The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to abandon our people,” Susan said.

  Boar ignored her comment and opened the door.

  The lieutenant handed paperwork and identification to an army private, one of four armed men securing the entrance. The soldier unlocked an iron gate and led them down a set of steep stairs to a large underground complex, a concrete fortress composed of cabinet, communications, and sleeping rooms. They walked past a series of war rooms with uniformed men hovering over maps. Ringing phones and tapping typewriters filled the air. They were taken to a large room with a square conference table seating forty men. As they approached the few remaining seats, a military officer looked at Susan and said, “Could you bring me tea?”

  Susan clasped her hands to keep them from shaking and said, “I’m with the National Pigeon Service.”

  “Pardon me,” the officer said.

  They took their seats. Susan scanned those in the room, a mixture of military officers, British intelligence, and members of the National Pigeon Service. The British intelligence, likely from the Government Code and Cypher School, wore suits and ties and clung together at the far corner of the table. The National Pigeon Service was a civilian organization, and even though Susan didn’t recognize anyone she knew, she could spot the members by their gray hair and woolly farm attire. Susan noticed she was the only woman in the room. Be an egg, she thought.

  A decorated military man stood at the head of the table. “I’m Air Commodore John Breen.”

  The room went silent.

  The commodore wrote “Source Columba” on a chalkboard in large letters. “This is the code name for our mission.”

  Susan noticed men glancing at one another. But she knew from her studies at the university that Columba was the Latin word for pigeon.

  “We need a hundred thousand pigeons,” the commodore said, dusting chalk from his hands. “Before the war is over, we may need two hundred thousand.”

  Susan saw jaws drop as members of the National Pigeon Service took in this information.

  “The first objective of our meeting is a commitment from each farm on the number of birds and delivery dates.” The commodore wrote again on the board. Farm . . . No. of Birds . . . Date. “Once this is accomplished, members of the National Pigeon Service will be dismissed.”

  Packets were distributed. Susan selected her envelope, which was addressed to Bertie Shepherd. Inside was nothing more than a sharpened pencil and a sheet of paper on which to chart the number of pigeons and target delivery dates. Susan placed the paper facedown on the table.

  The commodore quickly began obtaining commitments from pigeon raisers as though he was pressed for time or frustrated to have drawn the short straw to coordinate a mission involving pigeons. Regardless, it was obvious to Susan that the commodore was eager to get this meeting over with and move on to more important endeavors, such as the air battle over the Channel. And one by one, the old men did what the commodore requested, as if they had been conditioned by years of climbing out of muddy trenches by whistle-blowing officers.

  Susan’s mind raced. What was the military going to do with all our pigeons? Where were they going? Who was going to care for them? She raised her hand.

  “Susan,” Boar whispered. “Not now.”

  Susan hesitated, then inched her hand higher.

  The commodore stopped. “Yes, Miss . . .”

  “Miss Shepherd. I’m here on behalf of my grandfather, Bertie Shepherd. He was unable to come because—”

  “You have a question, Miss Shepherd?” the commodore interrupted.

  Susan swallowed. “May I ask what you are going to do with our pigeons?”

  “It’s confidential. Only a few are aware of the plans to limit potential compromise of our intelligence.” The commodore turned to another pigeon raiser and requested his quota.

  Susan looked around the room. The eyes of pigeon raisers were upon her. She sensed that they were all thinking the same thing but didn’t have the courage to open their mouths. Susan’s face began to sweat. Her palms turned sticky. Her heart pounded. And she forced herself to stand.

  “Sit down, Susan,” Boar whispered.

  Be an egg . . . be an egg . . . be an egg. Susan stood firm.

  The commodore stopped. “Yes, Miss Shepherd.”

  “Do you have trained pigeon handlers included in the mission?”

  “Take your seat, Miss Shepherd.”

  “Do you plan to use our pigeons for one-way or two-way communication?”

  The commodore raised his voice. “Sit down, or I’ll have you removed.”

  “Susan,” the lieutenant hissed.

