Part 2: Canada refused to capitulate

The popular Canadian prime minister Mackenzie King had died in the bombing of Washington, D.C., and, after a series of riots and fires, Quebec had voted to join Vichy France and withdraw from the Canadian federation. It took almost half of the nation’s population with it and in the process swallowed up Labrador.

The Governor General, not only the King’s representative but his kinsman, Alex Cambridge Earl of Athlone, decided that he and family would remain in Ottawa. But later, he, along with the central government, moved west and settled in Edmonton, Alberta, for the duration of the conflict.

The king and queen of England were in Scotland, at Balmoral, when Churchill and the Parliament decided to surrender rather than suffer the fate of Washington and Moscow. Well aware of what happened to other royal families at the hands of the Germans, they boarded a submarine in Scapa Flow and escaped to Iceland where a Short Sunderland flying boat awaited and took them as well as their daughters and a pair of corgis to Prince Edward Island.

The Canadian Parliament met, voted to move its site of operations to a western province and named L. S. Breadner Chief Air Marshall in charge of all military operations. With most of the army units overseas and involved in operations in Sicily and the Far East, the nation’s defense fell mainly on the RCAF and Home and Veterans Guard units.

The Germans threatened and cajoled, blocked the St. Lawrence and occupied Ottawa. Toronto was declared an open city and its sizeable Jewish population disappeared as synagogs burnt their rolls and neighbors offered shelter.

After cruising over the outskirts of Toronto, I came down to about 3,000 feet and radioed the Borden tower. They responded telling me to wait. When they returned my call, using my R21 designation, I felt a lot better.

“U.S. Mustang R21 asking for permission to land,” I said again, noticing some other planes in the air below me.

“Your name, R21?”

“Rider,” I said, “Captain Joe Rider, AAF. What’s the problem?”

“Getting a bit crowded. May have to divert you; some Spits low on fuel. Stand by R21.”

When he came back the question was how much fuel I had left and when I told him about 30 minutes, he said I was fifth in line and to keep circling. “You’re the one with the yellow tail, right?” the tower asked.

“Affirmative. R21 circling at angels two.”

Eventually, with a teacup of gas left, I put her down and taxied where I was waved, flipped the switch when I got the cut signal and was towed backwards to a revetment under some crude netting. I got on the wing, grabbed my kit bag and my Colt and hiked to the terminal and got in line. Evidently I was not the only American pilot getting out while I had a chance and taking a fighter with him.

We had surrendered after the bombs went off, but England and most of the empire had not. But did. I was sure about New Zealand, Australia, South Africa and the last word was that India had declared itself neutral. Good luck to them. French Canada, Quebec, joined the Axis unasked and came under Vichy rule quickly. I wondered what was going on in Ottawa.

When I got to the front of the line, I was given some forms to sign, told to keep my pistol out of sight and found I was donating my P-51 to the RCAF and signing on as a foreign pilot to be paid by the hour, the flying hour. I was assigned a billet and directed to a lounge where a mob of other Americans were drinking beer, chatting girls and exchanging lies.

I found a bird colonel who was relatively sober and seemed to know the poop. He said the Mexicans had grabbed off the Texas training stations and fields and that some guys were flying to the islands and Central America. According to what he had heard, the Navy fliers in the States were headed our way or out to carriers. He said about a dozen Canadian air bases were receiving U.S. planes and had been since the first day, now almost a week ago.

Then someone blew a shrill whistle, yelled for us to clam up and listen, and we heard a radio broadcast demanding the immediate surrender of Canadian forces and reporting that German paratroopers were landing in England. The voice went on demanding that American army fliers surrender their planes at once and labeling those that refused as traitors and criminals.

The broadcast was interrupted by another whistle and a yell on the PA “Scramble, scramble, ready line pilots scramble at once. This is not a drill!”

Most of us ran outside and watched a score of Spitfires wobble into the air and head south toward Toronto. I became aware that a tall young woman was standing beside me and glanced her way. “Margo, right?” I asked the big redhead.

She smiled up at me. “Long time, Joe. How y’been?”

“Just landed. Still can’t figure out this thing. You?” She smelled good and she looked hot. Margo Phillips was a contract ferry pilot who had flown everything from DC-3s to P-40s. We had enjoyed each other’s company in California a while back. She absolutely loved to fuck.

“I bought in a Jug but they had somebody fly it out to Calgary. Going to make a dive-bomber out of it. You got a room?”

“A bed’s more like it. Don’t they want you?”

