by Alan Hlad
Ollie left the tent to find Susan and Bertie inspecting the military-issued cages, much smaller than the ones they’d used to transport the pigeons to Clacton-on-Sea.
“How do they look?” Ollie asked.
Susan held a miniature silk parachute that was attached to a cage. “Is this large enough to work?”
“I’ve only flown planes. Never jumped out of them.” Ollie noticed lines of tension spread across Susan’s face. He felt the urge to kick himself. “But I once saw a man drop from a plane at an air show.” Ollie examined the parachute. “I think it’s plenty big enough.”
Susan took in a deep breath and exhaled. She carefully folded the parachute.
Bertie picked up a crimson canister the size of a small prescription bottle. “They’re bloody red! Are they trying to make it easy for the snipers?” He shook his head and handed the canister to Susan.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” She felt the canister’s weight. “At least the Bakelite isn’t heavy.” She touched the metal band fastened to the tube. “I believe they should fit securely to their legs.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Ollie asked.
Susan tossed the canister back into the cage. “Can you give us more time?”
“I wish I could,” Ollie said.
Susan slid her arm around Bertie’s elbow and helped him to the next loft.
Ollie felt horrible for them. Their pigeon farm was being turned upside down by war. He wondered how he would feel if the military had set up camp on his parents’ potato farm. It was an unimaginable thought for him, an American, to comprehend. Wars were not fought on United States soil. Blood was spilled in Europe, and people back home only read about it in the newspapers. He rubbed his sore ribs, feeling a twinge of guilt for being born on the opposite side of the Atlantic.
Sensing that Susan and Bertie needed time alone, Ollie went to work. First, he stacked the military cages, making certain that they were evenly distributed at each of the lofts. For the remainder of the afternoon, he refilled water trays, carried bags of feed, and swept droppings. After tending to the last loft, he leaned his broom in the corner, near a sleeping pigeon, its head tucked under its wing.
Ollie gently stroked the pigeon. “Get some rest. Your mission is tomorrow.” He left the loft hoping it would be one of the lucky ones to return.
Outside, the air was cold. Ollie rubbed the goose bumps on his arms and noticed that the leaves on an oak tree were turning the color of mustard. He looked at the sun, sinking on the horizon, and wondered if Luftwaffe pilots were stirring in their bunks, like nocturnal vampires preparing for their feast. Too bad the Nazis aren’t vampires, Ollie thought. At least with vampires, they could be deterred with holy water, crosses, and cloves of garlic. But with Nazis, we need antiaircraft guns, Hurricanes, and Spitfires. Ollie glanced back at the lofts. And maybe pigeons.
Inside the cottage, Ollie found Bertie in his chair. He glanced at the man’s knees, wrapped in cold towels. “How’re the legs?” Ollie asked.
“A wee gravely,” Bertie said.
“Need anything?”
Bertie shook his head.
Ollie paused, then asked, “What was your friend William like?”
“A good man. Loved racing pigeons as much as me. We used to place bets, usually a pint at the pub, on who had the fastest bird. Despite having to buy most of the ale, William never missed a race.” Bertie rubbed his knees and changed the subject. “How are the lofts?”
“Cages are stacked. Lofts are cleaned.”
“Splendid.”
Ollie turned to a collection of old pipes displayed on the fireplace mantel.
“Antiques,” Bertie said. “Agnes liked to buy them for me. More for looking than for smoking.”
“Your wife?” Ollie asked, picking up a pipe.
Bertie nodded.
“What was she like?”
A smile spread across Bertie’s face. “Lovely. Smart. Witty. A lot like Susan. I met Agnes as a young lad. She worked the counter at her father’s bakery. Spent all my shillings on her pastries, simply to get a glimpse of her. Nearly gained enough weight to bust out of my trousers before I got up the nerve to invite her for tea.” Bertie patted his tummy.
Ollie chuckled.
“She was wonderful. And there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.”
“Sounds like you had a good life together.”
“Indeed.”
Ollie recalled the photo in his bedroom, the one of Bertie, Agnes, and a young couple holding a baby. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
Bertie lowered his glasses, a glisten of water in his eyes. “I simply outlived her, my boy.”
Seeing Bertie’s sadness reminded Ollie of his parents. An ache grew in his chest. He wondered how long it took to recover from losing a loved one. One year? Ten years? A lifetime? Ollie returned the pipe to its place on the mantel, then retrieved a cold towel from the icebox.
“Thank you, Oliver,” Bertie said, changing a wrapping. “Perhaps you could check on Susan.”
Ollie found Susan sitting on the porch steps. The creak of the door spring caused her to turn. He noticed Duchess on her lap.
“Mind if I sit down?” Ollie asked.
Susan slid over.
Ollie sat, wrapping his arms around his knees.
Susan stared at the dark clouds rolling over Epping Forest. “Do bombers fly in the rain?”
“Yes,” Ollie said. “They can fly above the clouds, but it may be difficult to find their targets.”
“Pigeons can fly in the rain.” Susan ran a finger over Duchess’s wing. “They have oily feathers that repel water.”
Duchess turned her head, a golden eye staring at him.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and a windstorm will ground the Luftwaffe,” Ollie said.