  “Did you know that the vast majority of the pigeons from our farms are one-way pigeons?” Susan asked.

  The commodore shouted for a military private, who was stationed outside the door.

  The soldier entered and saluted.

  “Remove her,” said the commodore.

  The soldier stepped toward Susan.

  Susan gripped the table. “Do you realize that most of the pigeons you take will only end up back at our lofts? We may not need to know when and where you plan to use our pigeons, but we need to know how they will be used if you expect Source Columba to be a success!”

  A staunch man wearing a spotted bow tie stopped as he passed the door.

  The military men snapped to attention. Susan turned and saw the prime minister, Winston Churchill, accompanied by two military officers.

  “Has the enemy invaded my war rooms?” Churchill asked with a cigar chomped between his teeth.

  Susan’s eyes widened.

  “Everything is under control,” the commodore said.

  “She’s right.” A thin, elderly man stood. “Name’s Jonathan Wallace, National Pigeon Service. Most of the pigeons will end up back at our lofts. My apologies to everyone for not speaking.”

  The remaining pigeon raisers nodded their heads.

  Churchill looked at Susan. “May I ask who you are?”

  Susan swallowed, noticing that the prime minister looked like a bulldog wearing a suit. “I’m Susan Shepherd. I raise pigeons with my grandfather, and I’m studying zoology. Or at least I was until the war.”

  Churchill leaned in. “What do you think you’re doing by challenging a senior military officer?”

  “My duty, sir.”

  Jowl muscles contracted. Ash fell from his cigar. Churchill looked at the commodore and said, “I recommend we take time to listen to Mr. Wallace and members of the National Pigeon Service. Their insight may be extraordinarily valuable in the success of our mission. It’s our intellect, spirit, and tough British fiber that will lead us to victory.” He tipped his hat and left.

  Everyone took their seats. The commodore gripped his chalk, flushness spreading over his face.

  “Bloody hell, Susan,” the lieutenant whispered. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Nor I,” Susan said, feeling as if she had come within inches of being struck by a speeding train.

  The meeting lasted deep into the afternoon. Not only did Susan learn about how the pigeons were to be used, she learned everything about Source Columba and wished she had kept her mouth shut.

  CHAPTER 9

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Susan and Flight Lieutenant Boar missed the last train out of London by a mere ten minutes. While the lieutenant was attempting to secure a military vehicle to drive them back to North Weald, Susan searched for a telephone to call Bertie. Outside the train station, twilight cast inky shadows. We’re running out of time, she thought. Quickly, she located a telephone box, but the lines were dead. As she placed the receiver back in its cradle, air-raid sirens sounded. Susan covered her ears. Sparse groups of Londoners looked to the sky. Paces quickened. And streets turned bare.

  Susan and Flight Lieutenant Boar gave up their attempts to return home and followed a woman with her three young boys, each carrying blankets and pillows, into an underground railway station. Susan felt sick, realizing that
Bertie would worry. But less than an hour later, she forgot about her grandfather, at least for the moment, when the first round of bombs exploded, shaking the shelter and dropping bits of mortar into her hair.

  As she shook grit from her scalp, she noticed the woman they had followed into the shelter open a book and begin reading to her three boys. Despite the woman’s best efforts to distract her children, the boys’ eyes wandered to the ceiling. Susan saw another family playing a board game, taking turns rolling dice and blowing dust from the pieces. An old woman was teaching her granddaughter how to knit, a scarf slowly growing from the click of the needles. Despite the destruction of the city above them, the Londoners were doing their best to go about their lives, if not for themselves, for the children.

  Eventually, the children were tucked in their blankets. Lanterns were dimmed. But the thunder of bombs continued.

  Susan stared at the masonry ceiling. Can the shelter withstand a direct hit? Her heart thumped against her rib cage. She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms. The trepidation of hiding underground, while the Luftwaffe bombed London, was worse than she could ever have imagined. With each rumbling blast, Susan felt one step closer to death.

