The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Susan looked to the apocalypse smoldering on the horizon. “It’ll be over soon,” she whispered to herself, unaware that the Luftwaffe would bomb London for fifty-seven consecutive nights.

  CHAPTER 4

  BUXTON, MAINE

  The burial service for Ollie’s parents was on a Tuesday. Attendance was light; he was an only child, and his closest relatives were people whom he had never met, still living in small towns dotting the English coast and Scottish Highlands. Those attending were mostly neighboring farmers, hardworking men and women who had put on their starched Sunday clothes to pay their respects. A few of his father’s pilot friends stood in the back, one of them a wiry man with dark sunken eyes, proudly displaying his Great War flying wings pinned to the lapel of his sagging suit.

  The ceremony was short. Ollie, his eyes fixed on the coffins, struggled to listen to the minister’s words. After the service, he individually thanked those in attendance, their endless handshakes, hugs, and words of condolences unable to lift his spirits. He heard whispers about the man, now sober in the county jail, awaiting sentencing for running down his parents. But the justice of a long prison term would not bring them back.

  By Thursday, the bank had requested a meeting. Ollie got up early and drove his parents’ truck to Portland. He rolled down the windows, for fear that the slightest scent of his father’s aftershave or his mother’s perfume would make him cry again. The last thing he needed was to go in all red-eyed to meet with the banker.

  A receptionist took him to the banker’s office. A plump man with a bulbous nose and oiled hair sat behind a large desk, clear of any papers, except for an engraved business-card holder with the words Sal Bronson, President. The man did not bother to get up; instead, he gestured for Ollie to take a seat.

  “Ollie,” Mr. Bronson said. “This is Mr. Hood, the attorney who will help us with finalizing matters between the bank and the estate of your parents.”

  Ollie looked at the man with a pencil-thin mustache sitting in a chair next to him. The man tipped his hat without making eye contact and flipped open the briefcase sitting on his lap.

  “Ollie, are you aware of the amount of your parents’ debt?” the banker asked.

  “Well, not exactly.” Ollie shifted in his seat. “I’m sure they had debt. After all, we’re farmers.”

  “It’s my understanding your parents had no life insurance, correct?”

  Ollie nodded.

  Mr. Hood handed Ollie some papers.

  The banker leaned back in his chair. “That’s a list of the outstanding debt on the farm, house, equipment, and crop-dusting business. Your parents have been running behind on payments. Bottom line, the place is buried in debt, and we’re foreclosing.”

  Ollie swallowed. “What about the harvest of the potato crop?”

  The banker shook his head. “Not enough to make a dent.”

  “But my parents, even if they were running a little behind, always made good on their payments.”

  The banker raised his hand. “We’ve sent out a team this morning to secure the farm equipment. Mr. Hood will be handling the foreclosure proceedings.”

  “There must be something that can be done,” Ollie said.

  The banker shook his head. “It’s too bad your father had been giving away crop-dusting services, not to mention using precious farmland for a landing strip.” He ran his fingers, thick as sausages, through his slicked hair. “I’m afraid your father wasn’t much of a businessman.”

  Ollie stood. His pulse pounded in his ears. “My parents may not have been financially savvy, but they were good, hardworking people who cared a lot about the farmers in Buxton.” He tossed the papers, scattering them over the banker’s desk, and left.

  By the time he arrived home, there was already an auction sign planted at the entrance of the driveway. Ollie stopped the truck, yanked the sign out of the ground, and tossed it into the yard. Another notice was nailed to the front door. He ripped it off and crumbled it. Inside, everything seemed to be in place, but behind the barn was another matter. The tractor was gone. And the biplane was missing its propeller. The bank’s repossession team, Ollie assumed, had taken the propeller until they could arrange for someone to fly it away. He felt the urge to climb into the hayloft and pull out the old propeller, as if the plane had been left naked. It had a chip in the blade but was still functional. But where would he go? What would he do after he got there? And if he stayed on the farm, how long did he have before he was evicted?