She shook her ringlets and grinned. “Told me to go back and get another plane. Bastards.”

“Shit. Well you can sure stay with me. Should make a war a lot more...” I stopped hearing the drone of heavy engines. We looked south and here came a flight of twin-engined planes, Doniers or Heinkels I guessed. They were at five thousand or so. “Let’s go find a shelter,” I suggested.

Margo held my arm and said, “Too late, Bucko.” The bombs were falling so we got away from the windows and hit the floor.

It was pretty noisy for a while and when the crumping explosions stopped one row of planes was burning and the main runway was full of big holes. Sirens screamed and then the Spitfires roared past, chasing the bombers I guess.

By the time the fires were out, it was getting dark so I found my assigned bed in the old dormitory, and Margo and I stripped in the dusk, smiling at each other and ignoring the men around us. We rolled into the narrow bed and coupled spoon fashion with her big boobs in my hands and my ram probing her clasping pussy.

“Ah,” she sighed as I entered her. “I’d forgotten how damn big that thing is. Go easy, been a while.”

Now that my eyes had adjusted I could see that several other men had bedmates and that there was a fair amount of humping and groaning going on. It’s really amazing what you can do on one of those metal beds if you work at it.

Once I was all the way up into her and had a firm grip on a big knocker and my other hand rubbing at her hairy belly, we got busy, jolting and satisfying each other until she shuddered and tensed in my arms, and I spent myself fully deep within her crushing pussy. She rolled over to face me after my ram slid from her and we lay nose to nose.

“Seriously, Joe,” she whispered as our skin enjoyed the touches and rub, “what’s going to happen?”

‘We’re going to fight. I guess you heard that the Russians caved in after one of those big bombs pulverized Moscow.”

She shook her head. “Wonder why they didn’t hit London?”

“They’d already burned most of it down. Guess they thought there wasn’t enough left to bother with. Anyhow, they claim they’re landing now, paratroops.”

“Will they come up here, the Germans?” Her hand snaked down and found my cock and began stroking it back to life.

“Sure. But these guys haven’t sent all their men to Africa and England. Um, that feels good.” I grabbed her butt and pulled her closer and kissed her open mouth.

“What about the Japs?” she asked as she swung a long leg over mine and pulled me to her and then into her with a groan.

I rolled her on top of me, pulled the blanket over her shoulders and we stopped talking for a while until she sobbed, shuddered and collapsed on me with my stiff prong still busily ramming into her.

I patted her and stroked her back. “The Japs evidently have all the West Coast, all the way up through BC and Alaska. They were in the Aleutians when this began. Radio said their navy’s in our ports, Frisco, San Diego, Seattle.”

“Awful,” she said as her pelvis got back into action, grinding us together. “Those poor people.”

Then it was just snorting and heaving for a while until we both were spent, gasping for breath, emptied, sated, and tried to sleep. We ended up spooned together which meant when I awoke with a hard-on it was already up between Margo’s butt cheeks.

“Morning,” she said, wiggling and getting my cockhead where it would do us both the most good. I was just about to thrust when the sirens sounded.

“You’re an American, right?” the colonel asked without looking up. “You know if there’s any ammo we can get at?”

“Not off hand, probably at one of those smaller air bases. You got a map? I’ve visited a lot of them.”

He rolled out a big one.

“Maybe Albany, but that’s the capital. How about Poughkeepsie? I recall a National Guard field there a while back. Maybe Syracuse or Rochester. Ask around.”

I went out and watched them fill up holes and patch airplanes, and he called me back after lunch which was sausage and potatoes and Molsons.

“Talked to a couple of guys and they think Poughkeepsie’s the best bet, easily forgotten and well stocked. One man said the Germans are guarding the barge canal and avoiding New York City.”

“Long haul,” I said.

“Six hundred, 650 maybe. We got a couple of DC-3’s. Want to give it a try. I’d guess you’ve got more multi-engine experience than most of these young guys.”

“Fighter escort?”

“Too long a haul,” he said with a smile.

“I’ve got a co-pilot, Margo Summers. Evidently you didn’t want her.”

He smiled and nodded. “Not my decision.”

I went out to the hangers and found four DC-3s in various stages of repair, two of them with their engines off. The most finished one was in American Airlines paint and called the City of Memphis. Her logbook was up to date and she looked good. I talked to the mechanics and they generally agreed, so I asked that she be stripped of all but the last row of seats, have some tie-downs installed and checked her load capacity. Five tons the book said so that would make the trip worthwhile. Five tons of ammo is a lot of bullets.