by Alan Hlad
“Oliver from Maine,” a scratchy voice said.
“Yes,” Ollie said, his voice sounding dry. He coughed, feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen.
“Come with me.”
Ollie slowly sat up and stood on shaky legs. He saw a soldier and was relieved to see it was not one of the men who had beaten him. The bowlegged man was short with white hair, a wrinkly face, and a pocket watch strung across his vest.
“Who are you?” Ollie asked.
“Name’s Bertie. Bertie Shepherd. I’m your employer for the next three months.”
Ollie scratched his head and looked at the soldier.
The soldier motioned with his head for Ollie to leave.
Ollie followed Bertie down the corridor, leaving the soldier behind. Outside, the sun struck Ollie’s face. He squinted and sneezed, causing a dagger of pain to pierce his ribs.
“Bless you,” Bertie said.
“Thanks.” Ollie pressed his hand to his side and followed the old man to a truck.
Bertie opened the passenger door, helped Ollie in, and tossed the suitcase behind the seat. He got into the truck and took his seat behind the wheel.
“Where are we going?” Ollie asked.
Bertie put the key in the ignition, rubbed his knees, and started the engine. “To work.”
“How did you get me out?”
Bertie hit the accelerator and honked the horn at a group of servicemen marching toward a hangar. “I talked to the commander and struck a deal to get you out.”
“Why?”
Bertie lowered his glasses and glanced at Ollie. “Because you helped my granddaughter, Susan.”
Ollie remembered the graceful woman with sandy-blond hair, the lieutenant’s hand clutching her wrist. Ollie felt his face turn hot.
Bertie gripped the wheel. “If I were a young man, I’d knock some manners into that bastard.” He looked at Ollie. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
“What’s a young man from Maine doing so far from home?”
Ollie thought of his parents, wilted flowers on their graves. “There’s nothing back there for me.”
The old man rubbed his knee.
Ollie pointed to a Hurricane fighter plane coming in for landing. “I’m a pilot. I need to get to Church Fenton to join the Eagle Squadron.”
“You can’t go for ninety days. That was the deal.”
“What deal?”
“The deal I made with Commander Davies.” Bertie turned the wheel sharply left, leaving North Weald Airfield and causing Ollie to brace himself against the dash.
“We agreed that you would work for me for three months. And I agreed not to file a complaint against Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar for his conduct, unbecoming of a Royal Air Force officer. I also told him I knew Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park and would be calling him after I left, assuming we could not reach an agreement on how to handle such a delicate situation.”
“I appreciate your help with getting me out of jail, but I need to get to Church Fenton.”
Bertie glanced to him. “Oliver from Maine, do you know the penalty for striking an officer?”
Ollie shook his head.
“You could spend a very long time in a military prison, until we win this damn war or we are all speaking German.”
Ollie swallowed.
“I also suspect that Commander Davies didn’t know what to do with you. You’re American, not enlisted in the Royal Air Force—at least not yet—and he has an armada of Nazis flying over his airfield every night on their way to destroy London. Davies has lost a lot of good men; his fighters are falling like hammers out of the sky.”
Bertie sighed. “He may not have been able to keep you locked up until you’re old and gray, but he sure as hell could have made it very difficult for you to join the fight by making a call to Church Fenton. I suppose he welcomed my solution for an amicable agreement.”
“Thanks, Bertie. I guess I owe you, and your friend, Keith Park, a bit more gratitude.”
Bertie laughed and rubbed his knee. “I met the air vice-marshal at a parade in London once. And since I got close enough to shake Park’s hand, I thought it couldn’t hurt to use the man’s name.”
Hearing the man cackle made Ollie smile.
“You should have seen the commander’s eyes when I mentioned Park’s name. He looked like a child being called into the schoolmaster’s office,” Bertie continued, rubbing his knee, and laughed harder.
Ollie chuckled, something he hadn’t done in weeks. He covered his ribs with his hands.
“Looks like they roughed you up a wee bit, Ollie. Ninety days of working on our mission will give you time to recover.”
