The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Ollie rubbed his aching head and noticed the gash was sticky. He looked at the blood on his fingers and thought of his father. Our family may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British. Ollie left the train station, not bothering to check the time for the next train.

  The Portland shipyard was practically deserted, most ships having departed at daybreak. The few still docked were either in for repairs or headed in the wrong direction. But Ollie found a cargo ship that was going to Halifax with a load of grain. When the deck was clear, Ollie jumped onboard, lifted a canvas cover on a lifeboat, and hid inside.

  The ship’s horn blew. Ollie flinched, striking his head against the side of the boat. He felt something warm trickle down his face and realized he had reopened the gash in his head. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a sock, still fresh with the scent of his mother’s laundry detergent. He wiped his eyes and pressed the sock against his wound. Ollie felt the boat move and wondered how many hours—or days, for that matter—it would take to get to Nova Scotia. As he rocked with the waves of the open sea, Ollie curled into the nose of the lifeboat and fell asleep.

  * * *

  Ollie woke with a sharp pang in his head, his tongue dried like sunbaked leather. It had been at least a day since he had last eaten, maybe more. And almost as long since he had drunk anything, except for swigs of scotch from Bish’s flask, which had done nothing but suck the hydration from his body and fuel him with foolish confidence that he could safely sleep on a park bench. Fortunately, Ollie found a metal box under a pile of life jackets that was filled with survival rations, including cans of condensed milk, a jug of water, and crackers.

  Unfortunately, the captain enjoyed taking his breaks behind a lifeboat that shielded the wind to light his cheap cigars. And when the captain cupped his hand over a flickering flame from his Zippo lighter, he heard the unmistakable sound of crunching saltines.

  As Ollie munched into another cracker, the canvas cover ripped open. A strong hand grabbed his collar. Ollie reached for his neck to keep from choking. In an instant, he was yanked from the lifeboat and thrown onto the deck.

  “Who the hell are you?” the captain shouted.

  Ollie squinted from sunlight, “Ollie Evans, sir.”

  “What are you doing on my ship?”

  Ollie’s eyes adjusted, and he saw a barrel-chested man with gray hair thick as wire. “I’m on my way to England to join the Royal Air Force.” Ollie wiped crumbs from his face. “I’m a pilot.”

  The captain looked at the battered young man, shook his head, and laughed.

  Ollie stood, then noticed the sock stuck to his head. He carefully plucked the garment from his wound and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “We have two punishments for stowaways.” The captain puffed on his cigar, stepped forward, and exhaled smoke into Ollie’s face.

  Ollie coughed.

  “We can toss you overboard.” The captain flicked ashes over the rail. “Considering you’re a bloody mess, the sharks would get you before you drowned, even if you didn’t know how to swim.”

  Ollie swallowed.

  “Or we can put you to work.”

  “I’d prefer to work, sir.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” The captain scratched the stubble on his face. “I normally wouldn’t give you an option, but I had a deckhand quit.”

  Ollie hoped the captain wasn’t serious about throwing him overboard, but he didn’t want to find out. He retrieved his suitcase and followed the captain inside. Along the way, the captain laughed more about Ollie’s plan to be a pilot for the Royal Air Force, commenting that Ollie looked more like a rodent catcher than an aviator. Ollie didn’t understand the man’s humor, or what exactly a rodent catcher would look like, if there was such a profession. But regardless, if the captain had decided to keep him onboard as labor, or for amusement, Ollie gratefully accepted the man’s offer to work in exchange for one-way passage to Halifax.

  In the galley, the captain introduced him to a cook he called Beans, a short, elderly man who was stirring a steaming pot of oatmeal. “See what you can do to fix him up, then send him topside,” the captain said. “We’ll give him Willie’s chores.” The captain puffed his cigar and left.

  Beans pointed his wooden spoon, covered in clumps of oatmeal, and gestured for Ollie to take a seat. The cook put down his spoon and retrieved a bottle of alcohol and a cloth from a cabinet. “Let me guess, bar fight or running from the law.”

  “Neither,” Ollie said.