  Refusing to stay and watch his parents’ farm be auctioned away, Ollie went to his bedroom and packed his suitcase. He selected the few material things that were important to him: a picture of his parents, which he removed from a frame on the mantel, his flight logbook, and his acceptance letter to Worcester Polytechnic Institute. He drove away, unable to look back. His first stop was the cemetery, where he placed golden wild flowers—picked from the side of the road—on his parents’ graves. He said good-bye, not knowing when he would be back. As he left their earthy mounds, he wished he had taken the time to purchase artificial flowers, something that would look nice until the grass grew.

  His second stop was a small used-car dealership in Buxton. He sold the truck, needing money more than transportation. Besides, the bank would take the vehicle if he didn’t sell it. He only got eighty-five dollars, but considering every panel was rusted and the engine sounded like a blender filled with coins, he believed it was a fair deal.

  Ollie began the sixteen-mile walk with no regrets about not picking a car dealership closer to the Portland train station. He needed time to think. Going to Worcester was an alternative, but with eighty-five dollars and the little bit of change in his wallet, it wasn’t enough to pay for college. He’d have to find a job. A place to stay. Hopefully, the walk would give him time to clear the fog from his head and figure out a plan.

  He looked at his watch, then to the sun setting over the pines, and realized that he would likely miss the evening train to Boston. With no desire to return home, he continued walking, even if it meant that he’d have to spend the night at the station and catch the train in the morning.

  The journey was quiet, except for the buzz of cicadas and the rustle of weeds from passing cars. As his arm tired, he switched the suitcase to the opposite hand. Step after step, he traveled on County Road 22, feeling the air turn cool as the sun began to sink. Hours passed, and he reached Congress Street, the city lights of Portland illuminating the horizon. Several hundred yards to his right, the glimmer of runway beacons drew his attention to the Portland Airport. He stopped, put down his suitcase, and rubbed his arm. Three runways spread over a large plot of land with a small, one-story brick building and two hangars. He heard twin engines choke and sputter. A few seconds later, the engines started, then abruptly stalled.

  Ollie followed a service road to get a better look and found a mustached man wearing an olive military uniform with an unusual belt across the tunic, shouting to a pilot of a small passenger plane to cut the ignition. Ollie noticed the letters RCAF and a British roundel, looking like a bull’s-eye target, painted on the tail. The pilot waved his hand out the window, got out of his seat, and left the plane with two other men to examine the engines. A mechanic with grease streaks across the front of his overalls came out to help them.

  The mustached man noticed Ollie, took a swig from a flask in his hand, and said, “What do you want, kid?”

  Ollie looked behind him and realized the man was talking to him. “Nothing,” he said, squeezing the handle on his suitcase. “Sounds like the engines are flooded.”

  “You know something about planes?”

  Ollie swallowed. “Only biplanes. And much older than this one, I’m afraid.”

  The man smiled, crow’s-feet forming in the corners of his eyes. “In that case, care to join me for a drink?”

  Ollie hesitated.

  “They’ll have this bird repaired in no time.” The man, three rows of medals glittering across the left side
of his jacket, stepped forward and extended his hand. “Name’s Bishop.”

  “Ollie.” He shook his hand, and they took a seat on a bench beside a hangar.

  Bishop gave Ollie the flask. “Cheers, my good man.”

  Ollie took a drink, feeling a burn in his throat, and coughed. “Thanks,” he wheezed.

  Bishop laughed. “So, tell me what you know about biplanes.”

  Ollie told him about his father’s biplane, the crop-dusting business, and flying since he had turned fourteen. Bishop asked a lot of questions, as if spreading fertilizer over potatoes was a glamorous business, and he was particularly interested if Ollie had more than 300 hours of certified flying time.

  Ollie opened his suitcase, retrieved the flight log from under a pair of trousers, and thumbed through it. “Never really counted, but easily over a thousand.”

  “Impressive.”

  Ollie noticed Bishop looking at his suitcase. “I’m on my way to Worcester to study aeronautical engineering.” He shut his suitcase and set it down, hoping he could find a way to pay for school.

