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THE DAWN PATROL

  by

  Todd Kelsey

  *******

  PUBLISHED BY:

  The Dawn Patrol

  Copyright © 2015 by Todd Kelsey

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  *******

  Table of Contents

  Credits

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About Todd Kelsey

  Connect with Todd Kelsey

  --

  The Dawn Patrol

  Todd Kelsey

  Disclaimer: This is the very first “beta” edition, and I’m releasing it into the wild before I even have a chance to fully edit and fix it. Please forgive the errors – and feel free to sign up for the email list at https://www.thedawnpatrol.net to receive news about future editions, or to give feedback on things you liked or didn’t like. It would be great to hear from you!

  Credits: a special thanks to Martha Sperry for most of the art – the rest is public domain (ex: Alice in Wonderland, Gustav Dore) or clip art (the dragonfly). You can find the story of how this book came about as well as further acknowledgements, at: https://www.thedawnpatrol.net

  Chapter One

  Sometimes I wake from dreams of battle. Pilot’s blood pulsing, rhythm blurring into the sound of screaming engines, diving, winding through white clouds, piercing bullets, the deadly dance of eagles in the air, menacing each other with metal talons, blue heaven above and around you and orange hell-flame in between and a dark grave waiting six feet underground, moths and red-brown rust destroying over decades and thieves stealing your breath with blinding speed and a whirling tornado of screaming fire like an arrow plunging towards the blessed rest of the green earth below.

  By some miracle I make it back, limping and rolling to the hangar. I lie awake there, dreaming of flying again, pursued by my greatest fear – a malevolent force beyond all hope of glory and desire, sucking me down into the paralyzed still vacuum of conversation in a museum, scattering dust and dissipating those sacred split seconds, that summit of my existence and the risk of my destruction, those moments in the sky when I am on the edge of death and yet so fiercely alive.

  Billy peered out the window of the taxi, as it made its way across the English countryside, peering out the window, clutching his box of paints and brushes in one hand and his small tablet computer in the other, and holding onto the book he had purchased at Heathrow Airport.

  “Mom, why are we driving on the wrong side of the road?” he asked, still having a feeling of strangeness visiting England, mixed in with a sense of magic. He was going to see his great grandmother, and she was always interesting.

  “Just because” she said, patting his arm, and leaning down, “when in Rome, do as the Romans do,” in a quiet but playful voice.

  Jane was somewhat enchanted herself with England; she had been since she was a child, and it was only recently that great grand mother Edith had moved back across the ocean, to “return to the village she once knew,” as she had put it. 98 years old, gentle on the surface, but strong as the hills, and a mind still clear, especially for the stories she loved to tell, about learning how to fly when other women barely had the vote, about the second world war and the Bombing of London, about the love she had for the countryside and the rolling hills.

  Jane intoned, “Born at the end of the First World War, and just in time for the Second!,” as Grandmother Edith had always said, with a sparkle in her eye and strength in her spine.

  “Dear Grandma . . .” Jane said, sighing, watching Billy taking in the countryside, wishing Edith had stayed in the United States, where she had been for part of the year ever since the war had ended, but always making a trip back to England “for gardening season, dear” with her finger raised in the air and eyebrows raised .” . . . and fresh butter!” and a nod, and she was off.

  Jane saw a plane fly by in the distance, the sunlight glinting off of silver wings, and she thanked the heavens that Grandmother Edith had finally given up flying planes. Thank heavens! All the arguments and raised voices and pleading from various generations and officials and experts had been met with a genteel smile, and a wagging finger, and something along the lines of “Dear dears, now, I was flying before the lot of you were even born,” and she had passed her vision tests and Jane and various others had been tempted to bribe the doctor into failing her on purpose. Even the government officials, local or from London were no help, and all Grandmother would do is wink her eye and say “Well now, do you believe that I’ve friends in high places now, dearie?”

  And Jane couldn’t help smiling to herself. You go, grandma. Give em hell. Any woman who could survive the firebombing of London and wind up having tea with Winston Churchill and then go on to found her own flight school, was certainly worth her salt.

  “Mom, are you gathering wool?” Billy asked, imitating her facial expressions with a six year old’s exaggeration, raising his eyebrow in that unconscious overstated way, which always made her want to giggle.

