The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Ollie’s hands were shaking. A wave of uncertainty washed over him. How was a young crop-dusting pilot from Buxton, Maine, to make a difference? He felt incompetent. And more like a naïve farm boy than an aviator. He had thought the death of his parents was perhaps the end of his tribulation, but he now realized it was merely the beginning.

  Ollie took in deep breaths to calm his nerves. He opened his suitcase and retrieved the picture of his parents, taken before the crippling tractor accident. His parents were smiling, holding hands, and dressed in their Sunday clothes. His father proudly sported a tie that Ollie had given him one year for Christmas, and Mother wore a pleated dress, her long locks of hair resting on her shoulders. Ollie wiped his eyes, overcome with guilt for the way he had disregarded his parents about their convictions to support Britain and, even more, for never having had the opportunity to apologize. His parents had sacrificed to provide him with a good life, one that until now he had taken for granted. He wished he could have even half of their spirit. Regardless of the fact that he was broke, homeless, and foolish for believing he could become a pilot for the Royal Air Force, he vowed to move on. Ollie put away the photo, buried his fear, and left his pile of bricks.

  To make a little money, enough to purchase a meal of fried bread and a train ticket to London, he worked the day unloading cargo for the Maaskerk. As he carefully unloaded heavy wooden boxes filled with artillery shells, he noticed several burned warehouses and the Liverpool Iron Works; one wing of the structure was obliterated. Ollie asked a shipyard worker named Joseph Burke what had happened. With a quivering jaw, Joseph told Ollie that a few weeks before, the Luftwaffe had bombed the city. Joseph clasped his hands as if he were about to pray and added that his wife, Millie, and his two-year-old daughter, Christine, had taken refuge in the Cleveland Square shelter the night of the bombing. The shelter took a direct hit, killing eighteen people, including Millie and Christine.

  “I was working the night shift,” Joseph said. “I should have been there with them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ollie said.

  Joseph nodded, wiped his eyes, and went back to work.

  Ollie returned to unloading cargo, filled with fury at what the Nazis had done. He imagined taking to the sky in an RAF Hurricane, perhaps even a Spitfire, and ridding his parents’ homeland of this evil.

  After finishing his work, Ollie collected his pay and boarded a train to London, which wasn’t crowded, considering many people were fleeing the cities. And he realized why when the train approached London.

  Although the port of Liverpool had received heavy bombing, most of the city’s residential areas had been spared. That was not the case for London. An ashen haze loomed over the great city. Ollie stuck his head out the window to get a better look. Wind blew across his face, filling his nostrils with the scent of smoke. And as the train chugged into the city limits, he saw destroyed factories, burned buildings, a church with its steeple toppled, and blocks of what used to be row houses reduced to smoldering rubble. It looked as if London was being cremated, one piece at a time.

  As the train passed the first cemetery, Ollie noticed scores of fresh graves tarnishing the once-manicured grounds, with dozens of new holes being dug for those waiting to be buried or in preparation for another night of bombing. Rows of pine boxes were propped against the side of a mortuary like a macabre assembly line. And just as Ollie was becoming numb to the horror, he saw them. The small coffins.

  Ollie felt as if the air had been sucked out of his body. “It’s not supposed to happen this way,” he whispered to himself. Children were not supposed to go before their parents. And wars were not supposed to be fought in cities. He had been taught in school that combat took place on battlefields. Gettysburg. The Western Front. Gallipoli. The Battle of the Somme. Bloodshed was in the muddy trenches, so he believed. Weren’t those the rules? But that was not the case with the Nazis. The Luftwaffe had taken the war to the cities, with no regard for the killing of innocent civilians, including children.

  Ollie watched the cemetery disappear in the distance and wondered if there would be enough trees in all of Britain to build the coffins.

  A child whimpered. He turned and saw a mother two rows behind him attempting to console her daughter, who was perhaps five or six years old. The woman was caressing the girl’s face and doing her best to distract her child from the ghastly view outside the window. “Your father is safe . . . the war will be over soon,” the woman repeated, as if she were chanting affirmations. But the girl wailed harder. And the mother broke down and wept.

