The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  The copilot dropped the birds, scanned the fuselage, and noticed the glowing pigeon. “There’s one more,” he said, pointing.

  Ollie shook his head. “She’s not part of the mission.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Ollie stepped to the copilot. Wind flapped his pant legs. “If this bird goes,” he said, pointing to France thousands of feet below, “so do you.”

  The copilot swallowed. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Ollie lied.

  “Finished?” Boar shouted from the cockpit.

  The copilot rubbed the medallion inside his jacket, then glanced over his shoulder, as if somehow the lieutenant would could come to his aid.

  “Your choice,” Ollie said.

  “You’ll rot in the bloody Glasshouse.” He unhooked the safety wire from his belt and shouted, “Done!”

  Ollie felt as though his life had been thrown away, like the pigeons. He’d be watching the sun rise behind iron bars for many years. But at least he’d live knowing he had done his best to return Duchess to Susan.

  The copilot brushed his hands, as if the pigeons carried disease. He peeked down to the French countryside as the doors inched closed.

  A pepper of explosions rocked the plane, knocking the copilot to the floor. The nose of the Blenheim shot up. The copilot slid toward the bomb doors, his hands slapping the floor in desperation for something to hold on to.

  Ollie reached him just as the man’s legs slid out of the plane. He grabbed the copilot’s jacket.

  The copilot clawed at Ollie’s arm. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”

  Ollie wedged a boot into the frame of the fuselage and pulled. Black puffs of exploding shells filled the sky as the bomb doors closed on the copilot’s legs like a vice.

  The copilot kicked against the air. He dug his fingers into Ollie’s arm.

  Ollie strained. His muscles burned. He gave a hard tug and pulled the man into the plane just as the doors slammed shut.

  The explosions suddenly died. The wind gusts were replaced by the panting copilot.

  “Everything all right?” Boar called.

  The copilot dropped the back of his head against the floor. He stuck his hand into his jacket and squeezed the medallion. “Yes.”

  “We’re heading home,” Boar said.

  The copilot turned to Ollie. “I owe you one, Yank.”

  “I believe you do.” He pointed to the tail of the plane. “You can repay me by getting that pigeon safely back to Susan Shepherd.”

  The copilot nodded. He stood, the color drained from his face, and returned to the cockpit.

  Ollie leaned back and closed his eyes. Light streamed through the turret but did little to warm his body. He struggled to come to terms with the fact that this would be his last flight. He’d never join the fight. And he’d never see Susan again. Instead of being allowed to return to Epping, he’d be imprisoned or deported from Britain. The possibility of being with her after the war was gone. He yearned for a second chance. A pang of sadness wrenched at his core.

  As the copilot buckled into his seat, a shell exploded. Ollie heard what sounded like rocks striking an oil drum. The plane rattled. He stood in the turret. Black smoke poured from the left engine, the propeller seized, blades bent like tines of an old fork. The right engine coughed and sputtered. His gut floated into his chest as the plane lost altitude. He waited for the weight of gravity as the plane attempted to pull up, but it never came.

  CHAPTER 24

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan watched a wall of black smoke rise in the east, as if the runways at North Weald Airfield had been doused with petrol and set ablaze. A squadron of Messerschmitt fighters swooped over the forest, then climbed toward the clouds. High above, an armada flew toward London. The German fighters swarmed their bombers, like hornets protecting their nest. There were no Hurricanes. No Spitfires. Only Luftwaffe. She feared everyone and everything in North Weald had been destroyed. Her legs shook. Her breath turned to short gasps. She grabbed the porch rail to keep from falling.

  “Bastards!” Bertie glared at the invaders.

  The sirens died, and the antiaircraft guns suddenly stopped, as if the RAF had run out of ammunition, revealing the grinding of German engines. Susan looked up and shuddered. The Luftwaffe looked unstoppable, their pilots immortal, their planes indestructible.

  She turned to Bertie and said, “Ollie.”

  The color drained from his face.

  Susan’s jaw quivered.

  He hobbled inside the cottage and went to the telephone.