  Beans raised his eyebrows. “This will burn.” He splashed alcohol on Ollie’s wound and quickly covered it with the cloth.

  Ollie grimaced.

  “What happened?” Beans asked as he inspected the wound.

  Ollie told Beans about his parents and his plans to join the Royal Air Force before realizing that Beans was referring to the gash in his head. “I believe it was a milk bottle,” Ollie added.

  “I’m sorry.” Beans put down the cloth. “About your parents, I mean.”

  Ollie nodded.

  Beans sewed the gash in Ollie’s head with a fishing hook and some thread from the hem of his trousers. It turned out that Beans had been a tailor in his younger years, until the Depression had shut down the store where he was employed. Desperate for work, Beans accepted a position as the ship’s cook. He expected the job to be temporary, but that was a decade ago.

  Beans stuck the hook into Ollie’s forehead.

  Pain flared. “What’s your real name?” Ollie asked, gritting his teeth.

  “Ben.” The cook tightened a stitch.

  Ollie gripped the arms of his chair.

  “Captain calls everyone on the ship by a nickname. I’m not sure why.” Beans made several more stitches, carefully tied a knot, clipped the ends with scissors, and leaned back to admire his work. “Looks good. May not leave much of a scar.”

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  The cook nodded.

  Ollie offered Ben his watch in exchange for his medical services. But Ben refused, appearing grateful to be doing something other than stirring a pot of oatmeal or perhaps after hearing someone call him by his first name in over ten years.

  Ollie spent most of the two-day voyage scrubbing decks, cleaning the heads, greasing salt-corroded hinges, and—the crème de la crème—catching rats. It was apparently a big deal to control the rodent population on a cargo ship, especially one filled with delectable grains. The rat roundups, as the captain called them, had been one of the primary duties of the former deckhand, Willie. And Ollie understood why Willie had quit when he found himself setting traps the size of shoe boxes, baited with green molded cheese—more mold than cheese—and smelling of soured milk.

  Ollie collected the traps twice each day, tossing the guillotined bodies into the sea. It was disturbing to see the rats’ gaping mouths, their sharp yellow incisors, bellies swollen with corn, and snakelike tails. They were certainly much bigger than the field mice back on the farm. But despite their grotesque appearance, he hoped the rats hadn’t suffered. And after accidentally snapping his fingers while placing a trap, he was assured their end was quick and painless. The worst part was that the captain was too cheap to buy new traps, so Ollie had to scrub the bloodied boards in a bucket of saltwater and reuse them. The captain referred to this ritual as “doing da dishes.” It was by far the least desirable part of the job. But it kept him from thinking of his family and that he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

  When the ship reached Nova Scotia, Ollie found Ben in the galley scrubbing a stack of dirty pots. “Thanks for the stitches,” Ollie said, pointing to his forehead. “You could be a surgeon.”

  “Better get going before the captain changes his mind,” Ben said.

  Ollie thought of the captain. It had turned out that the captain’s surname was McCracken, and despite being a gruff seaman who despised stowaways, he disliked US neutrality even more. So the captain had kept his promise to allow Ollie to disembark in Nova S
cotia. Otherwise, Ollie may have found himself on another rat roundup.

  Ben dropped a pot into the sink. “If I were thirty years younger, I’d quit and go with you.”

  The remark reminded Ollie of his father’s frequent threats to walk to Montreal to join the war effort. He buried the thought and shook the cook’s soapy hand.

  “Take care of yourself, Ben.”

  Ollie picked up his suitcase, went on deck, and stared over the bow. Halifax looked similar to many of the ports in Maine—ink-blue water, rows of rickety piers, and brick warehouses cut into a land of pines. It could have been Portland, except for two distinguishing differences: Canadian flags and military ships. The docks and harbor were filled with destroyers, frigates, cruisers, patrol vessels, escort ships, and minesweepers.

  Beads of sweat formed on Ollie’s forehead. He wiped his brow and forced himself to step onto the gangplank, suddenly realizing he was going to war.

