by Alan Hlad
Ollie led Boar into the field. He gathered clumps of straw. It was getting dark, but not soon enough. They’d likely see them if they were close, but he had few choices. He grabbed more stalks.
“Why are we stopping?” Boar gripped his pistol.
Ollie quickly scraped at a groove in the earth with his hand. “Lie down in this plow run.”
“You’re mad, Yank.” He pointed his pistol toward the hill. “You’ll get us killed.”
Ollie gathered more straw. “They won’t look for us here.”
“We haven’t bloody left.” He wiped his eyes.
“You can’t see, and I can’t outrun them.” Ollie threw a pile of straw at Boar’s feet. “You’ll have to trust me.”
Boar hesitated, then slipped his pistol into its holster and blindly scraped together straw.
They fell into a plow run no deeper than several inches and covered themselves as best they could. As Ollie shoveled a pile of straw onto his chest, he noticed the broken plane and stopped. Duchess. In his panic to leave the Blenheim, he had completely forgotten about Susan’s pigeon.
The silence was broken by the sound of an approaching engine.
He peeked through the straw to the hill. No movement. His mouth went dry. He thought of Susan, her pigeon somewhere in the Blenheim. Damn it.
Vehicle brakes screeched. Guttural voices. The metallic clack of cartridges stuffed into weapons. Through cracks in the straw, he noticed movement, what first appeared to be gray turtles cresting the hill. First, one turtle. Then another turtle. And another. Within seconds, a platoon of German soldiers, wearing shell-like helmets, stood on the hill.
“Dort Druben!” A soldier pointed to the plane. The platoon raised their weapons.
Ollie squeezed his shoulder and counted. One, two, three, four, five.
Another German soldier crested the hill carrying a machine gun.
Six. Damn it. Ollie watched the soldiers spread out into two flanks. He heard the click of Boar removing the safety on his pistol. “Wait,” Ollie whispered.
The soldiers, their weapons raised, cautiously crept toward the plane. Eyes peered through rifle sights.
The crunch of German boots grew closer. The path of the platoon would place them in the middle of both flanks. Ollie suddenly regretted his decision to hide. Every fiber in his body ached to run.
The German soldier with the machine gun, holding it like a guitar from a leather strap over his shoulder, passed within a few yards of their nest and stopped.
Ollie held his breath. His lungs felt like balloons about to burst.
The soldier, a fair-skinned, blond-haired man, about the same age as Ollie, gripped the trigger. He nodded to his comrades, and the soldiers moved forward, all eyes fixed on the plane.
Ollie’s instincts had been right. As the soldiers passed, they remained focused on the smoldering plane, giving little, if any, notice to the strange bunches of straw among the many rotting piles covering the field.
Ollie quietly exhaled, then slowly sucked in air.
As the flanks reached the plane, the soldier with the machine gun fired into the fuselage, sending off a spray of sparks. He then emptied the rest of his bullets into the cockpit.
Ollie squeezed a handful of straw, feeling powerless as bullets riddled the plane. I’m sorry, Susan.
Three of the soldiers crawled inside the Blenheim while the others examined the wings, like hunters making sure their prey was dead. After several minutes, the soldiers emerged from the plane. The man carrying the machine gun held up a finger, then motioned to search the woods.
Ollie watched the soldiers disappear into the trees. When he could no longer hear the snap of sticks beneath their boots, he sprang from the pile and hopped toward the plane. “I’ll be back.”
“Get back,” Boar said, reaching for Ollie’s leg but missing.
Ollie limped to the plane and crawled into the fuselage to the smell of fuel and blood. The shelf where Duchess had been placed was empty, crinkled like a baking sheet beaten with a hammer. He overturned pieces of wreckage. No Duchess. In the tail, behind the body of the gunner, he saw a green flash. The thud of beating wings. A wave of relief washed over him, then quickly disappeared. The soldiers would return. Time was running out. He worked his way back, doing his best not to touch the gunner, but he had no choice but to push aside the man’s legs, cold and stiff, to reach the tail. Stretching his arm as far as he could reach, he grabbed the cage and fled the plane, not taking time to check Duchess.