“What type of mission?”
“Source Columba. Commander Davies also has a vested interest in the success of this mission, probably another reason he let you out to work for me.”
Ollie scratched his head. “What’s Source Columbia?”
“Columba. It’s top secret.” Bertie’s smile faded. His eyes lowered. “How can I be sure you’re not a spy?”
“I’m a crop-duster.” Ollie considered digging in his suitcase for his pilot’s license.
Wind whistled through the open window. The truck hit a pothole, bouncing them from their seats.
Bertie laughed. “You’ll know all about our mission soon enough. And you’ll learn more about flying in the next few months than in a lifetime in the cockpit of a Spitfire.”
Ollie watched the airfield disappear in the side mirror. And wondered what kind of mess he’d gotten himself into.
CHAPTER 11
EPPING, ENGLAND
Susan poured grain into the feeding tray, then rapped on a can with a wooden spoon. Pigeons flew into the loft and pecked at their meal. Except for Duchess. The bird, her head angled to the side, stood on the landing and stared at Susan.
“All right, Duchess,” Susan said. She took a handful of grain, kneeled, and held out her palm.
Duchess fluttered to the floor, waddled to her, and cooed.
“I spoil you rotten.” Susan rubbed her finger over Duchess’s back.
Duchess stepped closer. And after receiving another stroke across her head, she began to peck.
After the grains disappeared from Susan’s palm, either swallowed by Duchess or scattered on the floor, she brushed her hands and stood. “Now, off with you.”
Duchess slowly walked to the feeding tray, stopped, and looked back at Susan.
“Go on.”
Duchess lowered her head, as if her feelings had been hurt, and wedged herself into the flock of birds.
As Susan watched Duchess, she couldn’t help thinking that the bird acted more like the Shetland sheepdog, Whitby, her grandfather owned when Susan was a child. The dog had been smart as a whip and constantly seeking affection by nuzzling her or stealing her food, usually a warm elderberry scone her grandmother had made. Bertie now joked that if he had believed in reincarnation, his old dog had come back as Duchess. It was Bertie’s way of trying to explain Duchess’s unusual behavior; he was unable to believe, even after years of training the best breeds in Britain, that a pigeon prodigy had hatched in their loft or, more precisely, in a ceramic bowl that used to hold his wife’s oatmeal.
Susan glanced one last time at Duchess, whose bright plumage stood out from that of her peers, like an Easter egg placed in a basket of ordinary brown eggs. She turned and left, the spring door slamming behind her.
As Susan took the path to another loft, she heard Bertie’s truck, the unmistakable sound of missing gears as her grandfather struggled to work the clutch. The truck came into view, and she noticed a passenger. As it neared the cottage, she saw the American’s head jerk as Bertie abruptly braked.
Susan straightened her skirt and noticed some droppings stuck to her shoe. She tilted her ankle and wiped her foot across the grass.
Bertie got out of the truck, followed by Ollie, his hand pressed against his ribs.
Susan stared, her mouth open.
Susan raised her brows.
“Just until we finish the first phase of Source Columba.” Bertie grimaced as he shifted his weight to the opposite foot.
“Come inside, and I’ll get you something for your knees,” Susan said.
Bertie nodded and went inside.
Susan looked at Ollie. “You should have left the train station like I told you.”
Ollie stepped to her. “I tried.”
Susan noticed Ollie holding his side. “Did they hurt you?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Lovely. Just lovely. How are we to finish our mission with everyone fragile?”
Ollie shrugged and followed Susan inside.
Susan retrieved some wet towels that were stored in the icebox and wrapped them around both of Bertie’s knees, his trouser rolled up to his flabby thighs.
Bertie leaned back in his tweed-upholstered chair. “Thank you, Susan. A wee rest and I’ll tend to our flock.”
“Use your walking stick.”
Bertie shook his head. “Makes me feel old, worse than the pain.”
