The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  “I meant pigeons.” Ollie noticed Bertie grinning, obviously amused by the mess he had gotten himself into.

  “Yes. Pigeons,” Susan said.

  The air felt thick. Ollie wanted to roll down a window or crawl under the seat.

  “In the Great War, a pigeon named Cher Ami saved the lives of almost two hundred Allied troops trapped behind enemy lines without food or ammunition. The day before, there had been five hundred men.”

  Ollie swallowed.

  “Cher Ami was the last remaining pigeon, the others shot down by machine-gun fire. With their last desperate message for help placed in the canister attached to Cher Ami’s leg, the bird took flight. As she flew out of the bunker, a rain of bullets shot her down. But she somehow managed to get back in the air and fly to headquarters.” Susan lightly poked Ollie in the chest. “Cher Ami had been shot through the breast.” Susan then pointed to Ollie’s cheek. “She was also blinded in one eye.”

  Ollie felt Susan nudge his boot with her foot.

  “And her leg was hanging by a tendon.” Susan stroked Duchess’s head. “But she made it home and saved the lives of two hundred men.”

  For most of the trip, Ollie listened to Susan’s lecture on pigeons. And he could have sworn he saw Bertie ease his foot off the gas pedal to prolong his torture.

  When they arrived in Clacton-on-Sea, a treeless peninsula jutting into the North Sea, Ollie got to work unloading the baskets. He felt a sense of relief, at least for the time being, to be free from the confines of the truck. He lined the baskets in formation per Susan’s instructions, hoping his attention to detail would help make amends for his ignorance and insensitivity.

  Bertie looked at his pocket watch.

  Cooing grew. Wings fluttered.

  Bertie waved his hand. Susan and Ollie quickly released the latches, and flocks of pigeons flew from their cages.

  Susan picked up Duchess, perched on the truck like a hood ornament. She held the pigeon to her cheek and whispered, then tossed the pigeon into the air. Duchess soared to the flock, circling the sky. After two flights around the perimeter, the pigeons headed southwest.

  Susan looked to the ocean. Waves slapped the rocks. “It seems so far.”

  Bertie nodded.

  “How many miles to Epping?” Ollie asked.

  “Sixty,” Bertie said. “But Susan wasn’t referring to Epping.”

  Ollie looked at Susan.

  “France,” Susan said. “Source Columba is a mission to airdrop homing pigeons in German-occupied France.”

  Ollie’s mouth opened.

  “The plan is for locals to convey information on troop movements,” Bertie said.

  “Most of the pigeons won’t make it back,” Susan said.

  “I thought you said pigeons could fly hundreds of miles,” Ollie said. “Surely the distance to France is within their range.”

  “It’s not the distance,” Bertie said. “It’s the challenge of getting there and back.”

  Susan pointed to the sea. “First, the bombers need to make it to France, avoiding enemy antiaircraft fire. Those that haven’t been shot down will release hundreds of small cages, each containing one pigeon. The parachutes, which have not been tested, need to open and safely deliver the pigeons to the ground.”

  Ollie slid his hands into his pockets.

  “Many of the pigeons will be found and destroyed by the enemy,” Susan said. “Others will be left unnoticed in fields or tangled high in trees, only to freeze or starve. Our hope is that some of the pigeons will land in the hands of members of the French Resistance, who will record troop movements on a piece of paper, placed into a canister attached to the pigeon’s leg.”

  “The pigeons that remain will have a dangerous trip back,” Bertie added. “The enemy, alerted to the droppings, will no doubt have snipers aiming for them.”

  Susan wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “We estimate that one in three will make it back.”

  Ollie looked at the empty cages.

  “It’s a high price,” Bertie said. “But we have no choice. Our only chance of victory is to know what the Nazis are doing, especially when and where they will commence a land invasion.”

  Susan shivered. She turned and watched the pigeons, mere specks on the horizon, disappear from sight.

  Ollie loaded the baskets and secured them with twine.

  They got into the truck and headed home. Susan stared out the side window. Bertie grunted in pain as he shifted gears. And Ollie forgot all about joining the RAF, his thoughts on the desperate sacrifices of Susan, Bertie, and the pigeons to save Britain.