  Susan heard him feverishly crank the phone, briefly pause, then slam the earpiece to its cradle.

  “Lines are dead,” he said, returning to the porch.

  Susan stepped into the yard, shielding her eyes from the setting sun, and watched the Luftwaffe fly west. Soon she heard echoes of antiaircraft fire. Black bursts peppered the horizon. Then came the thunder of bombs on London.

  She turned to Bertie. Over the cottage, a veil of soot scarred the clouds. “We must do something.”

  Bertie shook his head and limped off the porch. “There’ll be another attack.”

  “Is he all right?” Her hands trembled. “Our pigeons? Duchess?”

  His mouth opened but didn’t speak.

  “I need to know.”

  Bertie looked at his pocket watch, then glanced at the sun, using his thumb to estimate its distance from the horizon. “There’s not much daylight left. One hour, maybe two. And we have no bloody car.”

  “We can borrow the McCrearys’ lorry,” she said.

  “We won’t be permitted near the airfield.”

  “We must try.”

  Bertie hesitated. “I’ll go.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Absolutely not.” He stuffed his watch into his pocket.

  “Your knees. It’ll be dark by the time you reach the McCrearys’ farm. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said.

  “I can do this.” She noticed a weakening in her grandfather’s eyes, a slight drop in his shoulders. “Be on the porch with your walking stick.”

  Before Bertie could argue, she turned and ran down the drive. Gravel and mud clumped to her shoes. Her heart pounded as she passed the lofts, a third of which were empty, either on their way to France or facing an inferno at North Weald. The sheep huddled inside the barn preparing for rain, fooled by the rumble of human thunder. A few lambs lay in the field nibbling grass, their legs tucked feebly under their bellies. Their ears twitched at the beat of Susan’s footsteps.

  Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. But she didn’t stop until reaching the McCreary farm. Running up the stone path that led to the house, she slipped because of the mud on her shoes and fell, scraping the palms of her hands. Pain shot through her forearms. Quickly brushing away bits of gravel embedded in her skin, she stood and knocked on the door. Seconds passed. Her eardrums pounded with the pulse of her blood. She sucked in air, a rasping attempt to catch her breath. A jolt of fear shocked her body as she realized that the McCrearys may have left for a shelter. Scanning the farm, she noticed the lorry parked near a shed. She knocked harder, bruising her knuckles.

  Rustling came from inside the house. A lock clicked, and the door creaked open to reveal old man McCreary holding a lantern, like he had emerged from a cave.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. McCreary said, coming up from the cellar.

  Before Mr. McCreary could answer, Susan said, “It’s Susan Shepherd. May I borrow your lorry?”

  Mr. McCreary started to speak, his eyes widened as he realized that he had forgotten to put in his dentures, and quickly covered his mouth.

  “Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. McCreary said, stepping in front of her husband. Her scraggly white hair sprouted from a poorly tied bun.

  “No,” Susan said, catching her breath. She pressed her hand to her side, trying to suppress a cramp.

  “Bertie?” Mrs. McCrea
ry asked.

  “He’s fine.” She sucked in gulps of air. “We don’t have our lorry. It’s an emergency.”

  “It’s bloody raining bombs,” Mr. McCreary said.

  “Albert!” Mrs. McCreary snapped.

  The old man clamped his gums, making his cheeks sag.

  “Please,” Susan said. “I’ll explain later.” Susan thought of Ollie and her pigeons. Her eyes watered.

  Mrs. McCreary nodded. “Would you like Albert to drive you?”

  The old man’s toothless jaw dropped.

  “No,” Susan said.

  Mr. McCreary breathed a sigh of relief, then retrieved a key from a hook in the foyer and handed it to Susan.

  “Thank you.” She took the key and ran.

  “Be careful, dear,” Mrs. McCreary called after her.

  The McCreary truck, used to haul hay and livestock, was larger and much older than Bertie’s vehicle. It took several tries to start the engine, the acceleration was poor, the cabin smelled of exhaust fumes, and she could see the ground through a hole in the rusted floorboard. But it ran. Otherwise, she would have resorted to using her old bicycle.

