by Alan Hlad
Madeleine shook her head. “He said you’ll lose your sight if he doesn’t try to fix it.”
Boar cupped a hand over his eye. “Can he save it?”
Madeleine spoke again with the doctor. He looked at Boar and said something in French.
“Perhaps,” Madeleine said.
“Bloody hell,” Boar said. “Is he qualified to perform eye surgery?”
“He can be trusted.” Madeleine pushed chairs away from the table. “He’s putting his life at risk. The Nazis have no tolerance for anyone aiding their enemy.”
The lieutenant hesitated, then said, “Very well.”
The doctor pulled out a small brown bottle and gauze and placed them on the table, then began setting out sharp metal instruments, including a needle and surgical string.
Ollie helped Boar onto the table. Dried mud fell from the lieutenant’s boots and scattered over the wood floor. The doctor turned to Ollie and said something he didn’t understand. But he soon realized what the doctor was referring to when he extracted a bit of the mixture from the bottle with a dropper and squeezed the solution onto the gauze.
“He wants you to assist with administering the anesthesia,” Madeleine said, taking a hand-rolled cigarette from her pocket. She lit the end with a match and took a deep inhale, accentuating the wrinkles around her lips.
Boar sniffed. “Could I have a cigarette?”
Madeleine handed him the one in her hand.
Boar took a deep drag. The tip glowed. He held his breath, then blew smoke through his nose. “Don’t kill me, Yank.” He handed the cigarette back to Madeleine.
“I’ll leave that for the Nazis,” Ollie said.
“Fair enough,” Boar said, lying down on the table.
The doctor placed the anesthetic-soaked gauze over the lieutenant’s nose. Boar inhaled. Coughed. Then inhaled again. Within seconds, the lieutenant’s head tilted to the side, his hands limp. The doctor handed the gauze to Ollie.
Madeleine puffed on her cigarette and went to the door.
“Aren’t you going to help?” Ollie asked. The gauze felt cold and wet in his hand.
She took a worn leather satchel that was hanging on a hook and placed it over her shoulder. “He’s your friend.”
Ollie looked at the unconscious pilot. He’s not my friend.
She opened the door. “Louis.” The hog got to its feet and raised its snout, as if it were sniffing Madeleine’s tobacco smoke. She stepped outside and shut the door, her voice fading as she carried on a conversation with her hog.
Ollie didn’t blame her for leaving. The last thing he wanted to see was this doctor operate, especially on someone who had threatened to shoot him. But he had no choice. He couldn’t run, let alone walk. He spoke only a few words of French. And at the moment, he had no other place to hide. Besides, the countryside was probably swarming with Nazis searching for a missing RAF pilot. So he adjusted his weight onto his good leg and pretended to understand the doctor’s instructions.
First, the doctor cleaned the lieutenant’s facial wounds with alcohol and a rag. Then he poured a saline solution into the eyes, clearing away dried blood and yellow discharge.
Ollie grimaced and turned his head.
Boar started to moan.
“Anesthésie,” the doctor said.
Ollie placed the gauze over the lieutenant’s face until he went silent.
“Assez,” the doctor said, pushing Ollie’s hand away. He then swabbed the laceration above Boar’s eye.
Ollie lowered the gauze to his side. The smell was slightly nauseating, like that of overcooked sweet cabbage, and made him feel groggy. It was a good thing there was a breeze flowing through the room from the open windows; otherwise, he might have succumbed to the fumes. But the doctor didn’t seem to mind, as if he had grown tolerant of anesthetic.
For the next two hours, the doctor cleaned, probed, poked, swabbed, and stitched. Every several minutes, the lieutenant would begin to twitch, causing the doctor to speak; then Ollie would apply more anesthetic. After a while, Ollie could time when to place the gauze over Boar’s nose, allowing the doctor to focus on repairing the damage. To Ollie, the left eye didn’t look too bad, mostly swollen and badly bruised. But the right eye was another matter. The vertical laceration ran deep through the brow, splitting the eyelid and into the cheekbone. Most of the doctor’s time was spent on the eye itself, delicately maneuvering the cornea with a pair of tweezers. Ollie felt nauseous. Suddenly, he forgot all about his injured shoulder and ankle.