As he limped across the field, sweat dripped down his back. His shoulder throbbed. Duchess flapped her wings. The wire from the cage cut his fingers. He pushed to run on both legs, sending flares of pain into his ankle. As he reached the hiding spot, Boar rose from the straw pile.
“I hope you got a weapon,” Boar whispered.
Duchess cooed.
“Shhhhh,” Ollie said, covering the cage with his arms.
“Bloody fool,” Boar said.
The next sound Ollie expected to hear was Boar firing his pistol into his chest. Instead, it was the hum of approaching vehicles. Without speaking, they crept away, Ollie limping and carrying Duchess, Flight Lieutenant Boar blindly pointing his pistol.
Ollie led them out of the field and over the hill. Avoiding the road, they followed a stream that flowed away from the fields. The ripple of water over stones masked the sound of their sloshing boots. As they waded calf-deep through cold water, Ollie’s ankle went numb, making it easier to walk. He lowered the zipper on his jacket to use as a sling, tucked in his useless arm, and quickened the pace.
They continued their aqueous march well into the night, using the glow of a rising moon to guide their way. No speaking. No stopping. Following the stream, they wandered deep into the French countryside.
It was the drone of Luftwaffe flying overhead that eventually caused them to pause. The Nazis were no doubt on their way to bomb London. Again. The engines sounded louder. More aggressive, like the roar of iron lions. Perhaps it was the lack of antiaircraft fire that made the Luftwaffe seem mighty, or perhaps it was the solitude of the French countryside under German occupation. Either way, Ollie sensed that there might be no stopping Hitler.
He looked down at the cage in his hand. Duchess’s fluorescent green feathers shimmered in the moonlight. The pigeon cocked her head skyward and blinked. Ollie pressed the cage to his side and sloshed forward.
For two more hours, they followed the stream, over eroded rocks and muddy holes, until they reached a shallow pond. Ollie’s feet were cold and numb; his shoulder ached. They waded to the bank and worked their way up a hill, their boots filled with silt and muck, then made their way through a patch of thorns. Emerging from the thistle, their hands scraped and bleeding, they arrived at a farmhouse. In the distance, a silhouette of a village, a church steeple pointed to the stars.
The lieutenant pressed the bandage on his lacerated eye, then strained to look through his swollen one. “What do you see?”
“A farm. A town a few miles away.” Ollie glanced around. “There’s a barn where we can hide.”
Boar nodded.
They crawled under a gap between the barn siding and the ground, rather than risk opening a squeaky door and alerting the owner. Inside, Boar rummaged through his jacket pocket, then struck a match. The phosphorous flash caused a sleeping hog to shoot up its head. It stood on stocky hooves and snorted. Boar reached for his pistol.
Ollie gripped his arm. “It’s only a pig.”
Boar lowered his hand.
Fortunately, the hog didn’t squeal. It gave a couple of snorts, then fell back onto its side to rest. As Boar’s match burned away, they found an empty stall and collapsed to the ground. No straw, only chunks of what felt like mushy apples, but Ollie immediately recognized the musky smell. Molded potatoes. Feed for the hog.
As the temperature in his feet rose, the throbbing in his ankle returned. He wanted to take off his boot but feared the swelling would prevent him from gettin
g it back on. The pang in his shoulder worsened, the flares synchronized with his heartbeat. To distract himself from the pain, he placed Duchess’s cage beside him and poked his finger through the wire. The pigeon lightly pecked. He thought of Susan and hoped she and Bertie were safe, and that the Luftwaffe attack on North Weald Airfield had stayed clear of Epping. He’d likely never make it out of France alive. But Duchess would. He’d release her in the morning. It was his only comfort, knowing one of them would make it home. He lowered his head. Exhausted, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER 27
AIRAINES, FRANCE
Ollie woke to a snorting hog and a rifle pointed at his face. It’s over, he thought.
He slowly raised a hand. With his eyes, he followed a steel barrel. He expected to see one of the turtle-headed German soldiers or perhaps an Aryan, steel-jawed Nazi. Instead, he saw a toothpick-thin woman with a sagging green sweater covering her trigger hand. Salt-and-pepper hair sprouted from under a weathered felt hat.