  “Get some rest, Susan,” Boar said, sitting next to her. “There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

  She nodded.

  The lieutenant leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Susan, her gut twisted with angst, remained awake, wondering if the wings of a hundred thousand pigeons could change the course of the war.

  * * *

  As morning came, the last wave of explosions stopped. A siren gave the all-clear signal, a long deafening drone that stirred the occupants of the shelter. People stretched their arms; others wiped sand from their eyes. A gradual crescendo of whispers turned to normal voices as people gathered their blankets, pillows, and bags. Susan’s apprehension gradually diminished. She hadn’t slept but didn’t feel tired, her adrenaline still pumping from the rumble of bombs, the proximity of explosions much closer than the distant echoes heard from Bertie’s farm. Perhaps she would have gotten used to it if she had slept underground for weeks with the others, the deafening blasts and quaking earth becoming an expected normalcy.

  As Londoners prepared to leave the shelter, Susan noticed a little girl with tangled blond hair drop a gas mask and pick up a doll. And Susan wished she could take the girl, the girl’s parents, and everyone in the shelter to the safety of the countryside.

  “Good morning,” Flight Lieutenant Boar said. He combed his black hair with his fingers, then ran his hands over his RAF uniform, attempting to press out the wrinkles. “Did you sleep?”

  Susan shook her head. She recalled waking in the night to the touch of the lieutenant’s hand on her thigh, his breath across her neck. She had inched away, finding solace on the cold stone floor, but was unable to close her eyes.

  The shelter door opened. People gathered their belongings and shuffled outside to the roar of fire engines and a thick acrid scent, a mixture of sulfur and burning petroleum. A block away, an apartment complex was partially destroyed. Firefighters painted with sweat and soot sprayed water on the burning building. She walked in the opposite direction, wishing she could shut out the cries of residents who had left the shelter to find their homes engulfed in flames.

  To reach their train station, they had to maneuver through the maze of streets, many of which were blocked by barriers, fire brigades, or piles of rubble. The station was crowded with Londoners seeking to leave the city, to judge from the multitude of trunks lining the platform. As they boarded, people pushed to find their way into a carriage. The lieutenant claimed seats, but Susan insisted on giving them to a couple carrying a baby, so they stood in the aisle with many other passengers, all desperately seeking sanctuary outside of London.

  The train whistle blew, the carriage jerked, and Susan fell back.

  The lieutenant caught her.

  Susan felt his fingers linger. She tried to step away, but the aisle was too crowded.

  “I’d like to see you again,” Boar said. He lowered a hand to her hip.

  “We both have work to do,” she said, inching away.

  Boar leaned in. “All the more reason we should get to know each other.”

  Susan noticed his sour breath. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, Flight Lieutenant.”

  “Call me Clyde.”

  Susan tapped her bag with her finger. “Flight Lieutenant, I can’t possibly meet the demands of our orders by taking personal time, and you have your own orders that will require your full attention.”

  “I’m a flight leader,” Boar said. “And with my rank, I’m allowed”—he paused, scanning her body with his eyes—“flexibility.”

  “I’m flattered. But the answer is no.” Susan turned.

  Boar clasped Susan’s wrist.

  She looked at his hand.

  “I wasn’t finished,” he said, tightening his grip.

  “Let go,” came a strange voice.

  Susan looked up and saw a young man with wavy brown hair holding a suitcase.

  “Mind your business, Yank,” Boar said.

  “Let go,” Ollie said.

  Susan felt the lieutenant release her arm.

  “What are you doing here, Yank?” Boar stepped to Ollie.

  “I’m headed to Church Fenton to join the Eagle Squadron.” Ollie touched the envelope sticking out of his jacket pocket.

  “Impressive. I heard there was a Yank squadron being formed, but thought it was a rumor. Mind if I look?” Boar snatched the envelope.

  “Give it back,” Ollie said, dropping his suitcase.

  The lieutenant glanced at the letter signed by Charles Sweeny, then ripped it in half and tossed it out a window. “Go home to your mum.”

