The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  “Someday the war will be over,” he said. “There’ll be nights without bombs. Meals without rationing. Lofts without alarms. You’ll finish your studies at the university.”

  “And you’ll go home,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  A jolt struck Ollie. The reality of their different paths felt like a wedge coming between them. He would join the fight. She would raise pigeons. But Susan had resurrected his hope and joy, and he wasn’t about to let anything drive them apart—not even a war. “I don’t want to leave,” he breathed.

  Susan looked into his eyes.

  “I want to be here—with you.”

  She leaned in.

  Ollie wrapped his arms around Susan, feeling her warmth, chest rising and falling, soft hair brushing against his chin.

  Susan raised her head and placed her palm on his neck. She slowly stood on her toes.

  He felt her heart thumping against his chest. His pulse pounded faster as her lips approached his own.

  A car horn sounded.

  The pigeons rustled.

  “They’re here!” Bertie shouted from the lawn.

  Their embrace faded. Susan lowered her cheek to his chest. Ollie’s hands dropped from her shoulders, drifted down her arms, and rested on her waist.

  Susan stepped back, space falling between them.

  Ollie’s arms fell to his side. His heartbeat slowed.

  Susan straightened her skirt and adjusted her hair.

  “Ready to win the war?” Ollie asked.

  She nodded.

  Outside, three military trucks rolled up the lane and then stopped. A sergeant got out and said, “We’re here for pickup.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “Order for five hundred.”

  “The first several lofts,” Bertie said, pointing. “They’re in the cages.”

  Susan and Ollie sat on the porch and watched the soldiers load pigeons. In less than an hour, the lofts were emptied. The soldiers got into their trucks and started the engines, except for the last truck; its engine coughed as the driver turned the ignition. As the first two trucks pulled away, the driver of the stalled truck sounded the horn and waved his hand out the window. The trucks screeched to a stop.

  A soldier in the lead truck stuck his head out the window. “What’s the matter?”

  “Won’t start!” the driver shouted.

  The soldiers got out of the vehicles, opened the hood of the disabled truck, and inspected the engine. After several minutes of tinkering, the truck still wouldn’t start.

  “We’ll have to call for a mechanic or another vehicle,” one of the soldiers said.

  “That’ll take time,” the sergeant said. “We can’t afford to be late.” He looked at Bertie. “Is there a mechanic nearby?”

  Bertie shook his head. “They’ve all joined the fight. Closest one is Jacob Wiseman, in Loughton.”

  “Too far,” the sergeant said.

  “Just as well,” Bertie said. “Jacob makes me look like a spring squab. He’s rather slow these days.”

  “Damn it,” the sergeant said. “We’ll have to call for another vehicle.”

  Bertie stepped toward him. “You have another option.”

  “What’s that?” asked the sergeant.

  “You can use my lorry. And he can drive,” Bertie said, pointing to Ollie.

  Ollie straightened his back.

  The sergeant crossed his arms and gave a heavy exhale, his cheeks puffing.

  “It’ll guarantee that you’ll be on time,” Bertie said. “And you won’t need your men to return my lorry.”

  The sergeant paused. He looked at Ollie, then to his watch. “Very well.”

  Ollie marveled at how Bertie could convince the military, or possibly anyone for that matter, to accept his suggestions. He wished he could have been in the room to hear him convince the commander to free him from jail.

  The soldiers quickly moved the pigeons from the disabled vehicle onto Bertie’s truck. The soldiers squeezed into their vehicles, three in each cab. Engines revved. Pigeons flapped their wings.

  Bertie pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it to Ollie. “I assume pilots can drive.”

  Ollie nodded.

  “Susan, how about a wee walk while Oliver from Maine escorts our pigeons?”

  Susan looped her arm through her grandfather’s arm.

  Ollie got into the truck and started the engine. As he drove down the lane, he glanced at his rearview mirror and noticed Susan running toward the truck. He stopped and rolled down the window.

  Susan placed her hands on the window frame and caught her breath. “Can you make sure they load them carefully?”

  He touched her hand. “I’ll make sure.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed his fingers.