  CHAPTER 6

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Abell rang. Susan and Bertie perked their heads at the unusual sound of ringing, conditioned from several nights of explosions and roaring sirens. On the second ring, they realized it was the phone in the cottage. And even more surprising: The phone lines were working.

  Susan, carrying Duchess, ran inside. She quickly placed the pigeon on the seat of a wooden chair, the bird flapping its wings to maintain her balance. “Hello,” Susan said, grabbing the receiver.

  “Hello, this is Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service. May I speak to Bertie Shepherd?”

  “One moment.” Susan looked out the window and saw her bowlegged grandfather grimacing with pain. She held the phone to her chest and shouted.

  Bertie quickened his stride, biting his lower lip in response to the gravel in his knees. He reached the cottage, out of breath.

  “National Pigeon Service,” Susan said, cupping the receiver.

  Bertie cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound winded. He tilted the receiver. Susan leaned in, pressing her face against her grandfather’s whiskered cheek to listen.

  Mr. Wallace informed them of plans for a joint meeting in London next week to include the National Pigeon Service, British Intelligence, and the Royal Air Force. Bertie, as well as several other pigeon raisers for the National Pigeon Service, were required to be in attendance. Bertie attempted to ask questions, but Mr. Wallace could only provide the date and that a Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar from the RAF would escort him to a secret location in London.

  Susan watched Bertie write the information on a piece of scrap paper, wondering if there would be anything left of London by next week, and why it had taken the British authorities so long to plan the mission.

  “Good day, Jonathan,” Bertie said. He hung up the receiver and looked at Susan.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  Bertie nodded. “We’ve raced pigeons together.”

  Susan picked up Duchess. “You’re in no condition to travel.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Susan helped Bertie to his chair in the living room. She propped his feet on a stool and rolled his trousers above his knees. His thin legs looked like pencils, his knees swollen like melons. She pressed a finger to a kneecap.

  “Ouch!”

  Susan shook her head. “You can’t go.”

  “I’ll recover.” He placed his hand on Susan’s shoulder. “It’s the running to the shelter that has flared them up.”

  Susan retrieved cold cloths and ointment. She gently rubbed some salve over his knees.

  Duchess fluttered over and landed on the back of Bertie’s chair.

  “What are you looking at?” Bertie said over his shoulder.

  Duchess cocked her head and watched Susan wrap cloths around Bertie’s knees.

  Susan tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m going.”

  Bertie shook his head. “Too dangerous.”

  “You can barely walk, let alone travel to London.”

  “I can’t let you go. Your parents and Granny would never forgive me.” He placed his hand on Susan’s arm. “And I would never forgive myself.”

  Susan thought of Granny, recalling how much she missed their walks in Epping Forest to pick wild elderberries, most of which they ate before returning home. “Tell your grandfather that his pigeons have stolen all the berries,” Grandmother would often say, tossing a handful into her mouth. Susan would grin, pluck a berry from a bush, and place it into her mouth, feeling a wee bit mischievous. It was their little secret. They would come home from their adventures with full bellies, empty pails, and new memories, despite always taking the same winding path. Susan could remember every detail of Granny—her wispy gray hair, a constant smile spreading the soft wrinkles in her cheeks, and the eloquent timbre of her voice, like the strings of an old violin. Granny passed away in her sleep on a warm summer night, a mere four years ago. But it seemed like a lifetime ago, the war having driven a wedge between the past and present.

  Susan tried to remember her parents, casualties of the Spanish flu pandemic, but could only envision children jumping rope as they chanted. I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza. Susan clenched her hands, shutting the chant from her mind.

  “I’m going,” Susan said.

  “Absolutely not,” Bertie said firmly. “Besides, Wallace mentioned a Clyde Boar. The only Boar I know was the little dickens in your primary school who ate the ribbon off the parish Christmas tree. There’s no way I’m letting a tinsel eater escort my granddaughter to London.”

  Susan shook her head. “The garland was made of popping corn. And I doubt it’s the same person.”

