Blitzkrieg: Peter and Lexi

By Luke L. Thompson Jr.

With a war raging overseas, there was no way American Peter Morrison was just going to sit back and watch. He volunteers to join England’s Royal Air Force and prepares to fight Hitler and his German soldiers. But on his very first mission Peter is shot down and injured. He’s thankfully rescued but still frustrated by his turn of bad luck—although it could have been worse.

Lexi Stuart-Crossman is an English air vice-marshal’s daughter and one of the most sought-after models in her country. When not hiding during air raids, she works at the local hospital until one day a bomb strikes. The roof collapses, and Lexi loses her sight. Despite this new handicap, she is a bright, shining star to those in need and a joy to her patients.

Eventually Peter and Lexi’s paths cross, and they forge a heartfelt connection. War rages around them as they struggle to survive and plan a future together, however unlikely. It’s said this is “the war to end all wars,” but the battle has just begun for this pilot and his brave beauty as the world falls down around them. Yet, they remain standing on the strength of their love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480867727

Luke L. Thompson Jr.

Luke L. Thompson, Jr. is a veteran of the United States Air Force who studied journalism. He is a student of Army and Naval affairs and spent six years researching this book, including close looks into the lives of Royal Navy Officers and members of the Royal British Legion, of which he and his wife have been long time members.

Book preview

two

LEXI STUART-CROSSMAN

Her country had been at war for a year, Alexandra Alexis Lexi Stuart-Crossman thought as she sat in the underground, waiting out yet another air-raid alarm, but England carried on. The air raids on London, which had begun in June, were causing death, destruction, and hardship everywhere, yet they were also saving the Royal Air Force. Lexi’s father, Air Vice Marshal Sir Hugh Stuart-Crossman, had told her that the German strikes on English airfields surely would have wiped out the outnumbered Royal Air Force if Hitler hadn’t flown into one of his mindless rages and ordered the attacks switched to London. Things were bad, but the country would survive.

Why did Hitler switch tactics, Popsie? she’d asked her father on one of those rare quiet moments when he was home. Air Vice Marshal Stuart-Crossman worked out of London, but it was a rare day when he left the house after six in the morning or returned before midnight.

He’d looked at her for a second, puffed contemplatively at his pipe, exhaled slowly, and replied, Because one of our night bombers got off course and bombed Berlin quite by accident. At least that’s his story, but most feel that he was hoping for an incident like that to give him an excuse for starting the war.

Did our raid cause a great deal of damage? she’d asked.

He’d looked at her again and then shaken his head and replied, One bomber? Not very likely.

Hitler must be insane, she’d said.

Not clinically perhaps, her father had replied, but completely obsessed with his desire for world domination. Then the conversation had turned to other things.

The all clear sounded, and Lexi left the shelter and resumed her interrupted bus trip to the hospital in which she worked an eight-hour shift as a volunteer nurses’ aide. She had already done a fashion show during the morning. War or no war, life went on, and the bills had to be paid. The tall, beautiful blue-eyed blonde, one of the most sought-after models in England, in 1939, at age thirty, had lucrative offers to go to America. Her widowed father urged her to go, but she was too much the Englishwoman and turned down the offers. She sometimes thought that only three people in the entire country understood that war was inevitable: her father, herself, and Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

Her father was worried about his only child’s welfare, but he was pleased with her decision.

The following Saturday, September 15, Lexi reported for a full day’s work, and maybe a double shift, at the hospital. Personnel was hard to get and keep. The hardships of war on a small island nation were magnified many times.

At nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, a bomb fell on the hospital, on the ward in which Lexi was working. The last thing she remembered was seeing the roof collapsing and hearing the screams of patients and workers as everything tumbled down. She found out later that she was buried under the rubble for nearly four hours before she was rescued. She woke up in a hospital bed in an undamaged section of the hospital. When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing.

She had sustained no permanent injuries save one: severe damage to the optic nerve. There was nothing the specialists of the day could do. In an instant, Lexi had been blinded.

Air Vice Marshal Stuart-Crossman was with his daughter as much as he could be over the following weeks as she learned the braille system and trained with a guide dog, but the crush of duty took most of his time.

Being blind isn’t the end of the world, Popsie, she told him one night after she came home from the hospital. I’ll get along.

He knew she would.