As the doctor finished the last suture, they heard Madeleine approach, the sound of the hog’s hooves tamping the ground. She came inside and hung up her satchel but kept her distance from the table; obviously, she had no desire to see what was being done.
The doctor made a makeshift patch out of cotton and gauze, then taped it over the lieutenant’s eyes.
“Ask him how it went,” Ollie said to Madeleine.
She spoke to the doctor. He responded, then quickly wiped off his medical instruments and tossed them into his bag.
“Time will tell.” She looked at the body on her kitchen table, then lit a cigarette. “The bandages need to stay on for ten days.” She took a deep inhale and blew smoke over the room.
Ollie helped the doctor move the lieutenant to the floor, though Ollie—wedging his good arm under Boar’s torso—did most of the lifting. The lieutenant remained unconscious. He briefly wondered if he had killed him with an overdose of anesthesia, until he saw the lieutenant’s chest rise and fall.
The doctor tapped Ollie’s boot.
Realizing that he wanted to check his ankle, Ollie loosened the lacing and carefully pulled off his boot.
The doctor squeezed Ollie’s swollen ankle like he was checking a piece of ripened fruit. He pushed the foot backward, forward, then rotated it in a circle.
Ollie clenched his fists and grimaced.
The doctor placed Ollie’s foot on the floor, stood, and said something to Madeleine.
Before Ollie could ask, Madeleine said, “He doesn’t think it’s broken.” She took a drag on her cigarette, then retrieved something from her satchel and handed it to the doctor.
Ollie watched the doctor examine what looked like a black piece of fungus coated in soil.
“Merci,” Madeleine said.
He sniffed the fungus, slipped it into his coat pocket, and left.
Madeleine looked at Ollie. “When he wakes, you can hide in the barn.”
Ollie nodded, then laced up his boot. He stood and limped over to the woman.
“Thank you,” Ollie said.
Madeleine nodded. Ashes from her cigarette dropped to the floor.
Waiting for the lieutenant to wake, Ollie retrieved Duchess from the barn and brought her into the kitchen. He asked Madeleine about troop movements, locations, numbers, and equipment. But Madeleine was unable to provide any meaningful intelligence, other than that the Luftwaffe was using a local airfield.
“The Wehrmacht is everywhere,” Madeleine said, rolling a cigarette. “They’ve taken over many of the homes in the village. They loot our food, making us wait in line to receive nothing but scraps.” She twisted the tips of the paper and stuck the cigarette to her lips. “Our men have not returned from the front. They’ve either been killed or sent off to prison camps. It’s only women, children, and old men.”
Ollie nodded. From his jacket, he took out the codebook, once used by Susan’s father in the Great War. The cover was warped and crimpled, but the pages were in relatively good condition for having been stored in a pigeon loft. He thumbed through it, gathering an understanding of the sequencing and codes. He quickly wrote a message and slipped it into the canister attached to Duchess’s leg.
The pigeon cooed. “Good girl, Duchess,” Ollie said.
“Your pigeon has a name?” Madeleine asked.
Ollie nodded.
She puffed her cigarette.
“So does my Louis.”
Ollie looked at the woman. “Louis is
a fine name for a pig.”
She gave a slim smile. “Truffle hog.”
Ollie pretended to understand what a truffle was by nodding his head, then hobbled outside with Duchess tucked into his arm. The lieutenant would be pissed, maybe even try and shoot him. But he didn’t care. He only wanted to return Susan’s pigeon. And with each wasted moment, he felt opportunity slipping away.
“You’re going home,” Ollie said.
Duchess tilted her head.
He stroked her back. “Fly high and stay clear of bullets.”
The pigeon blinked.
He tossed Duchess into the air. She flapped her wings and soared above the barn. She circled the perimeter twice to gain her bearings, just like the pigeons had done during the trip to Clacton-on-Sea, then flew west. As she disappeared from sight, he heard Boar gag and cough. The anesthesia had worn off.
CHAPTER 28
EPPING, ENGLAND
Bertie’s shoes shuffled over the disinfected floor of RAF Hospital Ely. Slowly, he stepped to Susan and cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “It’s not Oliver.”