  CHAPTER 14

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  The return trip from Clacton-on-Sea was quiet, except for the whistle of wind through empty cages in the bed of the truck. Susan sat with her arms folded, watching the English countryside pass by her window. And Ollie tried to think of the right words to ease Susan’s pain.

  It must be heartrending for Susan to know the fate of the pigeons, he thought.

  Twice Ollie gathered the courage to speak, but each time he was interrupted by Bertie pointing out landmarks: an area of eroded coastline where he believed the Germans would invade and relics of an old mill he had once explored as a boy. Ollie harbored his words. He did his best to listen to Bertie, but his thoughts were on Susan.

  They arrived back at the farm before noon. Bertie parked the truck in front of a loft; more precisely, he let his tired foot slip from the clutch and stall the engine. Their heads jerked. Ollie and Susan braced their arms against the dash.

  “Perhaps I should consider driving,” Susan said, rubbing her neck.

  “Nonsense,” Bertie said. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving. I’m merely eager to check on our pigeons.”

  They got out of the truck. Ollie unloaded the first cage.

  “Not now, Oliver,” Bertie said. “We need to see who came home.”

  Ollie placed the cage back onto the truck and joined them in the loft. Bertie held a small notebook and pencil. Susan checked the cubbies from left to right and from top to bottom. As Susan finished counting a row, she called out a number, which Bertie tallied in his notebook. After finishing the cubbies, Susan counted a few pigeons waddling on the floor and another fluttering around the ceiling.

  “How many?” Susan asked.

  “Sixty-two,” Bertie said.

  Susan walked to the next loft. Bertie and Ollie followed. Driving the truck would have been quicker, but Ollie assumed that Susan had had enough of his bird skepticism or her grandfather’s driving. He hoped that it was the latter.

  Ollie watched Susan and Bertie tally the birds. The cooing grew as Susan went through the cubbies.

  “How many?” Susan asked.

  “Sixty-four. Our total is one hundred twenty-six. We lost one.” Bertie checked his math. “Bloody hawks.”

  Susan pointed to Duchess, perched on a beam above her grandfather’s head.

  Bertie looked up. “Ah, one hundred twenty-seven.”

  Susan smiled. “They’re all here.”

  “How do they do it?” Ollie asked.

  “Magic,” Bertie said, pretending to wave a wand.

  Ollie chuckled.

  Bertie put his arm around Susan. “My granddaughter’s the expert. Before the war, she studied zoology at the university.”

  Susan glanced at a group of feeding pigeons. “Some believe they find their way home with the help of the earth’s magnetic field, the sun, and the stars.”

  Ollie stepped to Susan. “What do you believe?”

  She looked at Ollie. “Pigeons have extraordinary cognitive capabilities. I believe they have mental maps that enable them to return from unfamiliar places.”

  Ollie scratched his head.

  “Means they’re smart,” Bertie said.

  “They must be incredibly intelligent,” Ollie said. “I would have needed a flight map and instruments to fly a plane here from Clacton-on-Sea.”

  “The important thing
is they’re all home.” Bertie looked at his pocket watch. “A blessed cause for celebration. Anyone care for a wee dram?”

  Susan shook her head.

  “Oliver?”

  “What’s a wee damn?” Ollie asked.

  Bertie laughed. “I see that Americans have yet to master the English language.” Bertie placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “It’s dram, a shot of scotch.”

  Ollie thought of Bishop sharing swigs from a flask that had made his head spin, and the mess he had gotten himself into by believing he could sleep in a park. Ollie rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Maybe later.”

  Bertie nodded and left for the cottage.

  Susan picked up a broom and began sweeping droppings.

  “Can I help?” Ollie asked.

  She shook her head.

  Ollie noticed a dustpan hanging from a rusted nail. He retrieved the dustpan and lowered it to a pile of droppings.

  Susan swiftly brushed, carelessly flicking pellets.

  “I didn’t mean to belittle Source Columba or your work.” He removed something from inside his shirt that felt like a dried pea.