“That would be lovely,” Susan said.
Ollie played with the frayed end of his bootlace. “Are you worried about Duchess?”
“Not Duchess. It’s the other pigeons.”
Ollie looked at Susan.
“Duchess isn’t part of the mission.”
“Oh,” Ollie said.
“Raised her myself. She’s quite the pet, even pecks at my window every morning.”
“I see.”
Susan stretched her back. “I should probably check on Grandfather.”
“Bertie sent me to check on you.”
Susan smiled.
“He was telling me about your grandmother.”
“What did he say?”
“That you’re a lot like her.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I believe it was.”
A few raindrops struck their shoes. Wind rustled the birches. They moved up a step, under the canopy of the porch.
“I noticed a picture in my room. Were you the baby in the photo?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents?”
Susan nodded.
The rains marched through the trees, drops striking the leaves sounding like a rolling crescendo on a snare drum.
Susan placed the pigeon to her cheek. “You need to get home, Duchess.” She gently released the bird.
Duchess fluttered about the yard, then landed on a birch. Reluctant, the pigeon didn’t enter her loft, despite being pelted by raindrops.
“We should go inside.” Susan stood and brushed the back of her skirt. “It’ll be dark soon.”
Ollie watched Susan enter the cottage, feeling like he had intruded by asking about her parents. He noticed that Duchess was still perched on her branch, her head perked to the side as if she were listening. “Looks like we’re both grounded,” he said to the pigeon. Ollie stood and went inside, where he found Susan in the kitchen.
“Would you like some tea?” Susan asked, filling a kettle.
“Yes, please,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
She placed the kettle on the stove, then opened the cupboard.
His
mind toiled over what to say. There was much that he wanted to know about Susan. But he chose to start with a topic that he thought would be important to her. “What do you love most about pigeons?”
Susan turned, a smile forming on her face. “Everything.”
Ollie, relieved to see her reaction, pulled a chair from the table and gestured for her to join him.
Susan sat.
“Tell me more about everything,” Ollie said.
“They’re remarkably clever,” Susan said. “I challenge you to name another animal that can find their way home from hundreds of miles away.”
Ollie rubbed his chin. “Tortoise?”
Susan chuckled.
Ollie leaned in. “What else do you love about them?”
“Affectionate—both parents raise their nestlings,” Susan said. “They’re exquisite, with spectacular colors and patterns. I adore their cooing, which, in my opinion, is even more soothing than a cat’s purr. They walk with an endearing waddle. And their flight is quite graceful.” She placed her hands on the table. “But what I admire most is their devotion to family. They’ll go to great lengths to find their way home.”
Ollie smiled. “What do you call someone who knows all about birds?”
“Ornithologist.”
“You’ll make a grand one.”
“You really think so?”
He nodded.
Susan ran a finger over a scratch in the table. “What do you like most about flying?”
“I wish I had words that could describe the sense of freedom I get when I’m soaring through the clouds. It’s exciting. And peaceful.” Ollie pointed above his head. “Up there, I feel like a bird—even better, a pigeon.”
Susan smiled and paused. “You’ll make an admirable RAF pilot, Oliver from Maine.”
He noticed Susan’s hand, inches from his fingers. His stomach fluttered.
The kettle began to whistle.
Susan placed her hand on her lap.
“Are you preparing tea, my dear?” Bertie called from the living room.
“Yes,” Susan said, looking at Ollie.
“Splendid!” Bertie said. “I’ll be right in.”
Ollie watched Susan leave the table, wishing the kettle would have taken hours to boil.
CHAPTER 16
EPPING, ENGLAND
The rain brought the premature arrival of darkness and, shortly thereafter, the howl of air-raid sirens. With their hunger stolen by the invading Luftwaffe, Susan, Ollie, and Bertie skipped dinner and hunkered in the living room.
Antiaircraft guns erupted. The cottage vibrated.
Susan, sitting next to Ollie on the sofa, covered her ears.
Ollie looked at Bertie, leaning back in his chair. “How long?”
Bertie shrugged. “The worst is when they pass over the guns at North Weald Airfield. They’ll stop once the Luftwaffe leave for London.”
Shells exploded. China rattled.
Several minutes later, the guns stopped, momentarily revealing the patter of rain. Candlelight flickered over the room. And for the next hour, they listened to the rumble of bombs on London.
As a swarm of planes buzzed overhead, Susan felt her shoulder muscles tighten. But the grinding of engines quickly disappeared. No explosion. No gunfire. Just the thrum of rain. She exhaled, then gazed at the candle. “Do you think London will burn?”
Ollie glanced at Bertie, sunk deep into his chair with his eyes closed, then turned to Susan. “The rain will help.”
She looked at him. “I meant, do you think there will be anything left?”
Ollie paused, then said, “If Londoners are even half as resilient as you and Bertie, I believe there will always be a London.”
“I needed to hear that.” She smiled, smoothed her skirt, and returned her attention to the candle.
“Susan,” Ollie said.
She turned to him, her shadow stretching over the floor.
“I was thinking about this afternoon and . . .”
