by Alan Hlad
Bertie pointed to the woods, then handed Ollie a lantern.
Ollie and Susan, led by the smell of burning fuel, made their way through Epping Forest in search of the crashed Spitfire. Behind a toppled hornbeam tree, they found the mangled cockpit and what was left of the pilot.
Susan prayed. Tears fell from her cheeks.
Ollie’s sour stomach turned to boiling anger. The newspaper stories back home couldn’t fully describe what was happening. It was war. People died. And the United States was doing nothing, except declaring neutrality as bombs fell on London. As the countryside reverberated with explosions, Ollie realized that more men, women, and children would not see tomorrow’s sunrise. He silently pledged to fly again. No matter what the cost, he would find a way to rid the heavens of Nazis.
“I wonder who he was,” Susan said, her voice trembling.
Ollie glanced at the dead pilot, his mutilated arms dangling through shattered cockpit glass.
“Did he have a wife? Children?” She lowered her head.
“I wish I knew,” Ollie said, hoping to comfort her. He turned the lantern away from the wreckage. “I do know that he died honorably, trying to protect his country.”
“Far too young,” Susan said. “Wars cause many in Britain to die prematurely, I’m afraid.”
Ollie stepped to her.
She raised her head and swallowed. “You never know when you’re going to die.”
He looked into her eyes, glossed with tears. “That’s why we need to live every day as if it were our last.”
She nodded, then clasped her hands. “My parents died when I was a baby. They deserved more time together.”
“I’m sorry,” Ollie said.
“My grandparents raised me. I know of my parents through Grandfather’s stories.” She rubbed her eyes.
“My parents are dead, too,” Ollie said.
“My goodness,” Susan said. “What were they like?”
“The best—wonderful parents, and they cared for each other very much.” He paused. A flash of his parents holding hands on a porch swing. “Someday, I want what they had.”
“Me too. My grandparents had a splendid life.” She glanced to the wreckage. “But with the war, I sometimes fear there will be no future.”
Deep down, Ollie had the same worry but said, “Britain will survive this war.” He gently touched her shoulder. “And you will have a long and happy life.”
She squeezed his fingers, then lowered her hand to her side.
Ollie and Susan stood vigil by the smoldering wreckage until two servicemen, their flashlight beams flickering through the forest, found their fallen comrade. As the men worked to remove the pilot’s remains, Ollie and Susan made their way back to the earthen bunker, then took seats on canvas cots. The echoes of bombs and the scent of soil filled the air. They spoke little of London being destroyed and nothing further of the dead pilot.
“How often are the bombings?” Ollie asked, breaking the silence.
“Every night,” Bertie said.
Susan, her blue eyes darkened in the glow of the lantern, looked at Ollie. “They come in waves. And leave when the sun rises.”
Bertie took a deep breath, then stood. “I’ve had enough.” He threw open the bunker door and defiantly shook his fist in the air. “I will never again allow the Nazis to force me to live like a mole!”
Bertie hobbled across the lawn. Flashes of explosions lit up the sky.
“Do you want to stay or go?” Ollie asked.
“Go,” Susan said.
They followed Bertie to the cottage. Inside, Susan covered the windows with blackout curtains. Bertie smoked his pipe and read a book. And Ollie went upstairs and collapsed onto his bed.
CHAPTER 12
NORTH WEALD, ENGLAND
Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar took a drag on his cigarette, dropped the stub to the ground, and crushed it with his shoe. Night had receded to a gray sky, the sun still sunken below a smoky horizon. He watched a squadron of Hurricanes, or what was left of it, approach the runway in a line formation to land.
“How many?” Ralph asked.
“Eight.” Boar looked at his copilot, a short, pudgy man with his hands stuffed into his trousers.
Ralph grimaced. “Should be twelve.”
Boar lit another cigarette. Five minutes later, another squadron came in. Only six. After landing, one of the pilots was carried to a stretcher; a bullet that pierced the cockpit had torn through his calf.
