 years earlier were more stoic. I admired them because I believe they anticipated a devastating defeat yet they still went through the motions in a positive way. In fact, the older ones inspired me and ignited my urge to fight. I would fight not for my father, or for the Polish people, or for the Jews, all of who had little knowledge of what was to come, but for these officers and their relentless optimism.

Throughout the summer of 1939, while I was in daily training, talk of war with Germany was in the newspapers, over the radio and on the minds of most people. Germany’s annexation of Austria, the Sudetenland, and its secret, but soon-to-be-revealed, accord with the Soviet Union, resulted in a steady stream of refugees to the east, to the south, and to France and England. These refugees were wealthy, educated people who would suffer immediately if Germany attacked. Most Jews had the means to escape but stayed home. Some traveled east to the Soviet Union, a country that gave them hope since many Jews were communist activists and supporters. They were naive, because the Soviet Union killed as many Jews as the Germans, and the Poles would add to that carnage in the next year.

The Polish Army was outnumbered and outgunned. Its demise was a forgone conclusion. The Polish Air Force, although no match for the Luftwaffe, would probably acquit itself well for a short period of time, as long as it had a safe haven to return to and the munitions to continue fighting. After the war began, many Polish airmen fled south and eventually reached France and England, where they re-established their Polish squadrons. In fact, the Polish Air Force in 1939 was the fourth largest in Europe after the British, German and Soviet air forces. Our goal was to survive, regroup and fight again. I was comfortable with that scenario; at least I wouldn’t be considered a coward if I landed in Budapest.

On August 30, we were put on alert. The Germans attacked Poland on September 1st. Britain and France declared war on Germany on September 3rd. German Junkers, Ju 87 Stuka dive-bombers, terrorized the civilian population with their eerie whine as they dove and dropped bombs. German Heinkels, He 111s and Dorniers, Do 17s high altitude bombers pulverized their targets with precision.

During the first three weeks of war, we lost about 30 percent of our aircraft and pilots. Those of us who survived the longest destroyed many German aircraft, mostly bombers. Most of the fighters we saw were the Messerschmitt Bf 109s and the twin engine Me 110s. More than 1,500 German aircraft were used in the initial attacks on Poland. We avoided getting into dogfights with German fighters, not because we weren’t skilled, but because our aircraft were no match for their faster fighters. I had 17 bomber kills and one Bf 109 in September before I was shot down. I didn’t get a chance to fly again because we had more pilots than aircraft and too few places from which to fly.

By September 17th, when the resistance for all intents and purposes ended, most of the Polish Air Force had fled south with their aircraft. I traveled north by road and met a few pilots along the way who were trying to get to Gdansk to board a ship to Finland. The danger was not only from German air and naval force, but from the Soviets who were also attacking Poland. We were escaping along a fine line between two invaders who were coordinating their attacks and targets in a prearranged division of Polish territory.

When we arrived at the outskirts of Gdansk, we were told escape by ship was too risky. We had to find an aircraft large enough to take the six of us to Finland. There were no serviceable military aircraft; our only hope was to find a civilian aircraft. We were in luck. One of the pilots came from a wealthy Polish family that owned a single-engine passenger plane, just large enough to seat six plus a crew of two.

Captain Stanislaw Korenski contacted his father, who said the family was leaving for Helsinki that morning. Stanislaw told his father he had to fly to Helsinki with five of his fellow pilots. The arrangement was for two pilots to take the family to Helsinki, then return for the rest of us. My brief career as a Polish fighter pilot ended in defeat.

*****

Are you Flight Lieutenant Meadows, sir?

I looked outside at the dimly lit road to find a car and driver waiting for me. Yes, I’m Meadows. Sorry I don’t have the proper uniform, but I was a bit in dispose yesterday. I’m afraid this is all that’s available. The RAF sergeant snapped to attention and gave me his finest salute. I don’t mind saluting a civilian, sir, he smiled. As I got into the car, he informed me we were heading north to a small airfield about 20 minutes from the coast, where a Dakota transport would take me back to my station in Sussex.

It started to rain as we approached the Dakota. I jumped out, thanked the sergeant, and headed for the open hatch. An hour later, we landed at Islingham air station. It was dark and drizzly, and no one was around. Maybe operations were standing down because of the weather. I grabbed a cup of coffee at the Officers’ Club then went to my room. A large sign on the door read: Welcome home Yank, enjoy your swim? Inside, another sign read: 26 German aircraft sent to hell, Congratulations.