He glanced at Flight Lieutenant Boar, sleeping in the corner, then felt the cold tip of the gun press against his cheek.
“Qui êtes-vous? ”
Boar shot up and pointed his pistol.
The hog squealed. The woman turned the rifle on Boar.
“Wait!” Ollie shouted.
Boar struggled to see through the crack in his swollen eye, the other covered with a bloodied shirttail.
“British,” Ollie said. He tried to say something in French, but it sounded like gibberish.
“Your French is terrible,” the woman said in English. “And your accent isn’t British.”
“American.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. Her hog snorted, then twitched its triangle-shaped ears.
“Where are we?” Boar asked, still aiming his pistol.
“My farm.” Her rifle remained steady. “Who are you?”
“Flight Lieutenant Boar, Royal Air Force.”
“Shot down?”
Boar nodded.
The woman glanced at Ollie, then returned her attention to the lieutenant. “He doesn’t look like a pilot.”
“He’s not,” Boar said.
Ollie slowly stood, clutched his sunken shoulder, and stepped between them. “The Nazis are the enemy. Not us.”
She looked at him, then lowered her rifle.
“You can put that away,” Ollie said to Boar.
The lieutenant hesitated, then placed the pistol in its holster.
“Name’s Ollie,” he said, extending his hand.
The woman kept her hands on her rifle. “Madeleine.”
Ollie lowered his hand, then adjusted his footing, his ankle stiff and swollen. “Madeleine, we need medical supplies. Alcohol, bandages, anything you can spare.”
She looked at the lieutenant, his face crusted with dried blood.
“We also need a place to hide,” Ollie said. “If you can’t help us, we’ll leave and won’t put you at risk.”
Madeleine reached down and scratched the hog’s bristly brown fur, as if it were a dog. The hog grunted and wiggled its curled tail. “Wait here.” She turned and left the barn, the hog trotting close behind.
“Where’s she going?” Boar asked.
Ollie looked outside and saw the woman enter her house, then emerge a moment later without her rifle. She proceeded down a dirt road with her hog by her side. “Headed to the village.”
“We should leave,” Boar said.
“And go where?” Ollie tried walking, but each step shot pain into his leg, as though his ankle was filled with broken glass. His shoulder began to throb. He exhaled and leaned against the barn door. “The sun is up. The place will be swarming with Germans searching for a missing pilot.”
“She could be helping them, on her way to the Nazis right now.” Boar adjusted the bandage over his eye.
“I don’t think so. She would have gone to them instead of waking us.”
Boar cleared his throat and spat on the ground. “Let’s get this straight, Yank. I don’t take orders from you. I give them.”
Ollie looked at the battered lieutenant. “You’re right.”
Boar turned his head, as if his ears had also been injured in the crash.
“I’m American. We’re supposed to be neutral.” He stepped to the lieutenant. “Maybe I should just leave. Let you fight your bloody war.”
The lieutenant laughed. “They’ll find you.”
“I could claim I was traveling and got stuck in France during the invasion.”
“They’d still shoot you.”
“Possibly,” Ollie said. “But I’m not the one wearing the RAF flight suit.”
Boar’s jaw muscles flexed.
“The fact is, you need me more than I need you. If you want to go, go. I’m waiting for Madeleine.”
Boar tapped his pistol. “If she returns with Germans, the first shot I fire will be for you.”
Duchess fluttered in her cage.
Ollie limped over to Duchess. He noticed that she looked impatient, scratching her feet and turning in her tight quarters. Opening the cage, he reached in and stroked her back. She made no effort to escape, seeming content to receive a bit of attention. After brushing her wings with his thumb, he retrieved the paper and small pencil that was stored inside. Placing the paper on his lap, he began to write.
The scratching of lead caused Boar to turn his head. “What are you doing?”
“Gonna send Susan’s pigeon home,” Ollie said, writing. “I’m including a note to tell them where we are.”
“Brilliant, Yank. The bird could be shot down, then the Nazis will have a map to find us.”
“She’s a pigeon.”