Flight Lieutenant Boar watched a medic tie a tourniquet around the pilot’s leg, his pants blackened with blood. The man was screaming something that sounded like “I can’t lose my foot” or “They shot off my foot.”
“We should have been with them,” Boar said as the pilot was placed in an ambulance.
“What do you mean?” Ralph asked. “We were the only unit to score a hit last night.”
Boar recalled the Luftwaffe bomber they had shot down. He had maneuvered his unit through the clouds, then swooped under the bomber, allowing a clear shot for Benny, his turret gunner. A spray of bullets pierced the fuselage. The bomber exploded, and he’d darted back to the clouds, losing two enemy Messerschmitt fighters.
The RAF’s Bristol Blenheim, designed to be both a light bomber and night fighter, excelled at neither. It was a utility vehicle. Mediocre. A nocturnal predator able to find success only under the cloak of darkness. In fact, the last daylight mission Boar led against a Luftwaffe airfield near Aalborg in Denmark had resulted in disaster. Seven of the twelve Blenheim bombers in his squadron were lost. And a companion unit produced an almost 100 percent casualty rate. In the clunky armor of a Bristol Blenheim, Flight Lieutenant Boar felt like a knight sent into battle with a wooden sword.
“The Blenheim is no match against the Messerschmitt. We only have a chance with the Spitfire or the Hurricane.” Boar flicked his cigarette, barely smoked. “I intend to lead a real fighter squadron and win this bloody war.”
“You may be the best pilot in the RAF, but we have our orders for Source Columba,” Ralph said.
Flight Lieutenant Boar had volunteered for Source Columba, believing that taking on such a dangerous mission would gain him favor with Commander Davies regarding his requests to lead a fighter squadron. And it had worked, especially when Davies had selected him to attend the meeting in London with British Intelligence. But things went sour when the American interfered.
“How was your meeting with the commander?” Ralph asked.
“Splendid.”
Boar recalled his meeting with Commander Davies, who had interrogated him about his conduct with Susan and how an American, a civilian no less, had ended up in his military jail. He calmly told the commander that he had conducted himself as a gentleman, escorting Susan to and from London, even accompanying her into a shelter when they missed the train. He had pointed out that the American would not have been arrested if he had not struck him, under the false impression that Susan was harassed. Davies had abruptly ended the meeting by ordering him to apologize to Susan Shepherd and her grandfather, Bertie. And to stay clear of the American. The commander also told him that his chances of ever flying a Spitfire rested on the success of Source Columba. Boar had saluted and left, his blood boiling at the thought of the American.
“At least you’ll get to see that woman again,” Ralph said.
Boar nodded.
“Too bad she doesn’t fancy you.”
“She will.” Boar pulled another cigarette from his pocket and stuck it to his lips.
Ralph pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit Boar’s cigarette. “I understand the American is working with her.”
Boar took a deep drag from his cigarette.
“Seems rather unfair, don’t you think?”
Boar exhaled, smoke flowing through his nostrils, and turned to leave. “I’ll get even with that bloody American.”
“Where are you going?” Ralph asked.
“Letters.” He flicked his cigarette.
>
Ralph’s shoulders slumped. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
Flight Lieutenant Boar went to the barracks. Many of the men had collapsed into their bunks still wearing combat clothing. Some of the bunks were empty, soon to be filled with fresh naïve pilots. He took a seat at a desk in the corner, far from the snores and smell of sweat. The wooden desktop, if one scanned it closely, contained the faint etchings of letters he had written to people he had never met, the tip of his pen pushing through paper to carve permanent grooves into the wood.
Boar recalled the fallen Blenheim in his unit, piloted by John Simons, a soft-spoken man who dreamed of going back to Manchester and pouring pints at the family pub. The copilot, a bright young lad named William Akerman, an exceptional card player and newly married to a local woman named Elizabeth, now four months pregnant, had dreamed of someday being a flight commander and settling down to raise a family after the war. And the turret gunner, a man named Gilbert Nolan—his crew called him Gig—had long, skinny arms that shook like wire wrapped in bacon when he fired the machine guns. Gig left a wife named Samantha and three young girls, Carol, Edna, and Alice.