I was surprised because I’d only been with the squadron for a few months and I hadn’t told anyone about the 18 aircraft I had shot down before joining RAF. Only Group Captain Billingsley had access to my Polish records, or more precisely, testimonials from my surviving Polish Air Force leaders. During the brief Polish war, nobody had kept proper flight records. We were lucky at the end of a sortie if we had time to take a restful dump, let alone sit down for long debriefings as we do in RAF. In Poland, we used to sleep about four hours before we took off again. We were always on the move so there were no records, no administration, no flight planning, nothing. Just take on petrol and take off; the Germans were everywhere. We often took quick naps in our cockpits or under the aircraft. Sometimes I think the spontaneous chaos was a lot more organized than the routine stampede to our aircraft here at the sound of alerts every day.

The new Spitfires were sturdier and much more maneuverable than the old Polish fighters. Spitfires had more armament; they were faster and could operate better at higher altitudes. Our sorties were mostly air-to-air combat. In Poland and Finland, we tried to avoid German fighters because our aircraft couldn’t do the job. Instead, we attacked bombers, where we had some advantages, and broke off our attacks when German fighters appeared. Our role in defense of Britain was to attack the fighter escorts so they’d break cover and leave the bombers on their own. Other RAF fighters had the easier job of knocking out the unprotected bombers.

I learned a lot in those first few weeks in Poland in September 1939. When I joined RAF in April 1940, I had to go through training because I was flying a new aircraft and the Germans had refined their air-to-air tactics since the early days in Poland. Group Captain Billingsley really did me a favor by getting authorization for me to join RAF as a flight lieutenant rather than as a new pilot officer, like most new pilots. He also could have forced me to attend flight school to re-qualify as a fighter pilot, but he needed experienced pilots in a hurry. Besides, I was the only volunteer from outside Britain who arrived with 18 confirmed kills.

Still, it was a new ball game for me. We lost 50 percent of our aircraft during my first few weeks in combat, though thankfully only 20 percent of our pilots were lost. Most of our lads, as the British like to say, bailed out over the Channel or on English terra firma with just a few scratches or an odd broken bone. Things would get worse as the battle for the skies over Britain raged on. I don’t know how the Brits keep up aircraft production with these mounting losses and the damage their factories receive every night from German bombers. I have to say the British are terrific. Even when their homes are bombed, even when they lose family members, they keep going.

Late on the day of my return to Islingham, some of my squadron mates began to crawl out of bed. You missed a big one last night Yank, someone said. Though my squadron mates’ headaches would subside in time for our next sortie, my aching body would take a few more days to heal. After a hearty lunch, most of my fellow pilots went to town to relax. It was Sunday and highly unlikely Jerry would attack today. Yesterday, the Germans had lost more than 100 aircraft, so Herr Goering was probably licking his wounds and taking the day off. He would probably return tomorrow with double the number of fighters to protect his bombers. Our unit would have to be supported by another group because we were short about 50 percent. I suppose you could look at this as a great opportunity to do even better.

Many of my British mates came from military families. Many attended the same schools and trained together. They were working together to save their country from imminent destruction by Hitler. I, on the other hand, was defending myself, not my country. I never went through formal military flight training. In fact, I had no military training of any sort. Military rules and regulations were second nature for British forces. I had to think about things like saluting superior officers. I rarely did it, and got dressed down for it. I’m not disrespectful; I just don’t pay attention to most military courtesies. Perhaps all of my success so far could be attributed to fate, because I flew by the seat of my pants. I learned a lot from my Polish Air Force comrades, but there were no rules to follow in Poland and Finland. It was all improvised on the spot.

Now that I have this time on a restful Sunday afternoon, I can continue relating my exploits over the skies of Finland, another brave nation that found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time. But before we depart for the land of the sauna, I must put things in perspective. When war broke out on September 1st 1939, I had the opportunity to fly every day, sometimes several times a day, chasing unescorted German bombers. Though I had only one or two encounters with German fighters, I managed to shoot down one Messerschmitt. Poland for me was an opportunity to break my combat cherry, which I did with 40 sorties. But I really learned to fly in Finland during five bitter cold months and nearly 150 sorties. I also learned how to survive by understanding the mindset of the enemy during air-to-air combat. I suppose the best weapon I used in combat was anticipation: knowing what my opponent was going to do at any given moment.