  “Outside in the compost,” Susan said.

  Ollie deposited the droppings and returned to lower the dustpan to another pile. “I guess I’m fairly inexperienced when it comes to birds.”

  Susan gave a hard sweep.

  Ollie felt pellets sting his face. He coughed. “Pigeons.”

  Susan placed the broom in the corner.

  Ollie dumped the few droppings that reached the dustpan into the compost pile. He returned to the loft to see Susan holding Duchess. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Susan raised a hand over her mouth. Duchess turned her head.

  “What?” Ollie asked.

  “Your face.”

  Ollie brushed his cheeks.

  Susan laughed. “No. You have rubbish . . .” She touched her nose.

  Ollie raised his hand to find a semi-fresh dropping stuck to the tip of his nose. He flicked it with his finger. “I guess I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.” She stroked Duchess. “Next time, you may want to use the shovel.”

  Ollie noticed a flat shovel propped in a corner.

  “Dustpan is too small.”

  Ollie chuckled. “A little late to be telling me now, don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you at all.” Susan tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s difficult not to feel sympathetic for someone covered in rubbish, even if they can’t tell a pigeon from a turkey.”

  Ollie noticed a softness in Susan’s voice. “May I?” He held out his hands.

  Susan stroked Duchess, as if to calm her, and then carefully placed her into Ollie’s hands.

  Ollie felt wiry feet on his palm. He gently stroked the pigeon’s back with a finger. “Sorry for calling you a boy,” he said to Duchess.

  Duchess cooed and blinked her eyes.

  “Looks like you’ve been forgiven,” Susan said.

  Ollie noticed the velvety texture of Duchess’s feathers. “I wish we could explain how noble this cause is to the pigeons.” Ollie looked at Susan. “It doesn’t seem fair that they can’t understand why we’re dropping them into battle.”

  Susan stepped closer. She ran her hand over Duchess’s back, her fingers slightly brushing Ollie’s hand.

  Ollie’s skin tingled. He swallowed. “You truly believe this mission can change the course of the war?”

  Susan nodded.

  The sound of engines caused the pigeons to flutter. Susan took Duchess from Ollie. They went outside to see a line of military vehicles rolling up the drive. A trail of dust drifted over the farm.

  Two soldiers got out of one of the trucks and removed a large spool of wire. Another soldier lugged a box of tools. Several others unloaded small cages.

  Susan walked toward the soldiers rolling the spool. “What are you doing?”

  “Orders, miss,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Excuse me,” Susan said.

  The soldiers walked away, reeling a trail of wire.

  Ollie ran ahead and stepped in front of the soldiers. “The lady asked you a question.”

  “We’re only following our orders to secure the farm,” said a soldier. The men, continuing to roll out the wire, maneuvered past Ollie and headed for a loft.

  Susan and Ollie heard the sound of sawing wood. They turned to see a soldier cutting the pigeon landing on one of the lofts.

  “Stop!” Susan shouted.

  The soldier continued hacking.

  “Put that down,” Susan said, reaching the loft.

  The soldier paused to examine the saw blade.

  “What are you doing?” Ollie asked.

  “Installing alarms.”

  “Alarms? No one said anything about alarms.”

  The soldier shrugged and resumed sawing.

  Another military vehicle sped up the drive and skidded to a stop. A plume of dust drifted into a beech tree. Ollie felt his hands curl into fists when he saw an officer with coal-black hair step out of the car.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” Susan said.

  Flight Lieutenant Boar climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. Bertie answered, clenched his hands, and quickly ducked back inside. By the time Ollie and Susan reached the cottage, Bertie was on the porch waving his walking stick like a sword.

  “Bastard!” Bertie pointed the stick at Flight Lieutenant Boar’s chest.

  Boar raised his palms.

  “Grandfather!” Susan shouted.

  “I ought to knock some manners into you!” Bertie said.

  Boar kept his hands raised.

  Ollie stepped between the men and stared at the lieutenant.

  Boar turned to Susan. “We have a change with Source Columba.”

  Bertie lowered his walking stick.