Susan noticed Ollie looking at the walking stick propped against the fireplace. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Leading Ollie upstairs, Susan recognized that his climb was slow, a result of his kerfuffle with the RAF. She showed him to a spare room that had a small brass bed, a wash table, and a window overlooking a garden.
Susan pointed outside to a wooden shack. “There’s the loo.”
“The what?”
“Loo. I believe you may call it an outhouse.”
“Oh, yes,” Ollie said.
She gave him a towel, a bar of soap, and Bertie’s spare straight razor, carefully touching the edge to make sure it was still sharp. “Come down when you’re ready.” She left, shutting the door behind her.
* * *
Ollie woke when there was a knock at the door. He sat up on the bed, grimaced, and placed his feet on the floor.
The door gently opened. “Ollie,” Susan whispered.
“I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”
“Dinner. You slept all day.”
“I’ll be right down.”
As Susan descended the stairs, Ollie straightened the bed. At the wash table, he removed his shirt and noticed that his right side, from hip to armpit, was bruised the color of beets. A series of smaller marks covered his chest; the knuckles of the servicemen made him look as if he had been pounded with a meat tenderizer. He poured water in the basin, washed, then carefully shaved for the first time in weeks, using something that looked more like a machete than a safety razor.
As he buttoned his shirt, Ollie noticed a framed picture on the wall. He recognized Bertie, younger with dark hair and bowed legs, standing next to someone who appeared to be his wife. Beside them, a young couple holding a baby. Ollie suspected that the infant was Susan but couldn’t tell for sure.
Coming down the stairs, Ollie was greeted by the pungent scent of cooked cabbage. His stomach ached with hunger. “Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.
Susan turned to the stove and removed a lid from a pot. Steam rose to the ceiling.
Bertie, already sitting at the table, put down a newspaper. “Good evening, Oliver from Maine.” He gestured to take a seat.
“Guess I overslept,” Ollie said, sitting into a chair. “You’re welcome to just call me Ollie.”
“I prefer Oliver from Maine.”
“Grandfather,” Susan said.
“It sounds of royalty.” Bertie raised his hands like an orchestra conductor. “Oliver from Maine.”
“No royalty in Maine,” Ollie said. “Just farmers and fishermen.”
“And pilots?” Bertie asked.
“Crop-dusters.” Ollie rubbed his aching ribs. “At the moment, I don’t feel like much of a pilot.”
“No worries, lad.” Bertie laughed, then patted Ollie’s arm. “You’ll get a flying lesson in the morning.”
Ollie scratched his head, not quite understanding the man’s odd sense of humor.
Susan filled three bowls, placed them on the table, and then took a seat opposite Ollie. Bertie said grace, asking for the safety of Londoners and a quick end to the war, preferably with a British victory.
Ollie ate quickly. With his taste buds magnified by the lack of food, the boiled cabbage with chunks of potato and leek tasted more savory than any stew he had had in years. In fact, he couldn’t remember his last decent meal. He swallowed another scoop, then sipped some tea.
“Sorry we don’t have stronger tea,” Susan said.
“Rationing.” Bertie blew softly on his bowl.
“Thank you for sharing your food. And for taking me in.” He took another spoon of cabbage.
Bertie leaned back in his chair and produced a pipe from his pocket. He packed tobacco, struck a match, and sucked on the stem, drawing the flame down. Smoke poured from his nose. The smell of burnt tobacco filled the room. “Tell me your story, Oliver from Maine.”
“Do you mean why I’m here?” Ollie asked.
Bertie nodded.
“I guess I couldn’t stand by and not join the fight.” Ollie looked up from his bowl. He noticed Susan’s blue eyes, her blond hair pulled back into a bun and held with a pin, a few loose strands falling in front of her ears.
Bertie puffed on his pipe. “Why the Royal Air Force? If you wanted to join the war, why not Canada?”
Wistful images of Ollie’s parents filled his head. He took a deep breath, then said, “My father always said that we may have lost our accent, but our blood is, and always will be, British.”
Bertie smiled, his pipe clasped between molars.