5. FINISHED IN FINLAND

W e arrived at a military airfield outside Helsinki on October 4, 1939. Six tired and weary fighter pilots, beaten, but not defeated, climbed out of the transport aircraft. As soon as our twelve feet hit the ground, the local military authorities confiscated our aircraft for military use. Our first problem was language. None of us spoke Finnish. Only a few Finns spoke Polish, poor Polish at that. However, two senior Finnish officials who met with us spoke English. I became the group’s interpreter. Finnish military intelligence officers spent hours debriefing us. I wasn’t given much time to rest. They wanted to know all the details of the past four weeks. We were so tired it was difficult to recall much of anything. For the past month, we had been constantly on the move. It was hard to be specific about places and dates.

In recent European wars, the military didn’t target civilians. But the Luftwaffe used the roads clogged with fleeing Poles for target practice. The only possible military excuse was to clear the roads for their oncoming tanks, troops and trucks. It was mass murder, and just the beginning of the horror. The Finns didn’t want to experience that fate. The population was a lot smaller here, and outside Helsinki there were open spaces to maneuver tanks and troops. The spectacle we witnessed in Poland would not be repeated in Finland.

After three days of intense interviews, we were asked whether we wanted to stay or to make our way to England or France. We talked about it among ourselves for a few hours. I don’t think any of us thought we could save Poland by staying, but we felt we had to do something. They all decided to stay but allowed me to make my own decision. They probably figured they could eventually go home to find their families after the Germans set up their occupation forces. None of them would think I was abandoning them if I decided to leave.

I told them, I may be an American, but I was born in Poland and I have family in Poland. I decided it was time to tell my little secret. I’m not only Polish, but I am a Jew; I said, So I have twice the determination as any of you to kill as many Germans as I can.

I didn’t know what to expect from these five combat-weary pilots. To my surprise, my comrades were quite moved and respectful. Lt. Col. Juralski had tears in his eyes and grabbed me, as did the others. Jack, you’re as Polish as any of us, he said. If you’re willing to die for a country that shows no kindness to you or your people, we welcome you to stay with us. It is we who should be honored to be with you.

From that day forward, my religion was never mentioned again. To be considered a true Pole by people who, under different circumstances, would have probably handed me over to the Germans, gave me a great sense of pride. Does war really make enemies friends, and friends, enemies? When you take away the superficial things that stand between us, aren’t we all the same when it comes to fighting for survival? History will soon prove we are not.

The winter war in Finland was not against the Germans but against the Soviet Union, which attacked eastern Finland in November 1939. The Finnish Air Force had no fighter aircraft to speak of. They had bombers and reconnaissance aircraft. Much to my surprise, the Finnish aircraft had blue swastikas painted on them. I studied European history, but this fact had escaped me. The Finnish Air Force was established in March 1918, when Swedish Count Erich von Rosen gave the Finnish White Army its first aircraft to be used against the Reds in the Finnish Civil War. Count von Rosen had his coat of arms painted on the upper and lower surfaces of both wings. The count’s coat of arms was a blue swastika, and was adopted as the emblem of the Finnish Air Force. The Finnish ‘Hakaristi’ had nothing to do with the German swastika. Nevertheless, to six Polish fighter pilots that spent nearly a month chasing and being chased by swastikas, it was quite a shock. I don’t think any of us wanted to fly aircraft with those markings.

We were told we wouldn’t be integrated into the Finnish Air Force; we’d fly as Polish volunteers. I suppose Finnish military officials believed a war with Germany or Russia would be brief, and the six of us, if we survived, would leave for England to join the large contingents of former Polish airmen who were being absorbed by RAF. Since the Finns have so few fighter aircraft, it was unlikely we’d be defending the skies over their country. Our role was limited to bombing approaching ground forces and strategic targets, and flying reconnaissance missions to find targets and to report bomb damage.

After Germany attacked Poland, the Russians, who had an agreement with Germany regarding Finland, made demands for military facilities in Finland. Negotiations began in Moscow on October 5th. The Russians wanted to lease a naval station and obtain some islands in the Gulf of Finland. After several weeks of negotiations, talks broke off on November 13th. In less than three weeks, the Russians attacked along Finland’s eastern frontier. The blue swastika was on the defensive against Russia, while the black swastika was on the offensive throughout Europe.