Boar gripped his pen. He recalled how the fallen plane had taken a direct hit to the left engine and had failed to climb to the safety of the clouds. Two enemy fighters, like pit bulls smelling blood, came in for the kill. The right engine exploded, taking off the wing. Boar and the rest of the squadron had heard their screams over the radio as the severed Blenheim fell from the sky.
It wasn’t his duty, but Boar wrote letters, just like he had always done, taking time to tell their families what had happened and, more importantly, that they were beloved friends and brave, valiant men who had served their country well. Each letter was unique. John, William, and Gig would have wanted it that way. He sealed the letters and placed them in his locker to mail a few days from now, after the families had been formally notified by RAF authorities. Rather than sleep, he took a walk around the airfield, counting planes and wondering how many of his bomber squadron would be left by Christmas.
CHAPTER 13
EPPING, ENGLAND
Susan tapped on the bedroom door. “Are you awake?” Ollie opened his eyes. Sunlight shone through the window. His arm hung off the bed, numbness spreading through his fingers.
“Yes,” he said.
“Breakfast.”
Ollie cleared his throat. “I’ll be right down.” He heard Susan’s footsteps as she left.
Ollie looked down and noticed his boots, unlaced, but still on his feet. He rubbed away the tingling in his hand, then tied his boots and went downstairs. His legs felt rubbery, his body emptied of fluids.
“Good morning, Oliver from Maine,” Bertie said, putting down his newspaper. “Under the weather?”
“Better,” Ollie said.
Susan handed him a cup of tea. “Drink.”
Ollie sipped. “Thanks.”
Susan brushed strands of blond hair behind her ear and went to the stove.
“Smells good,” Ollie said, taking a seat.
“Elderberry scones,” Susan said, opening the oven door.
“Splendid to hear your appetite is recovering, Oliver.” Bertie patted him on the shoulder. “I was worried you were trying to get out of working.”
“Only if we’re shucking shellfish.”
Bertie laughed. “No shucking, just flying.”
Ollie scratched his head. “Are we working on planes?”
Bertie grinned. “Something better, my boy.”
It was obvious to Ollie that Bertie was enjoying his little secret, at least until he was put to work. And considering that Bertie had bailed him out of jail, and the fact that he was unable to join the RAF for the next few months, he saw no point in ruining Bertie’s jest. So, he played along.
“Balloons?” Ollie asked.
Bertie shook his head.
“Airships?”
“Even better.”
“What could be better than planes, balloons, and airships?”
“It’s confidential.” Bertie slapped his leg and cackled.
“Grandfather,” Susan said, dropping hot scones onto a platter.
“How am I going to work if you don’t tell me?” Ollie asked.
“Blindfolded.”
“For three months?”
“Maybe less, assuming our mission wins the war.”
“Eat,” Susan said, placing the scones on the table. “We have work to do.”
Ollie’s appetite had shrunken, and he felt full after a few bites, but he forced himself to finish a scone. He drank three more cups of tea, feeling his strength returning with each sip.
Minutes later, Ollie found himself in Bertie’s truck. Susan sat between them as Bertie drove along a farm path, a swath of tall grass running down the middle. The farm was smaller than his parents’ property back home. But as far as he could see, there were no other houses in sight, just a rolling green pasture with grazing sheep. A series of wooden sheds dotted the hillside, like large outhouses or miniature barns. Ollie assumed they were shearing sheds, but why so many?
Bertie parked the truck at the first shed. “Time for work,” he said, turning off the engine.
Ollie followed Bertie and Susan inside. Wings fluttered. Dozens of pigeons flew around them. Ollie shielded his face with his arm. Some pigeons landed on the floor; others retreated to their nests. As flapping wings settled into cooing, Ollie lowered his arm.
“Ready for your flying lesson?” Bertie asked.
Ollie’s eyebrows raised. “Birds?”
“Pigeons,” Susan said.
Ollie wrinkled his forehead. “The British government’s secret mission is pigeons?”