Bertie snorted. A book, facedown on his chest, rose and fell as snores filled the room.
“He tires in the evenings,” Susan said. She stood, walked to Bertie’s chair, and touched his arm. “Perhaps you should go to bed.”
Bertie snuffled and opened his eyes. “I was reading.”
Susan pointed to the book.
He wiped his face. “It’s difficult to see with candlelight.”
“Would you like me to read to you?” Susan asked.
“I’m knackered,” Bertie said. “I believe I’ll go to bed.” He stood, wobbled, and grunted with pain.
Ollie went to Bertie, preparing to catch him if the old man’s knees gave out.
“Let us help you,” Susan said.
Bertie shook his head, then placed a hand on Susan’s shoulder. “Tomorrow our pigeons will change the course of this bloody war.”
Susan felt her confidence reawaken, like an ember receiving oxygen. She watched him climb the stairs, taking breaks to catch his breath. As his bedroom door squeaked shut, she admired her grandfather’s moxie. She had no doubt that Bertie could have been a field general in his younger years. The men in the trenches would have followed a man like Bertie, giving them faith when there was no hope at all.
“Bertie’s a good man,” Ollie said.
“I’m lucky to have him.”
Ollie nodded. “You’re welcome to go to bed.”
Susan looked at the blackout curtains covering the window. “I can’t sleep when they’re out there.” She crossed the room and retrieved a thin cardboard box from under the sofa. “I assume you can keep a secret.”
Ollie joined her on the sofa, the box placed between them.
She opened the lid and placed a ball of yarn and knitting needles on her lap, then held up a piece of cream-colored fabric. “It’s a sweater, a Christmas present for Grandfather.”
Ollie looked at the tube of material.
“More accurately, the arm of a sweater.”
“He’ll love it,” Ollie said.
“I didn’t have any dye.”
“It’s perfect.”
Susan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and picked up the needles.
“Where did you learn to knit?” he asked.
“Grandmother.” The needles clicked.
“Agnes?”
“You remembered.” She glanced at Ollie, noticing the caramel color of his eyes.
Ollie watched Susan knit, the candlelight creating a silhouette of her slender hands on the wall. “Looks difficult.”
“Only requires time and patience.” Susan wrapped yarn around the needle. “My first project was a scarf when I was a little girl. In my eagerness to give it to Grandfather, it was rather short, barely enough to wrap his neck. It should have stayed in the box or had several inches added. But Grandfather insisted on wearing it clasped together with a pin.” She pulled more yarn. “Better to start early so this sweater will have both sleeves.”
Susan knit a row. “Earlier, you were going to say something about this afternoon.”
“I was going to ask you about your parents.”
An explosion rumbled like thunder. The ball of yarn fell to the floor.
Ollie retrieved the yarn and placed it on Susan’s lap. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
Susan turned to Ollie. “When my father came home from the Great War, my parents wasted no time getting married. In fact, the day my father returned home, they summoned the minister, who had taken the day off to go fishing. My father didn’t even take time to change from his uniform, and Mother was still wearing her nursing attire from the hospital.” She pointed to a framed photo on the wall. “Mother served a year as a nurse on the Western Front.”
Ollie stood and looked at the photo of a smiling trio: a nurse, a soldier, and a preacher disguised as a fisherman with feathered hooks strung across his vest like war medals. He took particular notice of the woman holding a bouquet of daisies. “You look like your mom.”
&
nbsp; Susan smiled. “My father promised he would marry her the day he came home. Mother wanted to get married sooner, but despite how much my father loved her, he couldn’t bear the thought of potentially making her a widow. Grandfather always told me my father was a true gentleman.”
Ollie returned to his seat.
“They wrote to each other every day,” Susan said. “Grandfather saved the letters in a keepsake box. They’re lovely.” She put down her needles. “I was born less than a year from when my father came home. They—we—had our whole lives ahead of us.” Susan took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Britain had thought the war was over. But when the troops came home, they brought with them an even more deadly threat than guns or mustard gas.”
Ollie swallowed. “Spanish flu?”
She nodded. “Grandfather had received a call from my mother to pick me up. My parents had sore throats, and they didn’t want me to catch a cold. Three days later, they were in the hospital with pneumonia. Grandfather tried to visit them, but they, as well as hundreds of others, had been quarantined.” She blinked her eyes, suppressing tears. “My father died the following Sunday. Mother on Tuesday.”
Ollie placed his hand on Susan’s arm.
Susan made no effort to move, taking comfort in his touch. “It was a long time ago.”
Ollie hesitated, then slowly returned his hand to his lap.
“As a child, I dreaded the playground. I would often hear children jumping rope and chanting the rhyme about the pandemic.” Susan looked at Ollie. “Do you know the one I’m talking about?”
He shook his head.
Susan fiddled with the needles. “I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza.”
“That’s awful.”
“Precisely why I never learned to jump rope.” She completed several stitches. “I wish I could have been old enough to remember them. All I have are a few photos, letters, and Grandfather’s stories, which he tells often and with endless variations to make them more interesting.”
Ollie rested his arm on the box between them.
“My grandparents gave me a lovely childhood—lots of laughter and lots of birds.”