For nearly six weeks with the Finns, I learned to fly several of their aircraft and picked up essential military lingo in Finnish. After a few more weeks, only two of us decided to remain. Our leader, Lt. Col. Juralski, and three other pilots decided to fly to England by way of Oslo. If they had any illusions of returning to Poland to rescue family members and flee to England or to Sweden, they were dashed by German and Russian brutality against the Poles.

Both armies crushed any resistance, and the German drive to hunt and isolate Jews, Gypsies and other minorities was swift. The Jews who were driven out of their homes and businesses were forced to live in ghetto communities under extreme conditions. Gypsies and political dissidents were taken to camps. There was no hope of returning, finding family members, and escaping again. Since my comrades and their families were not ethnic targets, their chances of survival were better if these brave airmen stayed away. Lt. Col. Juralski, and Captains Wadjewski, Provski and Glevitz left for England on November 24th. Capt. Korenski and I decided to stay and fly the unarmed reconnaissance aircraft for a few weeks longer. We were both young, and the experience would be invaluable in the future.

It was a bitterly cold winter. On many low-level reconnaissance flights over vast snow covered fields, I had to open my cockpit to get a clearer view of the ground. I also had a small camera that was used to document what I reported. The icy cold wind at less than 1,000 feet felt like tiny bullets penetrating my face. After I closed the cockpit, it often took 20 minutes or longer for the cockpit heater to restore feeling to my face. I couldn’t even call in my reports because my face and lips were so numb. I flew two or three times a day, sometimes returning to station after dusk. I always needed something stiff to drink before I could discuss my observations. I never knew such cold. Pity the poor soldier who had to sleep on the frozen ground.

The winter war in Finland was over on March 13th, 1940, the day before my 20th birthday Looking back to that time, Finland was well served by an outgunned and outnumbered military. During the war with Russia, the Finnish Air Force flew 864 sorties and only lost 13 aircraft. Reconnaissance sorties were not counted in that total. We flew nearly a thousand sorties and lost only one aircraft. We rarely engaged the enemy in the air. Most of our threats came from Russian ground fire. My combat experience in Finland was limited to taking photos and reporting what I observed then running for my life. My air-to-air combat skills would have to be honed over the green pastures of England and the black waters of the English Channel.

6. THIRD SET OF WINGS

C apt. Korenski and I left for England by way of Oslo two days after my birthday. It took a week to reach England and another few days to get through immigration red tape. Even though we were Polish and had proper documentation, and I even had my American passport, we were still under suspicion because we didn’t come out of Poland with the others. We were two weather-beaten tired escapees who could pass for members of the master race, two blue-eyed blonde lads with a story that seemed farfetched. There must have been some discussion through whatever was left of the diplomatic and military networks in Poland and Finland. Almost two weeks to the day of our departure from Finland, we were taken to a British air station, where we joined RAF.

Over the next five months, we became very proud members of the military force that eventually saved Britain. In August 1940, Britain became the target of the Luftwaffe and the Battle of Britain began in earnest. I was in a different squadron than Korenski, who also had been promoted to flight lieutenant, and we didn’t meet again for nearly two years. We remained in touch through letters, but our careers took different paths. We were the only RAF pilots who wore three sets of wings from three different countries. There were many foreign pilots in RAF who earned their country’s wings and then earned their British wings. Later in the war, before America joined the fight, many Americans who volunteered for RAF’s Eagle Squadron wore two sets of wings. I was unique though, an American who had never earned his own country’s air force wings, never flew for his country’s air force or fought under its flag. Yet I was to play an important role in the fledgling American Army Air Force.

*****

We have begun flying twice and sometimes three times a day, as the Luftwaffe seems to never run out of aircraft. Although RAF losses are devastating, German losses have been even worse, as they send bombers day and night to destroy factories, railways, and major population centers. Sometimes we barely get airborne before we engage the enemy. Most of my mates have been lost or wounded. Only a handful lasted to the New Year. I was shot down twice, but both times I managed to crash near an airfield.

My first unplanned landing since the Channel episode occurred in October. I suffered a concussion and awoke in a British Forces hospital to find the most beautiful woman I had ever seen prepping my pillow. Her name was Sarah, and she was a nurse who was volunteering her time while waiting to return to medical school to continue her studies to become a physician. She was brilliant, but aloof, and not at all happy that the war had interrupted her studies. Her father, I soon learned, was a British Army major general who held an important post in the War Ministry. Her brother was serving with the army but had been missing in action since the Germans pushed the British and French armies off the continent.