  As she approached the cottage, she saw Bertie hobbling, carrying his walking stick, its tip never touching the ground. Susan slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded to a stop.

  Bertie tossed the stick into the back of the truck, opened the door, and grimaced as he climbed into his seat.

  You’re supposed to use your walking stick, Susan thought. She pressed the accelerator and popped the clutch.

  Bertie’s head jerked. “Would you like me to drive?”

  Susan shook her head. She struggled to turn the truck around, its large steering wheel feeling like a ship’s helm. The truck bounced as the tires rolled onto the main road. She slammed the accelerator to the floor.

  The village of Epping was deserted. Cars were haphazardly parked on the street, abandoned during the surprise daylight attack. Drapes covered most of the windows, the residents preparing early for the blackout or shutting out the view of destruction left by the Luftwaffe. All of the businesses in the market were closed. The only sign of life was a speeding ambulance headed toward the hospital. Susan felt sick. She suppressed her fear and aimed the truck toward the smoke over North Weald Airfield.

  Less than a mile from the airfield, a military vehicle blocked the road, with two soldiers standing guard. Susan glanced at Bertie and slid her foot from the accelerator. The truck coasted to a stop.

  Susan rolled down her window. The air smelled of expelled gunpowder. She gripped the wheel to keep from shaking.

  “You need to turn around, miss,” the soldier said.

  Bertie leaned in. “Our employee was making a delivery to the airfield.”

  “I’m sorry,” the soldier said. He glanced toward the rumble of explosions in London, then gripped his rifle. “Road is closed.”

  “Please,” Susan begged.

  “Orders. Go home, miss.” The soldier waved for her to leave.

  Susan turned the truck around, struggling to remove the stick from reverse. After finding the correct gear, she popped the clutch and pulled away. Through the rearview mirror, she stared at the smoky haze covering the airfield, then sniffed and wiped her face. “We tried.”

  “There may be another way,” Bertie said.

  Susan looked at him.

  “Yes,” he said, scratching his head. “It may just work.”

  “What?”

  “Turn on Woodside.” He pointed. “There!”

  Susan turned the wheel sharply, pressing Bertie into her shoulder.

  He straightened himself in his seat.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We can’t get in, but we can get a better look.”

  Susan drove north. To the left was Wintry Wood. Thick groves of virgin trees covered the ground, their fallen leaves pasted to the damp road like a carpet. To the right lay pastures overgrown with dormant weeds. No sheep. No crops. Only thorny bramble. Beyond the fields, a long wire fence ran parallel to the neglected farms. North Weald Airfield? She struggled to get a better look, felt the tires rumble on the berm, and quickly adjusted the wheel.

  “Focus, my dear,” Bertie said. “It’s not far.”

  A few hundred yards ahead, she followed Bertie’s instructions and turned into a farm. She slowed as she approached a brick farmhouse. Brown vines slithered over the front door, their progress stopped shy of the second-story windows by approaching winter. She briefly wondered if the entire English countryside would soon be deserted, fearing the inevitable German invasion.

  “The Jamisons moved to Shrewsbury when the war started,” Bertie said. “Several years ago, Mr. Jamison had fallen ill during lambing season. I tended to his sheep while he recovered. The barn overlooks North Weald.” He pointed. “Drive around back.”

  Susan drove to the back of the house and parked in front of the barn. She helped Bertie out of the truck. As she expected, he refused to use his walking stick but accepted the crook of her arm. Together, they pried open the barn door, its hinges squeaking from rust. The inside, despite being empty, still smelled of old manure and straw.

  “Up there.” He pointed to a ladder leading to a hayloft. “I’ll follow.”

  “Your knees.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Susan climbed the ladder, the rungs worn smooth from decades of soiled boots and sweaty hands. Faint afternoon sun sprayed through cracks in the boards. Reaching the top, she heard Bertie grunting as he labored to climb the ladder. She lowered herself to her knees, took his hands, and helped him to the landing. As she brushed straw from her clothes, Bertie stood and swung open the doors. Light illuminated the hayloft.

