The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

“Pigeons.”

  Susan felt a tug in her cheeks as she attempted to contain a smile. “Yes, pigeons.” She put down her needles. “So, Oliver from Maine, why are you here?”

  “To join the fight. The RAF needs pilots.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Of dying?”

  Susan nodded.

  “There are worse things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sitting idle while the Nazis attempt to conquer the world.”

  The explosions dwindled, like a thunderstorm losing steam. The candle burned away to a nub; globs of melted wax covered the base.

  “Maybe they’re done for tonight,” Ollie said.

  “There’ll be another wave.” Susan placed her knitting into the box and slid it under the sofa. “We should rest. Lots of work to do in the morning.”

  Ollie nodded. He picked up the candle, the flame flickered out, and the room went dark. “I’ll get another match.”

  “No need.” Susan clasped his hand, noticing the warmth of his skin. She guided Ollie to the stairs and gently placed his palm on the rail.

  Together, they climbed the stairs to the landing. The hallway was a black abyss from the blackout drapes.

  “Can you find your room?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  Susan heard the rattle of a doorknob.

  “Found it,” he said.

  “Ollie?”

  He stopped. “Yes.”

  “It seems I’ve done far too much talking.”

  “I liked listening,” he said.

  “That’s sweet. But it was impolite of me to ramble.” She paused. “What happened to your parents?”

  “Car accident.” He stepped into the blackened hallway. The floor creaked under his feet. “With no siblings or relatives, I guess being alone made it easier for me to join the fight.”

  She swallowed and took a step. Her foot scraped the baseboard. “When was the accident?”

  He hesitated. “Last month.”

  She gasped.

  The hallway went silent. Then a siren sounded.

  Ollie found her shoulder with his hand. “Looks like you were right about another wave.” He gave a soft squeeze. “Good night, Susan.”

  Susan felt his hand slip away, then heard the door close. She stood alone in the hallway, until the thunder of artillery guns forced her to the sanctuary of her room.

  * * *

  Susan, shaken by the news of Ollie’s parents, as well as the rumble of bombs, was unable to sleep. Shortly after midnight, the all-clear signal was sounded by a siren at North Weald Airfield. She slipped on a robe and slippers, then crept down the stairs, hoping a warm cup of tea would calm her mind. But as she made her way to the kitchen, she saw the front door cracked open. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the hardwood floor. She peeked outside and saw Ollie sitting on the porch steps.

  “Can’t sleep?” Susan whispered, stepping outside.

  “No,” Ollie said.

  “Me neither.”

  “I think they’re gone for the night.” He patted the space beside him. “Saved you a spot.”

  Susan tightened her robe and sat. “I’m so sorry about your parents.”

  “Thanks,” Ollie said. “I’m sorry about your mom and dad, too. You were far too young to lose them.”

  Susan nodded. “Fortunately, I had my grandparents.”

  He looked at her. “I bet Bertie and Agnes did a swell job filling in for your parents.”

  She smiled, pleased by his compliment, as well as the fact that he included her grandmother’s name, a woman whom he’d never met.

  Ollie adjusted the zipper on his jacket. “Did you ever miss having siblings?”

  “Goodness, yes.” She stretched her arms. “Someday, I’d like to have a big family.”

  “Same,” Ollie said. “Lots of kids.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Both. How about you?”

  “Two girls and two boys.”

  “Very specific,” Ollie said, nudging her leg with his knee. “What would you name them?”

  Susan pondered. “For the boys, something like Peter or Ian. And for the girls, names of a flower.”

  “Like Iris or Rose?”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe something less common, so they’d always feel unique.” She blew on her hands, beginning to turn cold. “Have I said too much?”

  “Not at all.” Ollie removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders.

  “You’ll catch a chill.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She pulled the jacket around her body, taking in his warmth.

  Ollie tucked his hands under his legs. “What does your boyfriend think about naming children after flowers?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” Susan said, her heartbeat accelerating. “I dated a little at the university, but nothing serious. And with the war, I’ve been focused on work for the National Pigeon Service.” She wiggled her toes inside her slippers, trying to dispel the butterflies in her tummy. “And do you have a darling back home?”

  “No. I had a girlfriend in high school, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Sad ending?”

  Ollie shook his head. “A good thing. We were different people.”

  “In what way?”

  He turned to her. “Before my parents died, my dad injured his leg in a tractor accident, and I postponed college to run the family farm. Let’s just say that she didn’t seem to like that I was staying home to care for a parent, and she wasn’t keen on being stuck with someone on a potato farm.”

  “It was a good thing that it ended.” She crossed her feet and noticed that her knee was almost touching his leg.

  Ollie leaned back. “Did you see the stars?”

  Susan looked up. “Oh my.” Distracted, she had failed to notice that the clouds had disappeared, revealing hundreds of twinkling stars. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You can see constellations.” Ollie traced the sky with his hand. “I think that one—”

  “Look!” Susan pointed to a brief streak of light across the sky.

  “Quick. Make a wish.”

  She closed her eyes and paused.