Three months later, she was back at the hospital, answering the telephone and cheering up the patients, and she returned to the runways of the leading fashion houses. Her spirit flamed brighter than ever. The beautiful blind model became a symbol of the country as a whole, and her picture appeared on magazine covers and newspaper front pages as she went everywhere with her big white malamute guide dog.

The Battle of Britain was over, but there was still a long, hard road ahead.

Lexi Stuart-Crossman was ready, blind or not.

three

LONDON

Peter felt guilty about being away from his squadron for three days while on leave in London at a time when pilots were desperately needed, but his squadron commander would brook no argument.

This is standard procedure, chappie, he told Peter. You’ve just been shot down, and you need a bit of restoration. It’s a big shock to one’s nervous system. I only wish we could send you chaps for ten days at least, but seventy-two hours is all we can afford.

Peter knew the RAF couldn’t even afford that, but there was no point in arguing. Twenty-five-year-old squadron leader Colin Masterson wouldn’t budge. His binding decisions were legendary. The man was already marked for big things.

Besides, he added as Peter turned to leave his tiny office, we’ve got a chap in hospital in London. Make yourself useful, old boy, and do pop in on him—Flight Sergeant Jack Sturgess.

Peter left feeling much better. At least he could do something useful while he was walking around on the ground.

The train to London was a trifle late and packed with people on the move, but Peter didn’t mind. Actually, he felt like talking and needed people around him. He squeezed into a small space made for him by a friendly older couple in the coach, and they began a conversation immediately.

Going on leave, old chap? the man, whom Peter judged to be in his early fifties, asked in a friendly tone.

Yes, sir, Peter responded, a bit self-conscious for being in uniform on a train heading away from the scene of the action and also aware that his southern Alabama accent always betrayed his origins in only a few words.

Ah, the man responded, his gray eyes twinkling from behind an enormous handlebar mustache, an American.

Yes, sir, Peter replied, guilty as charged.

All three laughed, and the lady asked, Have you seen a great deal of action?

Peter blushed and answered, I’m afraid not, ma’am. I just got shot down on my very first mission. I’m on convalescent leave.

The man looked at him sympathetically. Don’t let it bother you, old man; the same thing happened to me in 1917. I was an air gunner. My pilot and I were brought down by Lothar von Richthofen. We were taken prisoner but managed to escape and make our way back to our lines.

Lothar von Richthofen, Peter said. The Red Baron’s brother?

That’s right, his companion replied, and he was quite decent, actually. Asked us if there was anything he could do for us as we sat in one of their tents, drinking schnapps and conversing with him and two other pilots. We felt a little bad about hotfooting it when their backs were turned, but actually, I think they planned for us to get away. Prisoners are such a terrible nuisance, you know.

How did you manage to talk with the Germans? Peter asked, genuinely interested.

Oh, his acquaintance replied, all three of them spoke fluent English. In fact, one of them had such a Cockney accent that I thought for a moment he was another English prisoner. We’re all cousins under the skin, you know, which is probably why we fight like hell every twenty years or so.

The three new friends shared another laugh and exchanged addresses as the train slowed and lurched into Victoria Station. As they went their separate ways, Peter wondered if he would ever see Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Warrington again.

Then he was alone again—in London, a city he thought to be one of the most exciting in the world. He looked all around as he left the station and wondered at the unflappable demeanor of virtually everyone he passed in the rubble-strewn streets. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten thirty on a cool, crisp early spring morning, and there was not a cloud in the sky—no trace at all of the ubiquitous London rain or smog. Peter decided that with only his visit to Flying Officer Sturgess to carry out, there was no hurry. He had nothing else useful to do, so he set out walking to the hospital, which was about three miles away, with his kit bag in hand. There was a small hotel near Victoria Station for military personnel on leave, but Peter hoped to find modest accommodations away from the center of the city. He seldom drank beer, never drank whiskey, and saved his money, so it was no hardship to pay room and board out of his pocket. Besides, he needed the exercise since he hadn’t had a chance to go running or bicycling since leaving preflight. There was no time for that sort of thing in advanced training. A brisk walk would help him stay in shape. He stepped along rapidly and was pleased to find that his long layoff hadn’t cut his wind. He was breathing normally and feeling fit when he turned the corner leading to the hospital—and collided with a beautiful blonde woman who was just getting out of a taxi.

"Oh, I beg your pardon,