Metal Birds

Chapter 30: The Battle of London Begins

Dover, England, September 7th, 1940

It was very late that evening when Arthur felt it. He was still in Dover, unable to sleep with what little snippets of hostility he had heard. He would be in France if he could, but from what he had heard and seen in some un-allowed flights, the French coast would have to be bombarded before they got anywhere.

He was standing upon the barbican of the castle, facing the ocean. The night was cold, quiet, and somewhat cloudy. He wanted very badly to fly, but he had been scolded enough by the man in charge of the place. There was a small group of men stationed there in the case of a German attack, which was highly unlikely, but Arthur appreciated that the military was keeping all eyes and ears ready.

Arthur was alone. His eyes were glued on the horizon, west. Towards France. His stomach ached with worry for Francis, and Bella and Andries. He hadn't heard a word from them since the retreat. Over the past few days, he had found himself coming up to the barbican to think. To worry. To form a plan, even if it was a horrible plan. It gave him comfort at least having something. All of the men were asleep, with the exception of the radiomen on night shift. Even then, everyone slept on the edge of their bed now.

For a long moment, he stood in the quiet. He closed his eyes, and took in a heavy breath, attempting to spread his wings to feel the wind coming off the ocean.

His heart skipped a beat.

Arthur felt his wings slump down as he paused. It was an odd feeling, a feeling he didn't like at all, and for a moment, he was sure he had imagined it.

There it was again. A small prick of pain, and the momentary feeling of his heart ceasing to function. He could feel his brow furrow as he gripped on to the walls about the barbican, taking in a breath as it suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. The stinging pain quickly returned, and he found himself stepping back as he attempted to breathe.

He couldn't.

Something was wrong. He felt sick to his stomach, a sudden and confused fear washing over him as if a rabid dog, clawing through his throat as he fought the urge to scream. It was a terrifying moment that felt as if it lasted ages, but that split second quickly faltered.

Arthur froze, standing in the middle of the barbican for a moment, before slowly turning towards the stairway.

Something was horribly wrong.

His foot had barely met with the first step as the air rushed from his lungs again, and it felt as if someone had stuck their hand through his ribs to squeeze his heart out of its ability to function. He let out a strangled sound, unable to do much as he quickly attempted to stumble down. The sensation was terrible. He needed to breathe, but he was physically unable to, no matter how hard he tried. He could feel the color leaving his face as his eyes became glassy, and he attempted to breathe again, letting out a feeble wheeze instead. Arthur found that his vision suddenly went white, and his sense of direction completely vanished. Fear washed over him once more, and he clasped a hand to his chest. He could feel himself moving forward. Down. Or was he going up?

He didn't know.

Before he knew it he felt his head strike one of the stairs, and he let out another strangled sound. He lay there for a moment, dazed as the fear continued to multiply and feast on his mind. He attempted to breathe again, eyes wide open and unseeing, his chest heaving with no result. There was a guardsman nearby. He had to have seen Arthur by now, awkwardly shifting his wings and sucking in air that went nowhere.

As he lay there, aware of someone growing quickly closer, it clicked.

London.

In that moment, Arthur felt as if all of his fears had been realized in a violent conundrum of pain and confusion. He had felt the odd prickings and aches of other cities in Britain being attacked, and it took a toll on him, but he had done his best to stand strong throughout it. To provide and be there for his platoon. But he was terrified now. This wasn't some other city. 

London was being attacked.

The attack of a Nation's capital caused a bodily shut down that ceased all function in almost every major area. A loss of vision, and breathing difficulties very similar to that of a collapsed lung or a failure of the epiglottis. Not only that, but heart palpitations and heart attacks were bound to occur, and depending on the severity of the attack, a Nation could find themselves rendered temporarily paralyzed. But that was extremely rare.

"Are you okay?"

It was William. Arthur was unable to reply, and when he did, he let out a loud wheeze, gesturing weakly with his free hand to his chest. By now, it was accompanied by a searing, burning sensation.

"Arthur?" The man exclaimed. He was unaware of what was happening, so Arthur could understand his fear; but he was afraid too. As he attempted to speak, Arthur became aware of William grabbing onto his shirt, before moving to drag him towards the bunks. He rasped, his vision beginning to clear slightly. The pain remained, but the ability to see brought him relief.

Arthur shifted his head down, seeing that he really was being dragged across the grass, his wings limp and twitching slightly as he attempted to breathe. He was physically unable to die, he reminded himself. He simply couldn't, as long as London survived, and as long as the rest of England remained okay.

William began to shout for the medic as Arthur found himself lying in the hallway just inside, taking in huge gulps of air in an attempt to get his lungs functioning again. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't feel his heart beating either. All he could feel now was a terrible burning in his chest, a pounding in his head, and an odd weightless feeling in his fingers and toes. He was also aware that he had started crying.

He felt helpless lying there, splayed on the floor like an immovable rag doll, gaping like a fish, clenching onto his shirt over his chest. He could hear a pair of footsteps pounding down the hall, and he flicked his eyes down to see Franklin and Thomas pounding their way towards them in confusion, apparently having heard the shouting, and now having seen Arthur sprawled there, wings cast out and twitching as if he'd just fallen from the sky.

Franklin, who was carrying a small medic's bag, slumped onto the ground next to him, and he was aware of Thomas shifting to his other side as he began to attempt CPR. It did nothing to help. He just needed to speak. Desperately.

Five minutes passed and he finally took in a huge breath, surprised at the fact that it actually entered his lungs.

Franklin moved quickly, propping him up against the wall. Surprisingly enough, the whole ordeal had only taken five minutes. But the pain still lasted. Arthur sat there, wheezing and coughing as he attempted to regain his ability to breathe, his face so pale it was almost turning blue. It took a lot of William and Howard reminding him to take breaths, and him wiping away tears of pain and fear that were very quickly replaced.

After what felt like much too long of Arthur sitting there, still holding his chest, he managed to wheeze out a word.

"London."

No less than two minutes later, the radiomen received news that London was being attacked by the Luftwaffe.