  “What did you wish for?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Susan said, opening her eyes. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

  “In Maine, we believe in sharing wishes on shooting stars,” Ollie said. “We also disclose wishes involving birthday candles, dandelions, and ladybugs. And considering you’re in the company of an American for this celestial event, I think you need to tell me.”

  Susan felt a smile tugging at her lips.

  He moved closer. “Do you want it to come true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll want to tell me.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I wished for the war to end.”

  “A perfect wish.”

  She paused. “Some days, I wonder if the bombs will ever stop.”

  “They will.” Ollie looked into her eyes. “I believe in you, Susan. I have confidence in your pigeons and Source Columba. This war will end. And I promise to do everything I can to help make it happen.”

  His words comforted Susan like a blanket warmed by the sun. On an impulse, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

  He placed his arm around her, pulling her close.

  They sat in silence as a cold breeze rustled the birches. For the first time in weeks, Susan felt safe. His affirmations had filled her with hope. She savored the passing minutes, knowing that at any moment a blaring siren could purloin their time together.

  “You should get some rest,” Ollie whispered.

  She hesitated. Her heart wanted to stay, but her brain reminded her that the mission was tomorrow. Reluctantly, she lifted her head from his shoulder.

  Ollie rose to his feet and extended his arm.

  She clasped his hand and stood. Their fingers entwined, then slipped away.

  Inside, they retreated to their sep
arate rooms. Susan crawled into bed, her skin still tingling from his touch.

  CHAPTER 17

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  The pecking on the window caused Susan to stir. She stretched, got out of bed, and opened the blackout curtains. The glare of the morning sun made her squint. She rubbed her eyes and saw Duchess, balanced like a tightrope walker on the ledge. The pigeon gave another peck, and Susan opened the window.

  Duchess fluttered to the bed.

  “Good morning,” Susan said.

  The bird climbed over the rumpled sheets, like a child scaling a wintry hill in snowshoes.

  Susan picked up Duchess and caressed her back. “How did you sleep?”

  Duchess cooed.

  “Better than I did, I’m afraid.” Susan recalled staying up for most of the night, thinking about her time with Ollie. “He lost his parents. Just like us.”

  Duchess blinked her eyes.

  Susan sighed. “I barely had the courtesy to ask about his family. I feel horrible.”

  Duchess looked toward the window.

  Susan peeked outside. She saw Ollie walk across the yard and disappear into a loft. A rapping of tin. Pigeons fluttered into the loft. A slight smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “He’s feeding our pigeons,” she whispered.

  Duchess stretched her wings.

  Susan placed Duchess on her dresser and straightened the sheets, then got dressed and stood in front of the mirror. She brushed away morning tangles and placed her hair in a bun. She pinched her cheeks to give her face some color, feeling the strange desire for makeup, something she hadn’t worn since leaving the university. She reached for a perfume bottle, unscrewed the top, and applied the few remaining drops to her neck.

  Duchess tilted her head.

  “I know, we have work to do.”

  Susan placed the bottle on the dresser, carried Duchess to the window, and tossed her into the air. The bird darted to a loft. She went downstairs to find her grandfather sipping tea.

  “Good morning, Susan,” Bertie said. “I made breakfast.”

  Susan glanced at the oatmeal on the stove. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “In that case, I’ll also make lunch.” He pointed to a chair. “Have some oats. Ollie and I have already eaten.”

  “Not hungry.”

  Bertie slid over his tea. “Then drink.”

  Susan took a sip of tea and went to the window. No sign of Ollie, just a smoky haze looming in the west from last night’s bombings.

  “Ollie’s parents are passed,” Susan said.

  “That was my assumption,” he said.

  Susan placed the cup on the table. “Last month.”

  “Good Lord.” Bertie stood and wrapped his arms around Susan. “Unfortunately, we know how he feels.”

  Susan gave a squeeze. “You better never leave me.”

  “Everything’s temporary, my dear.” With crow’s-feet protruding from the corners of his eyes, he looked at Susan. “Even this bloody war.”

  Susan’s shoulder muscles tightened. Learning of Ollie’s loss reminded her of how unfair life could be, as if people were randomly plucked from the earth, like numbers drawn from a hat. Most of her family’s numbers had been drawn years ago. Londoners were being taken each night. And now their beloved pigeons were about to embark on Source Columba, a death mission.

  Bertie limped across the kitchen, then placed his cup in the sink. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

  “Perhaps you could take your walking stick,” Susan said.

  “No need, my dear. Feeling young and vigorous.” Bertie flexed his flabby arms. “Today, we’re going to save Britain.”

  Susan wrapped her arm around Bertie’s elbow, buried her fear, and walked outside.

  CHAPTER 18

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  “Hold still,” Ollie said, connecting a small Bakelite canister to a pigeon’s leg. The spring-clip ring snapped into place. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ollie placed the bird into a dropping cage much smaller than the communal baskets Bertie and Susan used to transport the flock to Clacton-on-Sea. It was barely enough room for a pigeon, let alone a small packet that included paper, pencil, and instructions written in French. But despite being quarantined and having a silk parachute attached to its cage, the pigeon cooed, as if it were merely headed on a routine racing trip to the English countryside.