I think Sarah resented that America wasn’t helping Britain, at least from her point of view. I tried to explain it was our government’s policy to remain out of the war, though many Americans joined the RCAF to help Britain, and a few like me were in RAF. But the daily destruction of British cities and the huge loss of innocent lives were too much for her. She tended to hundreds of British soldiers who returned from France without arms, legs or eyesight. She held dozens of dying British soldiers in her arms. She was a very depressed but proud young woman, determined to achieve her goals despite all this madness.

Sarah’s interest in me grew after she overheard the conversations of my visiting squadron mates. She listened to their war stories and watched as they moved their hands to demonstrate how they maneuvered between the German fighters and bombers. They also relayed the sad news of friends lost. We spoke of our concerns that we were outnumbered each time we took off and our aircraft were woefully underpowered. The Luftwaffe was constantly improving both its aircraft and its tactics. They used to go one-on-one with us to lure us away from their bomber formations, but now they had the numerical superiority to double-and triple-team us. Between their strength and the loss of our most experienced pilots, our lads are beginning to lose the confidence they had enjoyed the first six weeks of the war.

As a relatively new flight lieutenant, I was one of the most senior in rank within our fighter group, and certainly one of the youngest. Everyone thought I was 22, but I was really 20. That little lie got me started in Poland, and I hadn’t corrected the paperwork when I joined RAF. Though my squadron’s combat experience was for the most part the sum total of the past six weeks, we were the most experienced pilots in RAF, and future RAF leaders would come from the survivors of this great air battle.

After my mates’ visit, Sarah began to ask me a lot of questions. She was interested in my experiences in America, and curious about why my father and I had left Poland. I didn’t tell her the real reason. I said my father had an opportunity to expand his research and teach in America. She thought it very noble of me to leave the comforts of America to fight for Poland, and was baffled as to why I didn’t return to America after Finland. It was difficult for me to explain why I came to England, because I had no maternal or paternal ties here. I said it was simply something I had to do, continue fighting the Nazis. I never told her or anyone else that I spoke German, or that my father was German.

Sarah had inherited her beauty from her mother and her determination from her father, Major General Geoffrey Kenneth Douglas. General Douglas was a third generation army officer, with numerous citations and awards from the War Ministry and the Crown. He was a hero in the First World War and a very influential military advisor to the government between wars. I didn’t know that Sarah had already mentioned me to her father, who at first was not amused that his daughter was interested in a Polish-born naturalized American RAF pilot. Unbeknownst to either of us, he had made inquiries about me. He was very surprised to learn of my accomplishments, and eventually became my most cherished ally, friend and benefactor.

My stay in hospital was brief. After three days, I returned to my squadron. I promised to take to Sarah to dinner on my next night off. Not expecting to see her again, I gave her my phone number and kissed her cheek. I saw tears in her eyes. I assumed she was thinking I wouldn’t survive much longer. I was just another young lad whom she wouldn’t see again, another young casualty of war.

In mid-October, the weather turned nasty, with poor visibility, low-hanging clouds and lots of rain. For German bombers, the weather didn’t matter. They merely flew over major cities and dropped their lethal weapons. Their objective now was the destruction of population centers, to break the will of the people. The Germans had the weather and the bombs on their side, but they don’t have Winston Churchill and RAF. Churchill rallied the people both in person and on the radio, and RAF kept eating away at the Luftwaffe.

By the end of October, I had destroyed 35 aircraft, 17 since being with RAF. I’m sure many pilots would have surpassed this number had they survived the winter of 1940. I was lucky. My skills were not necessarily better, but I was a survivor.

In November, I shot down 16 German aircraft. I was gaining quite a reputation among my peers and senior officers. I inherited a leadership role even though I was one of the youngest in my squadron. My flying skills were mostly instinctive. I never felt as though I was flying a Spitfire, but rather floating through the air with no fear of enemy fire. I lock on my target until it’s falling from the sky. I never look back to see if I’m in danger; my focus is always on my prey. My fellow pilots all had formal pilot training and tactical discipline. I, on the other hand, did nothing by the book. But the pilots who saw me in action said I did things with my Spitfire no one believed possible and very few could duplicate. I thought like a German and had the instincts of a Luftwaffe pilot. The Germans are methodical and predictable. I’m not, and that’s the difference. Those around me who followed my lead survived the longest.