  As the shredded paper scattered below a trestle and settled into a marsh, Susan looked at the young man who had come to her aid. She noticed ire etched into his face. And she sensed that it was more what the lieutenant had said than what he had done that had made him angry.

  Ollie clenched his fist, cocked back his arm, and hit the lieutenant in the jaw.

  The lieutenant’s head shot to the side, but his feet remained planted.

  A woman screamed. Heads turned. A few brave passengers squeezed between Ollie and the lieutenant, attempting to break up the fight.

  Boar wiped his lip. Blood filled the crevices of his teeth. “You’ll regret you did that, Yank.” He brushed his uniform and looked calmly at Susan. “I was merely . . .”

  She crossed her arms, turned, and stared out the window.

  Boar glared at Ollie, then made his way through the crowd, pushing passengers aside, and entered another carriage.

  “Are you okay?” Ollie asked.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Susan said.

  “He grabbed you, threw my papers out the window, and said something about my mother.”

  She looked at him. “I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I assure you that I can take care of myself.”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  She rubbed her wrist. “What’s your name?”

  “Ollie.”

  “I’m Susan,” she said, trying to pinpoint the origin of his accent. “Where are you from?”

  “Maine . . . United States,” he said.

  “Well, Ollie from Maine, I suggest that you make your way to another carriage, preferably as far to the back of the train as possible. And when the train stops in North Weald, get off quickly and take another train to where you are headed.”

  Ollie nodded, then extended his hand.

  Susan shook his hand, noticing his grip was firm, yet gentle. As he left, she watched him work his way toward the back of the train and disappear.

  Less than an hour later, the train screeched to a stop. Susan got off and saw a group of soldiers placing handcuffs on Ollie. Boar, standing next to the soldiers, barked orders. A wave of culpability struck her. Helplessly, she watched th
e men place Ollie in the back of a military vehicle and drive away.

  CHAPTER 10

  NORTH WEALD, ENGLAND

  The soldiers, led by Flight Lieutenant Boar, took Ollie to what they referred to as the Glasshouse. But to Ollie, it looked like a military jail. They held Ollie’s arms, pinning his back against a stone wall. Boar hit Ollie in the stomach. Ollie’s legs collapsed. He shriveled into a ball, unable to catch his breath. The soldiers lifted Ollie from the ground and slammed him into the wall.

  “Not his face,” Boar said. “I don’t want the commander feeling sorry for him.” The lieutenant cocked back his arm and gave Ollie an uppercut to his ribs.

  Ollie gasped like a carp out of water—mouth open, sucking for air—but nothing came in. His lungs felt broken.

  An air-raid siren sounded, sending the men scurrying out of the cell. Except for Flight Lieutenant Boar.

  “You should have stayed home, Yank.” He kicked Ollie in the side.

  Ollie groaned, his limbs shriveled into a fetal position to protect his organs. The cell door slammed, then footsteps faded. When he was able to breathe, he crawled into the bunk, if one could call it that; it was a board covered with a mildewed blanket. Outside, antiaircraft fire boomed. He tried to stand. His head buzzed, the room spun, and it all went black.

  Ollie woke when his hand fell from the bunk and landed on concrete. He tried stretching his legs, but his feet and head struck the walls of the cell. Shadows of steel bars spread across the floor. It smelled of damp stone and potato bugs, like the root cellar back on the farm.

  He suspected it was now morning, even though the cell had no windows. Water trickled from a toilet. Ollie’s mouth was dry. His sides flared with pain. He looked at the cracks in the ceiling and wondered if his ribs were in the same condition. Sounds of approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor. Ollie rubbed his side and prepared himself for another round of punishment.

  He heard the clang of a key, the squeak of iron hinges, and the shuffling of feet beside his bunk. Ollie opened his eyes. Two men stood over him: one in uniform, and the other wearing tweed trousers with suspenders, his knees bowed outward, like he was riding an invisible pony. Ollie’s suitcase hung from the man’s age-spotted hand.