  Bishop took a drink from the flask and handed it back to Ollie. The second drink didn’t burn as much as the first, only warming Ollie’s stomach and leaving a strong peaty taste in his mouth.

  “You have me beat by a full year with your first solo flight,” Bishop said. “When I was fifteen, I built a plane out of shipping cardboard, crates, and twine. I flew it off the top of my parents’ three-story house in Ontario or, more accurately, crashed my ostrich of a monstrosity into my mother’s rose garden. My sister dug me out of the wreckage using a pruning shear. Fortunately, I was unharmed except for a bad scrape and the scolding from my parents.” Bishop rolled up his sleeve, showed Ollie a long, thin scar that ran across his elbow, and took a swig from the flask.

  They spent the next hour talking about flying, sharing stories of biplane maneuvers: barrel rolls, English bunts, inside loops, outside loops, lazy eights, and Immelmann turns. When the pilot came over and told Bishop that the engine was fixed, Bishop waved him off and told him to check over the plane again.

  Bishop leaned back on the bench. “So, Ollie, what do you think about the war?”

  He thought of his conversations with his parents and felt a sudden loss wash over him. “I don’t understand why we aren’t in the war yet, or at least helping.”

  Bishop nodded. “Ever consider joining the air corps?”

  “The US Army Air Corps requires a college education, which I don’t have yet.”

  Bishop smiled. “The Canadian and British air corps don’t have that requirement, only three hundred hours of fly time, a pilot’s license, and being single. In fact, you could even wear glasses.” He drank more scotch from his flask. “If you change your mind about college, I can arrange for you to join the Royal Canadian Air Force.”

  “No offense, sir . . .”

  “Call me Bish; anyone sharing a drink with me calls me Bish.” He handed Ollie the flask.

  Ollie took another drink, feeling his head begin to swim. “I’ve already delayed attending college for three years. And besides, if I were to join a foreign air corps, it would have to be the British Royal Air Force.”

  “RAF . . . may I ask why?”

  Ollie thought of his last conversation with his father. A wave of guilt made his eyes begin to water. “My father always told me that our family may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British.”

  Bishop grinned. “I like a man with pride in his roots. You have a good father, son.”

  Ollie swallowed. “Had.”

  Bishop’s smile faded.

  “My parents are dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They sat for a moment listening to the chirps of crickets hanging onto the last few days of autumn. Then Bishop pulled a business card from his pocket, wrote something on the back with a pencil, and handed it to Ollie.

  “If you should change your mind about school, here is a way to join either the Canadian or British air force,” Bishop said, breaking the silence. “I happen to do a little recruiting for the Royal Canadian Air Force; the address for our headquarters in New York is printed on the front. I wrote on the back the name of a man I know in London who is working on establishing an American fighter squadron for the RAF. All you would need to do is make your way to London. No guarantees, but I’ll make sure your name is on a list, Ollieeeee . . .”

  “Evans.”

  “The rest would be up to you, Ollie Evans.”

  “Thanks for the offer, and the drink, but I’m leaving for Worcester in the morning.”

  The sound of the twin engines drowned their voices. Ollie shook Bishop’s hand and accompanied him to the plane.

  “Good luck to you, Ollie.” Bishop climbed the steps of the plane, his crew already loaded and waiting for him.

  “Bishop!” Ollie shouted, the scotch overcoming his shyness.

  He turned at the top of the stairs.

  “Why did you fly a cardboard plane off your parents’ house?”

  Bishop smiled, suddenly looking older in the shadows of night. A man, probably in his mid-forties, aged by the stress of war. “Because, my good man. I was born to fly.” He entered the plane and shut the cabin door.

  Ollie felt a blast of wind from the propellers. A whiff of aviation fuel filled his nostrils. He watched the plane accelerate down the runway, fly into the night, and disappear into the stars.

  The mechanic who had been working on the plane approached Ollie. “Do you know who that was?” He wiped grease from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

  Ollie scratched his head. “His name was Bishop.”