At the end of November, I received a dinner invitation from General Douglas. I thought Sarah put him up to it. We had spoken a few times, but I didn’t have time to see her. On December 2, 1940, I traveled to Kensington to meet General Douglas and renew my friendship with his daughter. When I was ushered into the general’s three-story brownstone row house, I was surprised to see a small crowd of officers, including several flag officers.

General Douglas greeted me at the door and took me around to meet his other guests. I can’t remember everyone who was there, but I know they were the top chaps in the War Ministry. Of the ten senior officers present, six were RAF, including Air Vice Marshal Castleton, under whom my group was assigned. Everyone was cordial and friendly. Many asked me when I thought America would enter the war, of course I couldn’t respond with any authority. I said, this American is in the war that’s all I can comment on, gentlemen.

I told them I knew several American pilots serving in Britain with RCAF, and a few Americans in RAF. At dinner, the general introduced me to everyone again. He said he was proud to have the young lad who had destroyed more enemy aircraft than any other British pilot as his guest. All responded, ‘here, here,’ and drank a toast. I stood up to toast them. I said the best part of what General Douglas said was when he referred to me as a British pilot. I’m very proud to be considered British. Then Air Vice Marshal Castleton rose to say he was also proud to call me a British pilot, and in the very near future I would be promoted to squadron leader. He finished his comments by telling everyone I would be the youngest squadron leader in RAF. And he didn’t know how young I really was.

Thankfully, the general seated me next to his daughter. Sarah told me she was returning to medical school in January. I saw in her eyes how happy she was. I noticed there was no Mrs. Douglas present, but didn’t mention it because I assumed she was at their home in the country. I saw pictures of her around the house, as well as of her son, who was still missing in action.

After dinner, I didn’t have much time with Sarah. I was drawn into conversation with several RAF officers who wanted to know how I know so much about Luftwaffe tactics and mindset. I lied and said I had learned it all during my brief stay in Poland. I couldn’t tell them I was German on my father’s side. It probably would have been a career-ending piece of information, even though the Royal Family has German bloodlines. On his way out, Air Vice Marshal Castleton asked if I would be interested in training new pilots, especially those coming from other Commonwealth countries. I respectfully declined, saying I couldn’t train people to do what I shouldn’t be doing. I could lead by example, but I wasn’t a by-the-book role model. He thought a moment, then said he might have a unique opportunity for me, but he couldn’t discuss it now. He shook my hand, said, Good show, Yank, and winked.

General Douglas grabbed me before I left and said I remind him of his son and should consider myself part of the family. I was overwhelmed since we had only just met. Had I missed something? He then said Sarah is fond of me, but her focus right now must be on medical school. I told him under the circumstances, meaning the war, I wouldn’t be a major distraction, but if it wasn’t for the war I couldn’t make that promise. He patted me on the shoulder. Don’t be surprised if I call you in a few weeks, he said.

Sarah, who wasn’t privy to the conversation, snuck up behind me, took my hand and walked me to the front walk. She kissed me and said, I’m sorry we can’t have a normal relationship, but I’m going back to school and you’re going in harm’s way again. We lingered in each other’s gaze, knowing we were destined to be with each other, though for now we had no other choice but to go our separate ways.

I suppose the Germans thought if they were unbelievably cruel as we approached the holidays the British people would succumb. Quite the contrary. As each day brought more destruction, the people grew more determined. We were very understaffed. We flew each sortie with as many new pilots as possible. Leadership fell to those of us who had survived the last three months. All the flight lieutenants were very young and relatively inexperienced. My new rank gave me command of 16 aircraft and 18 pilots. All but two had more than a month’s combat experience. I managed to keep them together through the holidays. Our group was responsible for 45 downed aircraft.

The week before Christmas, the Germans eased up so I permitted some of my lads to return home for a few days. On December 24th, General Douglas rang me up to say he was sending a staff car to fetch me. He said to look sharp and be on my best behavior. I was nervous on the way to London because I thought I’d be seeing Sarah again. When I arrived at the general’s house in Kensington, he met me at the curb and jumped into the back of the car with me. Without saying a word to the driver, we drove toward Buckingham Palace. I said I thought the royal family left London for the holidays and the children were somewhere safe outside London because of the blitz. The general said the King and Queen were in London in an apartment adjacent to the palace, and we were having dinner with them. I was stunned beyond belief.

We were met by a rather large