  Ollie felt her slip away. He pressed the gas pedal and followed the military trucks out of the farm. Through his mirror, he watched Susan disappear.

  * * *

  Susan watched Ollie drive away. A trail of down feathers floated from the truck and settled onto the road. It would be the last time she would see many of the pigeons, she believed. The odds of returning from France were against them. But knowing that Ollie would be with them in their final moments, before being loaded onto planes, made her fears about the mission more tolerable.

  She’d never met a man like Ollie. He’s tender, handsome, and dedicated to family. He displayed many of the qualities she cherished in a man. And he liked pigeons, something that could scare away the strongest of suitors. Her grandparents, Bertie and Agnes, had a loving marriage—continually holding hands, laughing, and kissing—something she hoped for herself someday. When the war began, her thoughts of having a relationship had turned dormant. But Ollie had awakened her heart.

  Susan slowly walked to the house. Tonight, she thought. We’ll be together.

  CHAPTER 19

  NORTH WEALD, ENGLAND

  Ollie followed the trucks along Epping Road, watching downy feathers stream from their beds. He was about to drive onto an RAF air base, maybe even get a glimpse of a Hurricane or Spitfire, but all he could think about was Susan. Everything she cared about, except for Bertie and Duchess, was stuffed into the back of these trucks. The pigeons were her life’s work. Her passion. They were going to war, and most would die. He felt like he was delivering prisoners to a death squad.

  At the gate of North Weald Airfield, an armed guard shook his head when he learned that a civilian was attempting to drive a truck onto the base. The guard debated with the sergeant, then resorted to making a phone call before deciding to let Ollie through. Ollie wanted to believe he was allowed onto the base because he was part of the mission or, even better, because he was a future RAF pilot. But he knew it was probably because they would need to transfer the pigeons again by hand. The guard inspected Bertie’s truck, checked Ollie over to make sure he carried no weapons, and let him proceed.

  They drove past several hangars and turned onto a runway. Ollie’s eyes widened as he saw rows of Spitfires perched along the runway like sleeping eagles. The marine-green machines looked incredibly fast. Three blade propellers. Aerodynamic frame. Sleek glass canopy. Roundels painted on the tails. Guns protruding from the wings. The planes looked as if they were forged from a single piece of metal, much different than his wood-framed biplane covered in weathered canvas. Ollie counted sixty planes before he realized he was falling behind the other trucks. He pressed the gas pedal and followed the convoy to another runway.

  They stopped in front of a squadron of Bristol Blenheim bombers. Unlike the Spitfire, the Blenheim didn’t look as if it had been built for military purposes. It appeared to be a converted commercial aircraft. Boxy nose. Two large engines, one on each wing. A gun turret was screwed into the top of the fuselage, like an afterthought. Although the Blenheim paled in comparison to the Spitfire, Ollie thought it still looked to be a formidable fighter, and it was unique in that it could also be used as a small bomber. And at the moment, he’d be willing to fly anything to
become a pilot for the RAF, even a hot-air balloon.

  Ollie parked the truck behind the other vehicles. He got out and immediately unloaded pigeons with the soldiers, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cockpit of a Blenheim. He carried cages under a fuselage, the bomb bay doors spread open. He poked his head into the plane and handed the pigeons to a soldier who was stacking cages into the tail. Ollie glanced around. Sunlight shot through the glass gun turret, illuminating the interior. The plane was small for a bomber, which appeared to be equipped for a crew of three: pilot, copilot, and gunner. Glass panels surrounded the cockpit like a miniature greenhouse, providing more than ample vision for the pilots. Dozens of flight instruments and switches covered the cockpit. Ollie suddenly felt like a novice flyer, having relied upon only one instrument in his old biplane, the fuel gauge.

  “Move your arse,” said the soldier in the plane. “We don’t have all day.”

  Ollie ducked and went to retrieve more cages.

  Along with three of the soldiers, Ollie carried pigeons while the remaining soldiers, like bricklayers, stacked them inside the planes. Each time Ollie lifted the birds into the plane, he twisted his head to peek into the cockpit. For the next hour, they dispersed the pigeons among the bombers.