  As Ollie stacked the cage, the door to the loft squeaked. He turned and saw Susan and Bertie.

  Susan scanned the loft.

  “Good work, Oliver.” Bertie inspected the cages. “For a pilot, you make a good pigeon handler. Perhaps I should consider giving you a raise.”

  “I didn’t realize I was being paid,” Ollie said.

  “You’re not.” Bertie pulled out his empty pockets, like rabbit ears protruding from his trousers. “I have nothing to give, I’m afraid. Only an opportunity to make history.”

  “Seems fair,” Ollie said. “Maybe I should pay you.”

  Bertie laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

  Susan looked at a wall of cubbies. Except for a dozen squabs and nesting mothers, the rows were empty.

  “Susan, help Ollie with loading,” Bertie said, fixing his pockets. “I’ll inspect the other lofts.” He left, the spring door cracking behind him.

  Susan poked her finger through the wire of a cage. The pigeon nudged her. “How did you know which ones to leave?”

  “Bertie told me.”

  “Why did you start so early?”

  Ollie placed an empty cage near a row of nesting pigeons. “I thought it might be a rough day for you.”

  She looked at him. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, then checked a parachute.

  Susan took a deep breath and exhaled. “I wish I’d asked you sooner about your family.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I was inconsiderate.” She moved a box of canisters. “You must miss them.”

  “Very much.”

  “What were they like?”

  “My parents were farmers, but if you had asked my father, he would have said he was a pilot who grew potatoes to pay the bills.”

  “He sounds like a man who loved to fly,” Susan said.

  “Taught me to fly a plane before I could drive a car.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “My mother would have agreed with you.”

  Susan smiled. “A sensible woman.”

  “Mother should have been a teacher. She was incredibly smart and had a knack for making the complicated seem simple. But without a formal education, she settled for volunteering her spare time at the library, teaching adults to read.” Ollie scuffed the earth beneath the heel of his boot. “And like my father, she was proud of her British roots.”

  “I would have liked to have met them,” Susan said.

  “They would have liked you.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Because I’m British?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “Because you’re . . . Susan.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Ollie ran his hand over an empty cubby. “I was fortunate. They sacrificed a lot to give me a better life, saving every spare dime to send me to college.”

  “You went to college?”

  He shook his head. “I came to join the fight.”

  Susan looked to the ground. “And you ended up on a pigeon farm because of me.”

  “I’m here because I punched a military officer.” He inched closer. “And if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.” Affection swelled within him. You’re sweet, caring, and beautiful. I’m lucky to be here with you.

  She looked up at him and swallowed. “We . . . should probably finish.”

  Susan and Ollie loaded the remaining pigeons with the precision of an automobile assembly line. Susan plucked pigeons from their nests, whispered something into their ears, and handed them to
Ollie to attach canisters and place them into cages. The stacks of cages grew. The cubbies turned bare.

  As Ollie placed the last bird into its cage, Duchess fluttered into the loft and waddled over a shelf. Susan reached for the pigeon, but instead, picked up a small booklet buried under a layer of dust. She blew away soot. “I wondered what had happened to this. Haven’t seen this since I was a child.”

  Ollie stacked the last cage and joined her. “What is it?”

  “My father’s codebook.”

  Duchess stepped along the shelf, her toenails scratching wood.

  Susan thumbed through the pages. “I initially found it by rummaging through a box of my parents’ keepsakes, hoping to find photos.” She handed the book to Ollie.

  Ollie ran his thumb over the weathered leather binding, like the skin of an old reptile. He scanned the contents, filled with intricate groupings of letters and assigned codes, then wiped the cover with his sleeve and returned it to Susan.

  “My father was in the artillery. They used it to send messages along the Western Front. Supposedly, the code was unbreakable. Or at least that’s what Grandfather led me to believe.” Susan smiled. “When I was small, Grandfather would often attach a secret message to one of his racing pigeons, even though it likely slowed its time. I’d wait in the loft until the pigeon with the message arrived. Then I’d decipher the code.” Susan slid the book into Ollie’s jacket pocket. “Let’s show Grandfather. He’d enjoy telling you about it.”

  Ollie ran his hand over the lump in his jacket. “What were Bertie’s secret messages?”

  “Important business. Usually where he had hidden a gift for me. A book. A piece of caramel. You should have seen my grandmother covering her ears as I clanged through her pots and pans trying to find a pack of gum.”

  Ollie chuckled. “I wish I could have seen that.”

  “Me too.”

  Ollie looked at her. Their eyes briefly met, causing his stomach to quiver. Do you feel the same way?

  Susan turned and looked at the emptied rows, then to the cages. A few of the pigeons squirmed in their tight quarters, while most had their heads tucked under their wings. Susan’s hands trembled.

  Ollie gently clasped her hands. He struggled for the right words and simply said, “You’ve trained them well.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “I’m tired of being scared and hungry. The constant air raids. I can’t seem to get the sirens out of my head. But most of all, I hate sending our pigeons to war. I know we have no choice, but I hate it.”