  “It will only take a moment of your time,” Boar said. “Perhaps we could go inside and I can explain.”

  Despite their animosity toward the lieutenant, Ollie, Susan, and Bertie found themselves sitting at the kitchen table with Flight Lieutenant Boar.

  “The Cooper farm was bombed,” Boar said.

  Bertie swallowed. “How is William?”

  Boar shook his head.

  Bertie’s eyes watered. “Poor William. We raced pigeons together.”

  Susan placed her arm over Bertie’s shoulder.

  “The farm was in proximity to an ammunition factory,” Flight Lieutenant Boar said. “Luftwaffe missed the factory but destroyed the farm, including most, if not all of the pigeons.”

  “Why have you come to tell us this?” Bertie asked.

  “Your delivery date has been moved,” Boar said.

  “When?” Susan asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Bertie wiped his face. “Bloody hell, I thought we had two weeks. Do we have a choice?”

  “No. The men are delivering equipment and installing alarms in the lofts. Two soldiers will be stationed here during the mission.”

  “Why?” Susan asked.

  “Security,” Boar said.

  Ollie noticed Susan clutching Duchess. Bertie’s face looked pasty white.

  “I realize that things have not gone well between us.” Flight Lieutenant Boar looked at Susan. “And I want to apologize for the misunderstanding.”

  Bertie interrupted. “Commander Davies order you to apologize?”

  “I have orders to inform you of the change. Nothing more.” Boar turned again to Susan and rubbed his hands as if he were spreading ointment. “My regrets for the misunderstanding. The train was crowded, and I was merely trying to speak with you. I meant you no harm.”

  Susan crossed her arms. The crack of a hammer, striking a board in a loft, caused her to flinch.

  “The men will be finished in a few hours,” Boar said. “A team will arrive in the morning for pickup.” He paused and ran his fingers through his hair. “Again, my sincere apologies.”

  “Very w
ell,” Bertie said. “You’ve informed us of the orders and spoken your piece. I believe it’s best that you leave.”

  Flight Lieutenant Boar stood.

  Bertie struggled to get up from his chair.

  “No need,” Boar said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  Susan stayed with Bertie while Ollie followed the lieutenant to his vehicle. Ollie watched Boar produce a cigarette, strike a match with his thumb, and take a deep drag.

  “You’re very lucky, Yank,” Boar said.

  Ollie watched smoke flow from the lieutenant’s nose.

  “If it weren’t for Susan’s grandfather, you’d be rotting in the Glasshouse. And with last night’s bombing, your release to Church Fenton may even have accelerated. Assuming you don’t do something foolish, like striking another officer, you just might join the fight.”

  “I plan to fly,” Ollie said.

  “Of course you do.” The lieutenant got in his vehicle, started the engine, and rolled down the window. “I suggest you stick to shoveling pigeon shit.” He flicked his cigarette.

  Ollie felt the butt bounce off his chest and noticed his shirt was speckled with turds. He pressed the smoldering cigarette under his boot. As Ollie watched the lieutenant drive away, determination flared in his belly, like a fire stoked with kerosene.

  CHAPTER 15

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan and Ollie followed Bertie as he hobbled over a web of wires. From loft to loft, he examined the alarms the soldiers had installed. Thin metal rods, approximately twelve inches in length, dangled from each pigeon entrance, like a curtain of beads strung over a doorway.

  “Security?” Bertie raised his arms and looked across the pasture. “Do they think this place is swarming with Nazis?” Bertie poked the curtain with his walking stick. The rods clanged together like a cheap wind chime, and a faint ringing came from a tent the soldiers had set up near the bomb shelter.

  Ollie walked to the tent and peeked inside. The structure, a wooden frame covered in canvas, resembled a yurt. It held a cot, two chairs, a table, and a large switchboard with a series of numbered bells, one for each loft. Bells buzzed and abruptly stopped. When a pigeon entered a loft, it caused the rods to touch, tripping a connection and ringing the bells. He felt like a doorman for an apartment building in which guests were buzzing each of the tenants, all at the same time. The pigeons didn’t seem to mind the curtains. But that was not the case for Bertie or Susan.