  He looked outside and squinted. “Too far for me.”

  Susan joined him. The elevation from the hayloft gave a distant, but clear view of North Weald Airfield. Her heart raced.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  She scanned the airfield looking for Grandfather’s truck or any sign of Ollie and the pigeons. But smoke, drifting in thick black billows, clouded much of the view. “There’s a burning hangar. A fire brigade is fighting the flames. Men are filling holes in a runway.” Her legs felt brittle. She leaned on the door to steady herself. “I don’t see him.”

  “How many planes?”

  She noticed what appeared to be the charred skeletal remains of two planes. She bit her lip, fighting back tears. “I see a couple of burned planes.”

  “Bombers or fighters?”

  She squinted. “I can’t tell.”

  He raised his chin. “They’re on their way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The runways are usually lined with planes, except during flight missions. They must have scrambled them all into the air during the attack.” He placed his arm over her shoulder. “Our pigeons, at least the majority of them, are likely on their way to France.”

  “What now?”

  “We go home and wait for Ollie and our pigeons to return.”

  Susan looked one last time at the ravaged airfield, but the distance, smoke, and fading sunlight prevented her from seeing any sign of Ollie. She clasped her hands and prayed he was safe, then helped Bertie down from the hayloft and drove home.

  As she pulled the lorry into their farm, an overwhelming sense of helplessness caused her heart to palpitate. She hoped to see Bertie’s truck parked at the cottage, Duchess pacing her window ledge, and Ollie waiting on the porch. But there was only the intrusive military tent, its canvas flapping in the wind.

  “They’ll be all right,” Bertie said unconvincingly.

  Susan noticed a slight change in the tone of his voice. “It’s getting dark. Go inside, and I’ll check on the pigeons.”

  He nodded, then limped into the cottage.

  Susan rapped on the grain can much harder than usual, hoping the noise could somehow draw Duchess home. Between lofts, she glanced down the lane, praying that she’d see Ollie returning in
Bertie’s truck. It was the setting sun, and knowing that the Luftwaffe would likely return, that forced her inside.

  She retrieved cold towels for Bertie’s knees to control the swelling. But the damage was done. His kneecaps were red and the size of melons. He grimaced as the towels touched his skin.

  Susan tried to make a call to get information about the attack, but the telephone lines were still dead. She checked the radio and found nothing but static, typical during blackouts. After lighting a candle and closing the curtains, she sat on the sofa and noticed the indentation where Ollie had sat beside her the night before. She ran her hand over the cushion and wanted to cry. She barely knew him, but there had been an instant connection. She trusted him. Her heart had never felt this way about another man. And she believed—despite a war and being from different continents—that they could have a life together. She prayed that he was unharmed. Where are you, Ollie?

  “Don’t give up hope, my dear.” Bertie rubbed his knees. “We must believe Oliver is safe.”

  Susan nodded, then lowered her head.

  “And Duchess, too.”

  Susan buried her head in her hands.

  “I never told you this, Susan,” Bertie said, adjusting a towel over his leg and leaning forward. “When you tried to hatch a pigeon egg in your grandmother’s bowl, I had all but given up hope. In fact, I had bought another box of tobacco, just so I could be prepared to bury the egg.”

  Susan raised her head and looked at him. The candlelight flickered over his gray whiskers.

  “You never gave up. You kept the egg warm and rotated it like clockwork for weeks. Even after Duchess hatched, you fed her homemade pigeon milk until she could join the squabs.” He gave a slight smile. “It wasn’t a miracle. You believed. And made it happen.”

  She stood and went to his chair.

  “Have faith.” He took her hand and squeezed.

  Susan nodded, then went to the icebox to fetch another cold towel. She appreciated her grandfather’s words and, even more, his continuous efforts to fill the void of a missing father and mother. But deep down, she knew something was wrong.

  As night approached, Bertie fell asleep in his chair, not making the effort to climb the stairs with his aching knees. His head slowly bobbed with the rhythm of his snores.