“Finish your stew,” Susan said. “It’ll be dark soon.”
Ollie stuck his spoon into his bowl and hit something hard, like the shell of a walnut. He raised the spoon to his mouth and stopped. A clam. Jaws wide open, sticking out its snout-like tongue.
“Cockles are not much meat, I’m afraid,” Susan said. “More for flavoring.”
Ollie’s mouth began to water.
“Damn rationing,” Bertie said.
Ollie’s mouth tingled. His lips felt swollen.
Bertie put down his pipe. “Are you all right?”
“I’m allergic to shellfish.” Ollie’s stomach gurgled.
Susan covered her mouth.
Ollie felt another slosh in his stomach, moving lower, as if he had chugged a gallon of pickling juice. He quickly excused himself from the table.
Through the kitchen window, Susan and Bertie watched Ollie run to the loo.
Ollie threw open the door and was greeted by the smell of earth and ammonia. He pulled at the button on his trousers. His bowels growled. He tugged harder, squeezing his bum, praying he could hold a few more seconds. The button snapped. He ripped down his trousers. And nature let loose.
“Are you all right?” Susan called from the garden.
“Yes.” Ollie’s voice sounded like he was sealed in a pine box.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He could see Susan’s skirt through a small crack in the door. Even though he was certain that she could not see him, he covered himself with his hands.
“Can I get you anything?”
His intestines felt like a knotted rubber hose used in a tug-of-war contest. “No, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry.” Susan turned and went inside the cottage.
Ollie rubbed his swollen belly. His guts cramped. And then it came. First, as a low growl. Not from him. Outside. Hairs stood on his arms. A siren grew louder, higher in pitch, piercing the walls of the loo as if it were made of rice paper. The siren faded, and repeated the cycle again and again, each time growing in crescendo.
“We’ll be in the shelter!” Bertie shouted. “Bastards came early!”
He saw Susan and Bertie through a
crack in the wallboards, making their way to an earthen mound.
“Please hurry!” Susan shouted.
Ollie’s breathing quickened. His bowels contracted. And exploding antiaircraft fire shook the ground. Ollie flinched. He braced his hands against the wall. A splinter shot into his finger. The loo rattled.
Ollie looked up. The corner of the rusted tin ceiling was peeled away, giving view to a darkening sky. He heard, in between the ground fire, the sound of mechanical drones. The buzzing grew louder. He scanned for toilet paper. Instead, he found a catalog with torn pages. He reached for a sheet, but another severe cramp had his hands clasping his belly. The roar of propellers grew. Antiaircraft fire boomed. Thousands of feet above his peephole in the loo, a bomber passed over. Then another. And another.
Ollie leaned forward, his rear angled over the hole in the floor. He cracked open the door. A squadron of Spitfires shot over the cottage, their wind shaking the loo. He looked up to see hundreds of German bombers blackening the twilight sky, accompanied by their fighters, fending off the Hurricanes and Spitfires that had scrambled from North Weald. Shells exploded. Ollie’s heart pounded.
Machine-gun fire pierced the air. A Spitfire fell over Epping Forest, fire flaring from the fuselage. It rolled, then exploded, sending shrapnel through the trees.
His stomach churned. Pain shot through his abdomen and down his legs, drawing him back to his wooden seat. The spring on the door slammed shut. The war raged outside. And he was stuck in there, feeling defenseless with his pants tied to his ankles. He had traveled the ocean to fight, avoiding enemy submarines and rats the size of dogs, only to be beaten, poisoned, and have his arse glued to a loo.
The armada, followed by a few remaining RAF fighters, headed southwest toward London. The antiaircraft fire from North Weald suddenly stopped and was soon replaced by the echo of antiaircraft guns in London.
After his body had been drained and the cramps had weakened to where he could stand, he cleaned himself with a full-page advertisement for fishing equipment and left. With shaky legs, he crossed the yard. Flames flickered in the forest. The rumble of bombs filled the air. As he reached the shelter, the door swung open.