  Ollie reached in his suitcase and found his only clean item, a sock, the twin to the one he had used for his head. He stood, rolled the garment into a ball, and walked down the aisle. The woman and her child looked up, both with tears running down their cheeks.

  “I wish I had a handkerchief,” Ollie said, handing the sock to the woman.

  The woman accepted the gesture and dabbed her daughter’s cheeks. Ollie returned to his seat and put up the window, attempting to shut out the death and destruction. He sat for the remainder of the trip with his face buried in his hands.

  The London streets were filled with volunteers clearing away rubble. Surprisingly to Ollie, many shops were open. He soon learned that the Luftwaffe had bombed the city every evening for fourteen consecutive nights, and many Londoners were now spending their nights in shelters beneath the city. Ollie admired the perseverance of Londoners, going about their daily lives in spite of Hitler’s bombing offensive.

  Ollie was able to find the office of Charles Sweeny by asking for directions from people in the street. Apparently, Mr. Sweeny was quite a socialite and an admired businessman. A few minutes before five o’clock, Ollie entered a large office building in the heart of London, fortunate to have been spared from the bombings. He went to the top floor, where he was greeted by a gray-haired receptionist who was hastily preparing to leave.

  “I’m Ollie Evans.” He showed the woman the card Bishop had given him. “Bish . . . I mean Mr. Bishop . . . had told me to meet with Mr. Sweeny about joining the Royal Air Force.”

  The woman shook her head. “Mr. Sweeny is out of town.” She threw a stack of papers into a bin. “I’m leaving.”

  Ollie watched the woman lock her desk and toss keys into her purse. “Please, I’ve come all the way from the United States.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” she said.

  A siren sounded.

  The woman stepped backward. “They’re coming.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Ollie’s neck. “How much time?”

  “Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. That siren means they’ve been spotted crossing the Channel.” The woman threw on her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and turned.

  “Please!” Ollie called after her. “I’ve got no place to go.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “But there may not be a tomorrow!”

  The woman stopped. Then fumbled for her keys. “Name.”

  “Ollie.”

  The siren howled.

  “Your last name.” She jammed a key into the file cabinet and opened the lock.

  “Evans.”

  The woman dug through a drawer. “I don’t see it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The woman flipped through more files. She stopped. “Oliver?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman pulled out an envelope and slammed the drawer shut. She quickly handed the envelope to Ollie. “Take a train to Church Fenton in the morning.” The woman threw her keys into her purse. “I suggest you find a shelter, Mr. Evans.” She turned and left, the click of her heels echoing in the hallway.

  Ollie followed the woman down the stairs. “Where should I go?”

  “Follow the crowds!” the woman shouted.

  Outside, Ollie lost sight of the woman in a group of people running on the sidewalk but managed to find a shelter in an underground railway station. It was crowded with Londoners who had been lining up to get in
since midafternoon, but he was able to find a less desirable spot, a damp corner on a lumpy cobblestone floor. The family next to him was playing a board game, their youngest daughter holding a doll and a gas mask. When Ollie introduced himself, the young girl leaned to her mother and said, “He sounds rather odd.”

  Ollie smiled, perhaps for the first time in weeks, and told them that he had traveled from Maine to join the Royal Air Force.

  Despite his unusual accent, the family gave Ollie some of their rationed food—dried sausage and pickled beets.

  “We appreciate your sacrifice for our war effort,” the father said, cutting a piece of sausage for Ollie.

  “Thank you,” Ollie said, taking the meat. “I wish I had something to give you in return.”

  “You can help give us back our sky,” the man said.

  Ollie nodded.

  The rumble of exploding bombs began at dark. As the ground shook and dust fell from the ceiling, Ollie opened his envelope. Under the dim glow of a lantern, he found paperwork with his name on it, a train ticket, and a note.