  “Why yes I am, Billy, and look!” she pointed at the fields “There’s some wool right now!” and they passed some grazing munching sheep, placidly content.

  Jane rolled down the window on impulse, and it was delightful – the smell of freshly cut grass, of field and farm and autumn leaves rolled in, crowding out the sterile air of the car. In this corner of England the development had not progressed along as much, and she felt a sense of home in the stones of the hedgerows and the green ivy and the yellow daisies.

  By the time they reached Dragonhurst Cottage, Jane was a bit drowsy, but pleasantly so. Billy was too wired to take a nap, and sprang out of the car as soon as it came to a stop in the familiar little round drive, surrounded on all sides by flowers and wildflowers.

  “Thank you Miss Jane” – the driver took his tip of crisp paper currency and came round to unload the car. “I expect you’ll be wanting me to bring these ‘round back?” and he cocked his head towards the cottage and the outbuildings. Tom was a little bit of everything in Grandmother’s village, the parish of Carlton-Coville – he was part driver, part mechanic, and part conspirator – still maintaining grandmother’s planes in perfect flying condition.

  “Thank you, Tom,” said Jane, and she eyed him, trying not to smile. “How are the planes doing these days?”

  Tom beamed instantly. “Great, Miss Jane! The airframes are as good as new. Aunt Edith kindly lets me put a crew together to take them to various air shows, and it gives people something real to wrap the history around.”

  “What planes?” called Billy from the front doorstep, and then peered back in the front door. Jane put her finger to her mouth. “Sssshhh. Eh?” and Tom winked, nodding, and coughed. “Oh I was just telling your mother about some model planes I was building,” as he carried the luggage around back of the cottage and disappeared.

  Grandmother E
dith opened the door, and gathered them into her arms, and it felt like a century had passed since the last time they had seen her – wars and peace and generations and stories all wrapped up in her keen eyes, and still the twinkle there, ageless, like the garden.

  A bit later they gathered in the study, and Jane felt a mixture of summer and autumn and sadness mixed in with joy, and a sense of belonging, and hope, and accepting mortality. Death, the passing of seasons, sitting so close to Grandmother Edith, who would spurn any attempts to treat her as “old,” even though she’d lived ten lifetimes and maybe more. They were quiet without needing to be, gazing at each other, and Jane wanted to cry.

  “Oh, Grandma!” Jane said, “Whatever are we going to do with you?!?,” and felt a rush of the scent of leather and musty books and the immense weight of being there, and Grandfather not being there. She held it in, it rose from her heart, it trembled on her lip, and she lifted out of the seat and Edith drew her in.

  “Oh dearie” Grandma said, stroking her hair, “now, now, that’s alright.” and Jane wept, knowing Billy would be concerned, but knowing he was ok, hearing him sniffle. “I miss grandpa too.” and Jane felt like she was a little girl again, sitting on the same couch, in the same study, as she came back from striking out in the world to find safe harbor in the deep soul of her grandmother. Edith let the tea grow cold, and held her warm granddaughter, thankful for the chance. She gazed at young Billy, and wondered what he might become someday, hoping the world for him, and hoping the world would grow better.

  While I’ve got the chance, this is the time. Edith said to herself. Now Edith Wallace, you’ve faced down bleeding men and burning buildings and airplanes out of control, and you can get through this and open the box Eric gave you to pass down, and do it while you’re still alive.

  Edith patted Jane, handed her some tissue.

  “Young Master William” Edith said to Billy, as she handed him a tissue, “You’re getting a good start on growing to become a man now, and one thing men like to do when they can is pass down something to future generations.” She said, as she rose slowly but purposefully to reach for a special box from the shelves.

  A sunny day, light streaming in through the windows, coming in to get Eric for dinner, coming closer because he is hard of hearing. He shows me the box, and says, “This one like the others, Edith, the Order of the Dragonfly,” and smiled with that poet’s smile that had warmed her heart even as their skin had grown wrinkly and their hair silver. And her heart catching a beat with the finality of it, knowing that this would be the last – their children, their children’s children, and now, a great grandchild coming into the world. A sense of the sacred trust hinted at by the words of men who had danced with death in the skies, who had risked life and limb for the sake of their families and friends, and kept Hitler from plunging England into darkness forever - “Rescue and Defend” - written in Latin on each box, in between the symbols of eternity.