  CHAPTER 7

  HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA

  The Canadian embarkation authorities were almost nonexistent, considering most of the customs officers had left to join the war. There were only two officers working the port—one with thick spectacles who struggled to read his clipboard, and another who spent his time staring through binoculars, as if he were waiting for a German submarine to rise from the depths of Halifax Harbour. Ollie disembarked by simply walking off the ship and mingling into a crowd.

  Unwilling to push his luck again as a stowaway, Ollie spent three days in Halifax trying to talk his way onto a ship headed to England. He received nothing but rejections, most of which came from crews of British or Canadian military vessels, unimpressed that a young man with a stitched forehead and a tattered suitcase had any business as a pilot for the Royal Air Force. Flashing Bish’s business card and his own flight log had gotten him nowhere. And it became increasingly clear to Ollie that he was unlikely to board a military ship without paperwork.

  Discouraged, Ollie walked to the end of a pier and sat down. His legs dangled over the side. He watched the tide go out, revealing pylons caked in barnacles. A briny scent filled his nostrils. With his eyes, he followed a thick rope tied to a freighter. Across the bow, painted in white lettering, was the name Maaskerk.

  “May skurk,” Ollie said, scratching his head. “Mase kirk.”

  A seaman who was walking along the pier stopped behind Ollie.

  “Mask urk . . . Mays kerk . . .”

  The seaman removed his officer’s cap and shook his head. “Maaskerk,” he said in a Dutch accent.

  Ollie turned. “Maw skerk?”

  “Maaskerk.”

  “Maaskerk,” Ollie repeated.

  The seaman nodded. “What are you doing here, besides butchering the name of my ship?”

  “Trying to get to England,” Ollie said. “I’m joining the Royal Air Force.”

  “You don’t sound British.”

  “I’m American.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Buxton, Maine.”

  “Buckon?”

  “Buxton.”

  “Booksen?”

  ‘No, Bucks-ton.” Ollie noticed the man grinning and realized that he was being made fun of. “I guess that makes us even.”

&nb
sp; The seaman replaced his cap. “Half our crew left to join the fight. Captain sent me onshore to recruit greasers. You work, and I’ll arrange for your passage.”

  Ollie stood and extended his hand. “Thank you. Name’s Ollie.”

  “Jansen,” the officer said, shaking Ollie’s hand.

  Ollie picked up his suitcase, followed Jansen up the gangway, and was put to work lubricating moving engine parts and mechanical equipment. He soon smelled of oil, his hands and shirt stained the color of coffee. As Ollie lathered the teeth of a cog, he wondered what it would be like in Britain. Where will I be stationed? What plane will I fly? What does a Nazi look like? Would Mom and Dad be proud? Will I be killed? He smeared on more grease and buried his thoughts.

  The Maaskerk was a Dutch freighter that was part of a convoy headed to England, seeking safe passage in the company of Canadian and British military vessels. A day into the journey, the freighter developed propeller trouble and slowed to seven knots. Unable to continue with the fourteen-knot convoy, the Maaskerk was forced to sail alone. Ollie heard fears from the crew that they were an easy torpedo target for a German submarine, some even placing bets on their reaching port, especially when rumors surfaced that the hull was secretly filled with ammunition, a much more dangerous cargo than grain—or rats, for that matter. But when the Maaskerk reached port in Liverpool, England, Ollie learned that the convoy had been attacked by a U-boat wolf pack and lost over a dozen ships. He was saddened by the loss of their crews, many of whom had waved to him from their decks as they departed Halifax. And he realized just how lucky he was to have boarded the Maaskerk, simply because he was intrigued by how to pronounce her name.

  Ollie disembarked feeling fortunate to have made it to England, until he saw the devastation. The port was in shambles. All but a few of the docks were reduced to splintering piles of wood and crumbled concrete. To the north, an entire block of buildings was in ruins. Ollie’s legs felt weak. His mouth went dry. He carried his suitcase around a large hole in the ground, no doubt caused by a bomb missing its target, and took a seat on a pile of bricks. He noticed passing shipyard workers with soiled clothes, sunken eyes, and lines of sorrow etched into their faces. And they all looked as if they had lost just as much as Ollie, if not more.