“Same thing. Can’t believe we wasted the lives of airmen on a bloody bird mission.”
Boar’s words caused Ollie to stop. He recalled his last morning with Susan and ran his hand over the lump inside his jacket. “I won’t be able to sleep during the mission,” Susan had said as the soldiers were loading pigeons onto their trucks. “Will you stay up with me again tonight?” He’d looked into her eyes and said, “There’s no place I’d rather be.” But now he was behind enemy lines. She probably thinks I’m dead. A wretched ache burrowed into his chest, dwarfing the pain in his shoulder.
“Save it for later, Yank,” Boar said. “We’ll need that bird to send back intelligence, assuming we find anything worth reporting.”
Ollie put away the paper and pencil, then took Duchess from her cage. He placed her at his feet. She made no effort to fly, only stretched her wings and waddled in a circle. As he waited for either Madeleine or the Nazis to return, he passed the time by watching Duchess peck at his bootlaces.
In less than an hour, Madeleine returned with her hog and an old man carrying a black leather bag. He was bald, except for a mustache and white bushy eyebrows that looked like twin albino caterpillars crawling over his brow. “Médecin,” Madeleine said, stepping into the barn.
The man, whom Ollie believed to be a doctor, stared at the injured lieutenant. He glanced at Ollie’s dropped shoulder, nervously twisted the tip of his mustache, and said something in French to Madeleine.
“We go inside,” Madeleine said.
She led them to her house, a small stucco cottage with a thatched roof. The doctor guided the lieutenant by the arm as Ollie limped. Reaching the door, Madeleine patted her hog on the head and said, “Reste, Louis. Nous travaillons bientôt.” The hog snorted, then nestled into a worn patch of earth next to a shrub.
Inside, the doctor sat Boar on a wooden stool and motioned for Ollie to remove his jacket.
Ollie carefully took off his jacket, wincing as it slid over his shoulder.
The doctor ran his hand over Ollie’s back and shoulder blade, then slowly raised Ollie’s arm.
Ollie groaned. His shoulder felt like it was being stretched in a torture rack, ligaments and tendons about to snap.
The doctor lowered Ollie’s arm. “Disloqué,” he mumbled, then spoke to Madeleine.
Madeleine looked at Ollie. “Your shoulder is dislocated. It’s badly swollen, and he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to reset it.”
Ollie swallowed and looked at the frail doctor, his arms like pipe cleaners. “Then I’ll do it myself.”
Madeleine shook her head. “He’d like for him to set it,” she said, pointing to Boar.
Ollie groaned. He glanced at the lieutenant and noticed a sense of satisfaction on his battered face.
Ollie found himself on the floor listening to the doctor give instructions, interpreted through Madeleine. The last thing he wanted was for someone to tug on his arm, especially Flight Lieutenant Boar. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t leave his arm a dangling mess. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Boar sat on the floor next to Ollie. The doctor placed Boar’s hands on Ollie’s wrist, then positioned the lieutenant’s boot into Ollie’s armpit.
Ollie felt Boar’s sweaty grip. His shoulder throbbed.
“On three, Yank,” Boar said, applying pressure.
He’s going to rip my arm off, Ollie thought.
“One . . .”
A hard jerk. A surge of pain. A loud pop, like a cork exploding from a champagne bottle.
Boar released his grip.
“Damn you,” Ollie said, grabbing his shoulder. He carefully rotated his arm to make sure it still worked. Although he could barely lift his elbow, everything seemed to be in the right place, and most importantly, he noticed an immediate relief in pain. “Thanks.”
Boar cracked his knuckles. “My pleasure, Yank.”
The doctor produced a roll of gauze from his bag and made a sling for Ollie’s arm. He then proceeded to swiftly remove Boar’s bandage, as if he were running behind with a line of patients waiting to be examined. He looked at the lieutenant’s eye using a small flashlight, shook his head, and then whispered to Madeleine.
The woman opened the kitchen window and began clearing off a large table.
“What’d he say?” Flight Lieutenant Boar asked.
“Chirurgie.” She glanced at the doctor. “He needs to repair your eye.”
“No,” Boar said. “Tell him to just stitch me up.”