THE DAWN PATROL

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XI

1998

As we drive through the quiet streets leading to my house, I remember a night not unlike this one—a clear night with lots of stars. Or maybe I’m just reminded of that night because I can see the stars? I don’t think it really matters. It was a time when the trees had already turned—like they have now—standing up in stark contrast, and looking naked against the sky. I remember the lobster dinner and everything leading up to the moment Auntie Win walked out of our lives forever—the tears, the anger, the bitterness—and realize it’s unlikely any one of them will get together before they die.

How sad for them to live with whatever it is that’s hanging over their heads.

“So what’s the significance of the Dawn Patrol?” I ask Uncle Jack.

“The what?” he says, shaken out of his reverie by my sudden question.                                                                                                           

“The Dawn Patrol?”

“It’s a group playing the local bar scene downtown,” Russell laughs.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Uncle Jack says, as he turns and looks out the window again.

“Never mind anything he has to say,” and I reached into the front seat, giving Russell a light tap on the head.

“What do you remember about it?”

“Me? Enough,” Russell says.

He smiles for a minute, and looks at me in the reflected darkness of the mirror. I look at Uncle Jack in the light and shadows of the passing streetlights. His moustache makes him look as if he were a character from a movie—and then I think of Grandpa saving Gramma from the Berber pirates and their leader Ab-Del-Krim, and smile.

“Your dad flew bombers during the war,” Uncle Jack says suddenly. “It was pretty bad for them actually. They’d go out on bombing runs once or twice a week and lose at least two or three planes every time they went up. The next day, half a dozen fresh faced boys would present themselves for duty—replacements for the Dawn Patrol, he said. Every time a plane went down, there’d be huge gaps at the mess table. And the months dragged on like that—never knowing from one day to the next if you’d live through it. That’s why I was always taking them into London and getting them drunk every chance I could.

“Uncle Ray used to fly with him. They flew—well, your dad flew—thirty missions. He was originally only supposed to fly twenty-five, but they raised it to thirty when he was at about eighteen—”

“Wait a minute,” Russell says. “Dad and Uncle Ray used to fly together?”

Uncle Jack nods. “You didn’t know that?”

“Dad never talks about the war,” I say.

Uncle Jack nods. “Your dad was the pilot, and Ray was his navigator. They sat side by side in those old Mitchell bombers—not a lot of room if you’ve ever seen one. They were usually crewed by about five or six—I can’t remember exactly...” and I can see him counting in his head. “Six,” he says with a nod.

“Everybody had a different task. The bombardier was also the nose gunner; the belly gunner worked as the radioman. But Bobby and Ray sat together—Ray guiding him in with his maps and graphs—side by side for all those missions. They’d leave early, ten-thirty, or eleven at night—sometimes later, like two or three in the morning—all of it depending on where they were going. I mean, flying one of those things all the way to Denmark might take you half the night. Drop your payload and try not to get shot down, that’s another couple of hours. By the time you got home, the sun would be rising, and you’re at the tail end of a ten hour trip. That’s why they called it the Dawn Patrol.”

“So how come Uncle Ray didn’t fly thirty missions?” I ask.

“What?”

“Uncle Ray? You said Dad flew thirty missions, but Ray didn’t? How come?”

“Let me see if I can remember how this goes. It’s been such a long time since I’ve told anyone what really happened. It was after my wife died. I was pretty distressed, as you can imagine. Your dad and Ray thought maybe they’d take me out for drinks, but the airfield was on shutdown—standby,” he says with a nod of his head, as if he has to explain this to us.

We get it, I want to tell him, but I keep quiet.

“It was just a few days before D-Day, and Dunsfold Airfield was down for leading the attack. Only your dad and Ray don’t know that. No one knew. They might have had their suspicions—I mean they flew over the coast every couple of days and couldn’t help but see the build up of troops and landing craft every time they came in from a bombing run. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before word came down from Ike—that’s Eisenhower. They just didn’t know when it would happen, the weather having been bad for most of the week. It was all about tides and the moon. Anything later than June 8^th, and they’d have to abort—wait another month before they had the same tides and moon.

“Since we couldn’t go into London, we got permission to go out into the countryside and do a little duck hunting.”

“Isn’t that leaving the base?” Russell asks as he turns into my driveway.

“It is, but we went out on foot,” he says turning to look at Russell. “Why do you always have to interrupt me? You want me to tell you why I don’t talk to Ray or Winnie, and now that I am, you interrupt me.”

“I’m sorry,” Russell says. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t realize you were telling us. I mean, you never said you were.”

“Well I am, so shut up.”

“But we’re here. That’s what I was trying to say. We’re at Danny’s house. Don’t you wanna go inside? Maybe have a drink or three?” Russell asks.

“Alright. As a matter of fact, I might need a couple of stiff ones just to get through this,” Uncle Jack agrees.

I know, this is short. But that’s just the way it goes sometimes. It doesn’t work out evenly if I break this up differently. I tried. But it’s almost done…