“Source Columba,” Bertie said.
“These pigeons are going to help us win the war,” Susan added.
Ollie took a deep breath. “No offense, but it’s going to take a lot more than birds to—”
“Pigeons,” Susan interrupted.
“Okay, pigeons.” Ollie noticed Susan’s hands on her hips. “I was merely trying to understand why the British government would spend its efforts on pigeons when London is being bombed. It’s going to take planes and pilots to fight the air war.”
A pigeon, looking as if it were painted in fluorescent purple and green paint, flew to Susan’s shoulder. She stroked the bird across the back with a finger. “Duchess, Ollie obviously has much to learn about pigeons.”
Duchess cocked her head and stared at Ollie.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I was only . . .”
Duchess jumped, fluttered across the loft, and landed on Ollie’s shoulder.
Ollie froze. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he watched the bird, its beak a few inches from his chin. He swallowed, fearing that it would peck him.
Duchess blinked, flashing her golden eyes.
Ollie exhaled. “I think he likes me.”
Duchess shook her tail feathers.
Ollie felt something warm run down his arm and grimaced.
“Duchess is a she. And she didn’t appreciate your comments.” Susan plucked the pigeon from Ollie’s shoulder.
“We have a long day ahead of us,” Bertie said. “Ollie, gather the baskets behind the shed. Susan and I will load.”
Ollie went outside and cleaned his sleeve with a handful of dry leaves. He gathered the baskets, which turned out to be cages, long wood-framed boxes with wire-mesh fronts, which resembled flimsy lobster traps. After stacking baskets in the shed, Bertie showed him how to place the pigeons inside by wrapping hands over their wings and tucking fingers under their bellies. Ollie was surprised that the pigeons didn’t fuss, squirm, scratch, or even peck, allowing him to easily place them in baskets.
Ollie glanced at Susan.
Susan turned her head and continued loading.
After the pigeons were in baskets, except for the one that had relieved itself on his sleeve, Ollie stacked them into the bed of the truck. They drove to a second loft, where they loaded
more pigeons, secured the baskets with twine to keep them from shifting, and then took their seats in the truck.
“Did you count them?” Bertie asked.
“Yes,” Susan said, holding Duchess. “One hundred twenty-seven.”
Bertie placed the key in the ignition and cranked the engine.
Ollie felt as if there was more room, then noticed Susan was pressed against the passenger-side door. She stared out the window, holding Duchess on her lap. Ollie felt like he had swallowed a stone. It was their mission, and he had belittled their work, even after they had taken him in. He hoped that he could think of something to say that could erase his hurtful remarks. Ollie opened his mouth but stopped when he sensed Susan inching farther away.
Bertie drove down the lane and turned north onto a paved road. Bertie shifted gears, getting the old truck up to speed. “How are the pigeons?” Bertie asked Ollie.
Ollie turned and looked through the back window. The baskets hadn’t shifted. Only a trail of downy feathers. “Good,” he said.
“We’re headed to Clacton-on-Sea,” Bertie said. “It’s a remote area on the coast. The pigeons will have an opportunity to fly over water.” He glanced to Ollie. “Soon they’ll be flying over the English Channel.”
“Where are they flying to?”
Susan interrupted. “Did you know that homing pigeons were used by the Egyptians over three thousand years ago?”
“No,” Ollie said.
“Of course not. And you probably didn’t know that a homing pigeon can travel distances of up to six hundred miles per day, fly at speeds of seventy miles per hour, and reach altitudes as high as thirty-five thousand feet.” Susan looked at Ollie. “At that height, Ollie, the temperature would be thirty-five degrees below zero, and a pilot would need a heated suit and oxygen.”
Bertie nudged Ollie. “Ever fly that high, Oliver from Maine?”
Ollie shook his head.
“For centuries, animals have been relied upon during times of war.” Susan cupped Duchess in her hands. “And would you like to guess as to which animal made the most significant contributions to the Allied victory in the Great War?”
“Birds?”
Susan stared at him. Duchess perked her head.