Susan exhaled. “Are you certain?”
He nodded, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his eyes. “He wore a wedding ring.”
She swallowed, then searched for the right words. “Will he recover?”
Bertie shook his head.
A wave of shame washed over her. She had prayed, her silent request shouted to the heavens, for the misfortune to be with someone else. Anyone but Ollie. And her wish had been granted. Now a husband, perhaps even a father, was burned. Dying. She told herself that destiny’s card had already been played and that her prayer had little to do with who was lying in that hospital bed. But she still wanted to cry. Before she did, she took Bertie’s arm, and together they left the hospital.
Reaching the truck, Bertie opened the passenger door and said, “My dear, would you mind terribly if I drive?”
Susan noticed a weariness in his eyes. Normally, she’d insist on driving. His legs didn’t need the extra stress. But she didn’t argue, sensing her grandfather needed to distract himself from what he’d seen at RAF Hospital Ely. So she slid into the passenger seat, tucked her skirt under her legs, and shut the door. Through the windshield, she watched him labor around the truck and get into the driver’s seat.
Bertie’s hand trembled as he tried to insert the key into the ignition. The tip scratched the insert, but never found its destination.
“I believe the key is swollen,” Bertie said. “Like my knees.”
Susan steadied his hand.
Bertie slipped the key into the ignition and started the engine. “Thank you, my dear.”
Susan took one last glance at RAF Hospital Ely and wished she hadn’t. Two orderlies emerged from the side of the building carrying something wrapped in what looked to be a soiled mattress cover. A woman wailed, causing the hairs to stand up on the back of Susan’s neck. And it was then that she noticed the line of funeral cars. Family members gathering on the lawn watched with somber eyes as the orderlies placed the body into a hearse. It appeared to Susan that the entire left wing of the hospital was being used as a morgue. Her hands trembled. A hospital was supposed to be a place of hope. A place of healing. But not today. Or tomorrow. Not while bombs were still falling. As the truck pulled away, she closed her eyes and hoped she’d never see a hospital again.
Susan didn’t speak for much of the drive home, distracting herself by watching Bertie shift gears and maneuver the truck around gaping pits in the road. The maintenance crews had enlisted and were now shooting bullets instead of filling potholes, and the roadways were quickly becoming a crumbled mess.
She noticed an abandoned vehicle left on the berm with its doors wide open and thought of Ollie. “Where can he be?” she asked, cracking open her window. Cold air filled the cabin.
Bertie sighed. “Perhaps he went home.”
Susan looked at him.
“It’s not his war.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Bertie scratched the whiskers on his chin.
“Something happened,” she said. “He’d never desert us.”
Bertie nodded, then adjusted his hands on the steering wheel.
She wondered where Ollie could be. As a civilian or, more precisely, a foreigner, he wouldn’t have been permitted to remain on North Weald Airfield. And it’d be difficult not to draw attention with an American accent. It was as if he had vanished, like a down feather in the wind.
Part of her wished Bertie was right. If he had deserted and left for home, maybe he’d be safe, away from the rationing, bombs, and death. But the selfish part of her wanted him by her side. Her pigeons had gone to war. London was being destroyed by the Luftwaffe. Inevitably, the Germans would invade. More than anything, she needed him. She longed for his support and affection. He’d given her hope. And during the darkest of days, he’d stirred her heart.
As they drove through Epping, she closed her eyes, trying to avoid catching a glimpse of St. Margaret’s Hospital. She couldn’t bear the sight of another expectant mother dug out of the debris at Sprigg’s Oak Maternity Home.
The tires rolled over large ruts. Susan pressed her cheek against the window and looked up. The clouds were thick and strewn with streaks of navy—a sign of approaching winter. High above, she saw a speck. She strained to focus. A bird. The unique stroke of its wings made her shoot up in her seat. She quickly cranked down the window.
“What’s wrong?” Bertie asked.
Susan pointed. “Pigeon.”
He looked up through the windshield. “Duchess?”
Susan stuck her head out the window. Cold wind blasted her face. The pigeon was too high to see the colors, but she knew the effortless grace of Duchess’s flight, and this pigeon was flapping its wings too fast.