  “That was Billy Bishop, air marshal for the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was coming in from Nova Scotia. I heard the pilot say that Bishop had just met with Winston Churchill. And now he’s on his way to a secret meeting with Roosevelt. Can you believe that? They’re setting up a pilot recruiting office in New York; Bishop is gonna try to get the FBI to turn a blind eye to the US Neutrality Act.” The mechanic nudged Ollie’s arm. “What did he say to you?”

  “We just talked about flying.” Ollie picked up his suitcase and left.

  Ollie made his way to the train station, but the gate was locked. Realizing he would have to wait until morning for the station to open, he found a park bench and sat down. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a bearded man rummaging in a garbage can. Ollie watched the man pick something out, brush it off, and put it in his mouth. He wondered if the man was just a casualty of the Depression or if he had been injured like his father and had the course of his life changed. Unable to stand by and watch him rummage through fly-infested food, Ollie reached into his pocket and took out some change. As he approached, the bearded man raised an empty milk bottle. Ollie slowly held up his hands, kneeled, and placed the change on the sidewalk.

  By the time Ollie returned to his bench, the man had picked up the change and disappeared. Exhausted, Ollie curled into a ball and closed his eyes.

  Minutes later, a concussive blow to the head jolted Ollie from his sleep. In a daze, he fell from the bench. Cold pavement pressed against his cheek. His head throbbed. Touching his scalp, his fingers turned wet. With blurred vision, he watched a dark figure rummage through his suitcase. He tried to stand but lost his balance and fell. As his vertigo subsided, he struggled to sit up and noticed that his attacker had fled. The contents of his suitcase were strewn like confetti over the grass. And beside him were the shards of a broken milk bottle.

  CHAPTER 5

  PORTLAND, MAINE

  Ollie rubbed his aching head, feeling as if the man who had robbed him had also performed a lobotomy using a butter knife. He gathered his strength, stood on wobbly knees, and collected the remnants of his personal items that were spread across the grass. Ollie found most of his possessions, including his flight book and the picture of his parents. The only thing missing was his money: the proceeds from selling the car and even the couple of dollars he had stash
ed in his wallet. He scanned the park for the man who had robbed him, but he was nowhere to be found.

  Ollie found a public restroom near Longfellow Square, and although the door was locked, he located a window that was unlatched. He crawled inside and fell to the floor, the tile cold against his hands. Pulling a string hanging from a light fixture in the ceiling, he looked in the mirror and wished he had left the light off. A large gash had split a groove into his forehead, just below the hairline. Dried blood covered the left side of his face and had dripped down his neck like hardened wax, dyeing the collar of his white shirt crimson. He turned on the water, washed his face, and scrubbed the stains from his shirt, until only a pink hue remained. He combed his hair with his fingers and thought that he could use some stitches. But he had no time and, more importantly, no money.

  At the station, Ollie joined the crowd of people gathering for the train to Boston, most of whom had their heads buried in the morning newspaper. He tried to sell his watch to buy a ticket; with no interested buyers, he resorted to trying to hock his suitcase. But everyone was consumed with the paper, even annoyed when he interrupted their reading to display how well the spring latches still worked on his tattered case.

  A whistle blew, and the train crawled to a stop, its wheels screeching over the rails. The engine hissed, the doors slid open, and the crowd entered, one by one, until the landing was empty. Except for Ollie.

  The doors closed, the train inched forward, and Ollie watched his future disappear down the tracks. As he stood alone, trying to figure out a plan to make some money for the afternoon train, a breeze blew a crumpled newspaper to his feet. He picked it up, curious to know what had captured everyone’s attention. He stared at the headline: Bombing of London Lasts All Night! Nazis Hurl 1,000 Planes! Each word of the article, in particular the mounting death toll, made Ollie’s anger build, causing his head to throb. Dropping the paper, he reached into his pocket and removed the card Bishop had given him. It simply read Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York, New York. No name. No number. And on the back, scribbled in pencil, Charles Sweeny, London.