  As they were finishing unloading the last truck, a soldier—a rather large man who walked more pigeon-toed than most of the birds—tripped and almost fell. He caught the cages he was carrying, inches from the ground. The pigeons fluttered.

  “You’re such a lug, Angus,” said one of the soldiers.

  Angus adjusted the cages in his hands. “Am not.”

  Ollie overheard the soldiers squabbling as he shut the tailgate of the truck.

  “You should have seen Angus at the lofts,” said the soldier to his comrades. “The big oaf knocked over a stack of cages, and one escaped.”

  Ollie hesitated.

  Angus lowered his brow. “But I caught him.”

  The soldier laughed. “You plucked another bird from its nest and strapped on a canister.”

  “That’s not true,” Angus said. “It was on a shelf. It didn’t even try to get away when I picked it up.”

  Ollie stopped. “What did it look like?”

  Angus turned his head.

  “What did it look like?” Ollie repeated.

  “Odd-looking fellow,” Angus said. “Looked like someone splashed him with green paint.”

  Hairs cropped up on Ollie’s neck. “Duchess.”

  “Who?”

  “You took a bird that wasn’t part of the mission.”

  “Way to go, Angus,” said a soldier.

  “A bird is a bird,” Angus said.

  “Pigeon.” Ollie stepped to him. “It’s Susan’s pet. Where did you put her?”

  Angus pointed to the Blenheim at the end of the row.

  Ollie started walking toward the plane and felt a hand grab his arm.

  “You’re not going in there,” the sergeant said.

  Ollie’s blood pressure rose. He stepped to the sergeant. “Then one of your men is going in there.”

  The soldier tightened his grip. “We’re not unloading a plane to find one bird. Besides, we don’t even know if it’s the same one.”

  Ollie looked to Angus. “Did it have a fluorescent purplish-green neck plume, like it would glow in the dark?”

  Angus nodded.

  The sergeant let go of Ollie’s arm. “We don’t have time.”

  “The commander won’t be happy to hear you took a pet,” Ollie said.

  The sergeant wiped his face.

  “I understand Susan’s grandfather is friends with an air vice-marshal. I believe his name starts with a P.”

  “Air Vice-Marshal Park?”

  “That’s the one,” Ollie said.

  The sergeant swallowed, wrinkles appearing on his forehead.

  “Maybe the commander will go easy on you, and you’ll only be assigned to clean pigeon lofts for the rest of the war.”

  “Sergeant,” Angus said. “I don’t want to get us in trouble.”

  The sergeant looked at his watch. “Pilots and crews will be here soon. Do you remember where you placed it?”

  “It’s in the tail,” Angus said. “I put it in first.”

  “Bloody hell,” the sergeant said. “We’d have to unload.” He scratched his head, as if he were digging out a tick.

  The other soldiers looked to a hangar, then to the sergeant.

  “Very well,” the sergeant said. “Be quick about it.”

  Ollie breathed a sigh of relief. Then the siren sounded.

  CHAPTER 20

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  “Duchess!” Susan called from the porch. She looked at the rows of birches at the edge of the forest. The only movement was shimmering yellow leaves and a few darting sparrows.

  “Duchess!”

  “Did you check the lofts?” Bertie called from his chair in the living room.

  Susan went inside. “All of them.”

  Bertie rubbed his knees, his feet propped on a stool. “She’ll be back. Remember the time we took a flock to Willingham?”

  Susan nodded and took a seat on the floor beside him. She recalled the training trip with a group of young pigeons. It was one of the rare occasions she had not taken Duchess along for the ride. When they arrived in Willingham to unload the pigeons, Duchess landed on the hood of the truck and angled her head, as if she were thinking, Why would you leave without me? It was the first and last time they failed to take her along.

  “She’s probably circling North Weald,” Bertie said. “She’ll be back before Oliver.”

  “How’re the knees?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Same.”

  “We shouldn’t have gone for that walk. You’ll be paying for it later.”

  He adjusted his legs on the stool. “I needed the exercise.”