“No,” she said, pushing hair from her eyes.
“One of ours?” He squinted.
She leaned farther out the window. The pigeon veered to the west. Her heart raced. “I think so.”
Bertie pulled Susan to her seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
“There!” Susan pointed. “It’s headed home!”
Bertie downshifted and rounded a turn. The bald tires squealed. The truck gathered speed. The engine howled. Pistons banged against their casings. He drove like a young British racer trying to qualify for a grand prix.
Gusting wind unraveled the bun from Susan’s hair. She pushed flying strands from her face and struggled to spot the pigeon.
Making little effort to slow down, Bertie spun the truck into their dirt lane. They bounced from a rut and almost hit their heads on the roof of the cabin. Only then did he resort to using the brake. The tires splashed through puddles, spraying mud onto the windshield. Bertie flipped on the wipers. The worn blades did nothing but spread brown goop. It was like looking through a fishbowl filled with cake batter. So they drove the rest of the way with their heads stuck out the side windows.
A soldier stationed on the farm for the mission emerged from his tent. As he zipped up his jacket, the pigeon shot over a hornbeam tree.
Bertie braked hard, grunting from the strain to his knees. The truck slid to a stop. Susan flung open her door.
Another soldier emerged from the tent, and as he did, the pigeon fluttered to a loft. It paused on the landing for a moment, as if to catch its breath, then waddled inside, triggering the alarm that had been installed.
A buzzer sounded. The soldiers jerked. They looked to the tent.
Susan ran to the loft.
A soldier poked his head inside the tent. The alarm buzzed. “Loft one!”
Susan was the first to reach the loft, having had a good head start on the soldiers. She threw open the door, and high above on the landing stood a pigeon. It jutted its head, scanning the emptied cubbies. The pigeon blinked and then fluttered to the floor.
Susan plucked the pigeon from the ground and cradled it. She felt its pulse against her hands.
The bird cooed. Susan’s eyes watered. “You made it.”
The door opened, and a soldier approached her. “You’ll need to step aside, miss,” he said, extending his hands.
Susan noticed the Bakelite canister attached to the pigeon’s leg. She kissed the bird on the head, then reluctantly handed it to the soldier.
The second soldier appeared in the doorway, followed by Bertie, out of breath and pressing his hands to his knees.
Susan watched the soldier place the pigeon on the floor, then carefully remove the canister from its leg. He held up the Bakelite canister, exposing the outline of a note inside. Instead of unscrewing the top, he quickly handed the canister to his partner.
“You’ll need to leave, miss,” the soldier said.
Susan looked at the pigeon on the floor. “It needs food and water.”
“Finish your duty, then stay clear of the lofts,” the soldier said.
Susan nodded, then sprinkled seed into the feeding tray and refilled a water bowl. The loft was barren. Instead of a flock of pigeons parading at her feet, a solitary bird, one that had made a journey all the way from France, pecked at the feeding tray. As she stood beside the grain barrel, a buzz came from the tent. She looked to the landing. Another pigeon waddled through the metal curtain.
“Bloody hell,” the soldier said.
Susan turned to Bertie.
He smiled. Crow’s-feet formed at the corners of his eyes.
Susan took a seat on the porch with her grandfather. For the remainder of the afternoon, they watched the return of their pigeons. Over the next hour, a total of seven pigeons returned. The following hour, twelve. The hour after that, sixteen. Each time a pigeon would appear on the horizon, Bertie would stand on shaky knees, point a flabby arm, and shout, “There’s another!” Soon after, the returning pigeon would land and enter the loft, setting off the alarm. The place buzzed like a beehive.
“Those bells make a beautiful racket,” Bertie said.
Susan nodded and watched another pigeon appear on the horizon.
A stream of military vehicles, acting as couriers, came through the farm. The stationed soldiers gave the couriers the canisters, which they locked into metal boxes. The couriers ran the boxes to their vehicles and sped off. They could have waited to collect more arriving messages, but it was obvious to Susan that the couriers had orders to transport the intelligence immediately upon arrival. She suspected that the messages were not going to North Weald Airfield. They were likely going to London, to the heart of British military command.