  Mr. Evans,

  On behalf of the Royal Air Force and the citizens of the United Kingdom, we are gratified for your services in our hour of need. My dear friend, Billy Bishop, Air Marshal of the Royal Canadian Air Force, sent word that you may turn up, indicating that he was “impressed with the young lad from Maine.” I hope this letter finds you, and if so, the enclosed papers will lead you to the Number 71 Eagle Squadron at Church Fenton, under the command of Squadron Leader W. M. Churchill. I wish you success in our fight.

  Godspeed,

  Charles Sweeny

  Ollie opened his suitcase, exchanged the papers for a sweater, and propped the garment behind his head as a pillow. Snores filled the shelter. A young boy coughed. The ground rumbled. Bits of mortar fell from the ceiling. He wiped grit from his face, rolled over, and tried to find a comfortable position on the cobblestone. Ollie thought of flying his biplane over the potato fields of Maine, and how much he missed his parents. As the thunder of German bombs fell over the city, he noticed the young girl sleeping with a gas mask clenched in her arms, her doll splayed on the floor. And Ollie vowed to do his part to give her back her sky.

  CHAPTER 8

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan’s grandfather was right; Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar was the same little dickens from her primary school. This was confirmed when the lieutenant arrived at daybreak, after another night of bombing, with orders to accompany a Bertie Shepherd of the National Pigeon Service to London. As the lieutenant prepared to knock, Bertie swung open the door and asked, “Are you the same boy who ate ribbon from the parish Christmas tree?”

  Susan’s face flushed hot with embarrassment.

  Flight Lieutenant Boar, a six-foot, broad-shouldered RAF flight leader, slid his hands into his pockets and said, “Yes, sir. And from what I can remember, it tasted quite good.”

  Bertie invited him inside, seeming satisfied with the lieutenant’s candidness or intrigued with the notion that eating tinsel could turn devilish boys into rugged airmen.

  Bertie pointed to his bowed knees. “I’m afraid the old legs aren’t up for the trip.”

  Susan placed a hand on her grandfather’s shoulder.

  “I understand,” Flight Lieutenant Boar said. “After the meeting, I’ll make arrangements to deliver you the orders.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Bertie said. “Susan will be taking my place.”

  The lieutenant raised his brows.

  Susan extended her hand. “Hello, Flight Lieutenant.”

  Boar looked at Bertie. “I believe the orders are for you to attend the—”

  “Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service requested a representative of the Bertie Shepherd farm to attend,” Bertie interrupted.

  The lieutenant rubbed his jaw.

  “Susan is also a member of the National Pigeon Service, and she will be my representative.”

  Susan cleared her throat, her arm still extended.

  Boar shook her hand.

  Bertie stepped close to the lieutenant. “I’m putting my trust in you for Susan’s safety.”

  “The meeting is at eleven AM,” Boar said. “The afternoon train will have us out of London before the bombings.”

  Bertie gave Susan a hug. “You’re as good as they are,” he whispered. “Be an egg.”

  Susan squeezed her grandfather.

  Be an egg, Susan thought. One could be soft with fear inside, but hard as slate outside. It was her grandfather’s phrase of affirmation, spoken seldom, but at the times she needed them most. Bertie had always been supportive of all her endeavors, instilling a sense of confidence that she could accomplish anything through diligence and faith. And it was this conditioning, she believed, that enabled her to attend the University of London. Susan also knew it was dreadfully painful for Bertie to let her go into the city. She wished that it had been her persistent requests that had worn her grandfather down. But in the end, it was Bertie’s failing knees that were the tipping point. She prayed that she would make him proud.

  “Are you sure you can take care of the pigeons?” Susan asked.

  Bertie nodded, his eyes watery. “I may not be able to travel, but I can bloody well walk across this farm.”

  Susan kissed Bertie on the cheek and left.