  “Tea?”

  Bertie nodded. “That would be splendid, my dear.”

  Susan went to the kitchen and placed the kettle on the stove. She opened the tea jar. Only a spoonful of finely broken tea leaves remained. She glanced out the window to the garden. It looked dormant, brown stems and vines shriveling into the ground in preparation for winter. She’d have to scour the garden, or perhaps even take a hike in the forest to find something tolerable to brew. For now, she’d have to make do with weak tea.

  Susan looked at a clock on the wall: 2:47 PM. The pigeons were likely inside the planes by now. She didn’t know the time of the mission but assumed they would be leaving under the cover of darkness, like the Luftwaffe. She hoped the pigeons would not be frightened. After all, they had never been on a plane. Nor had she, for that matter. Perhaps they could tuck their heads under their wings and sleep. How many would make it back?

  Be an egg, she thought.

  She sat at the kitchen table and turned her thoughts to Ollie. She was glad he was with the pigeons and believed he would do his best to make sure they were properly cared for. Despite knowing him for only a short while, she trusted him. Perhaps it was his interest in her, her pigeons, or the way he cared for Bertie, getting him cold towels for his knees, something she deeply appreciated.

  She had enjoyed sitting on the sofa with him, telling him things she had never told others. Around Ollie, she felt a sense of comfort that she had never felt around any other man. Tonight would be dreadful, her pigeons dropped into war while another round of Luftwaffe bombs were likely to fall on London. But she took comfort in knowing that Ollie would be by her side, at least for the next few months, until he was free to join the RAF. She’d worry about that when the time came. For now, she would take what time they had together.

  Bertie hobbled into the kitchen.

  Susan looked up. “Tea will be done soon.”

  Bertie pointed to the stove.

  Susan noticed she had forgotten to light the burner. “I may be a trifle distracted.”

  “Understandable, my dear.”

  Susan got up and lit the burn
er.

  Bertie took a seat. “Thinking about our pigeons?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Ollie?”

  Her face turned warm. She hesitated, then nodded.

  He smiled, pulled a chair beside him, and tapped the seat.

  Susan rubbed her arms and sat.

  “He’ll be leaving,” he said.

  “I’m aware,” Susan said. She expected to hear a lecture, perhaps on the proper etiquette of a lady or the risks of fraternizing with a foreigner, let alone a man who would soon be going off to war. But he surprised her.

  “Our Oliver from Maine has taken to the pigeons quite well.” Bertie pulled his pipe from his pocket.

  She hesitated. “Yes, quite well.”

  He packed his pipe with tobacco, struck a match, and inhaled on the stem. “We’re running low on grain. Tomorrow, perhaps you and Oliver should go to the village for supplies.”

  Susan felt tension fade from her shoulders. “Do you need tobacco?”

  Bertie shook his head. “No need for such extravagance while the country is rationing. I’ll make due with something from the garden.”

  “It’s only a little tobacco.”

  He smiled and touched her arm. “How about some good tea, something we can all enjoy. Oliver must think we’re quite uncivilized. It’d be nice to give him a proper cup of tea.”

  Susan hugged him, breathing in the scent of homemade soap and stale tobacco. She went to the stove, removed the kettle, and poured steaming water into a teapot. The afternoon sun beamed through the window, warming her face. As she watched the water slowly turn the shade of lightly baked bread, she thought of Ollie. He’d be home soon. They’d wait for the pigeons to return. Together.

  As Susan carried a tray filled with a teapot and cups to the table, the siren sounded. She jumped. China shattered on the floor. Hot tea splattered her legs. She rubbed her skin and looked at her grandfather. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Bertie struggled to stand.

  Susan helped him to his feet and they went to the porch. Sirens wailed. Antiaircraft fire blared. Looking to the west, they expected to see an armada heading to London for a surprise daylight attack. But the first explosions were not in the city. A few miles away, the thunder of bombs erupted in North Weald. Susan felt the ground quake. Her legs turned weak. She squeezed Grandfather’s arm. As black smoke boiled up to the sky, all Susan could think about was Ollie.