  Susan and Flight Lieutenant Boar got into the back of a green military vehicle. A soldier sat as a chauffeur behind the wheel. As they drove off, Susan saw Bertie hobbling across the lawn, wasting no time getting to work. And perched on top of a loft was a solitary pigeon with an unmistakable vibrant plume. From the view out the rear window, Susan watched Bertie, Duchess, and the sanctuary of her home disappear.

  The driver dropped off Susan and the lieutenant at North Weald Station. They boarded the train for London and took a seat near the back.

  “We attended school together,” Susan said, as the train lurched forward. “I was two years behind you.”

  Boar raised a finger. “You were the girl that liked birds.”

  “Pigeons.”

  The lieutenant offered Susan a cigarette.

  Susan shook her head.

  The lieutenant lit a cigarette and inhaled. “I’m a flight leader,” he said, blowing smoke. “Blenheim Bomber.”

  Susan nodded.

  “After this mission, I expect to lead a Spitfire squadron.”

  “I expect to save Britain.”

  Boar coughed, dropping ashes onto Susan’s skirt. “Excuse me.” He brushed soot from her clothing, then slid down the window.

  A cool breeze blew across Susan’s face. I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew . . . She shivered. “Would you mind putting up the window?”

  The lieutenant sighed, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

  Susan felt the urge to explain that it was more than the cold air but decided against it when the lieutenant flicked out his cigarette, closed the window, and leaned back to rest his eyes.

  Passengers, unable to resist the urge to view the results of last night’s bombings, flocked to the windows as the train approached London. Smoldering plumes rose over the city. The number of fallen buildings increased in frequency and severity as the train chugged toward the epicenter of London. Fire brigades battled blazes in a futile effort to prevent flames from spreading to unscathed buildings.

  As a child, Susan’s grandparents had taken her to London each year to celebrate her birthday. Her memory was filled with visits to London Zoo, walks in Trafalgar Square, picnics in Hyde Park, and dinner at Filmore Pie and Mash Shop. Unlike most patrons of Filmore, they’d only order pudding—spotted dick with custard—rather than the savory pies or jellied eels. She recalled how Agnes had once attempted to wipe Bertie’s custard-coated whiskers with her napkin, only to have Bertie add a dollop of custard to his nose, pull her into his arms, and say, “Kiss me, Agnes!”

  Susan stared out the train window in disbelief. The London she’d gro
wn up with was nothing like this marred metropolis. The radio reports and newspapers had done little to prepare her for seeing this scorched, hellish ruin. Her breathing turned shallow, her chest filled with a fusion of shock and outrage.

  Parades of Londoners who had spent the night in underground shelters were returning to their homes, or what was left of them. Susan saw two children sitting on the steps of a row house in ruins, the oldest girl consoling her baby brother by rocking him on her lap. Susan noticed the absence of parents and wiped tears from her eyes.

  The train stopped several blocks before reaching their station due to a bomb that had taken out the tracks, leaving a crater the size of a bus. They stepped off the train to the wail of ambulance, police, and fire sirens. The scent of burnt wood and petrol made Susan want to hold her breath. A library across the street had been converted to a makeshift hospital; stretchers of wounded were being hauled inside by medics. Susan covered her mouth.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” the lieutenant said, nudging her. “We need to go.”

  Susan reluctantly moved on.

  They walked for blocks, passing more destruction and a park where antiaircraft artillery guns were placed between a swing set and a playground merry-go-round. Once a sanctuary for playful children, the park was now a military zone, with hardened men stacking sandbags.

  Sections of central London were unrecognizable. Centuries of architecture decimated. Thousands of Londoners dead. Susan’s legs felt weak. She wanted to cry but continued walking through Westminster until Flight Lieutenant Boar stopped in front of the Treasury Building.

  “Is this it?” Susan asked.

  The lieutenant lowered his voice. “The Royal Air Force commands are moving out of London. Even British intelligence is rumored to be leaving the city. But Churchill’s stubborn. He declared that he would direct the war from the bowels of this building.”