by Alan Hlad
By sunset, a total of forty-eight pigeons had returned. Four hundred and fifty-two were missing. Before going inside to prepare for the blackout, Susan watched an orange sun sink below the birch trees. She imagined the Luftwaffe was already in flight, the bellies of their bombers filled with tons of explosives, preparing to destroy what was left of London. Then they’d invade. She prayed that one of the returning pigeons could provide something, anything that could give Britain an edge to survive.
“We’ll know when you’re coming, you ruddy Nazis,” Bertie said, shaking his fist in the air. “And we’ll be ready for you.”
A soldier, handing over a canister to a courier, overheard Bertie’s comment and said, “Jolly good work, sir.”
Bertie pointed to Susan. “You can thank my granddaughter. She’s the brains behind the mission.”
The soldier tipped his cap. “Congratulations, miss.”
Susan forced a smile. Part of her was relieved that the pigeons were returning. But only a fraction of the flock had made it back. And Ollie and Duchess were missing. Soon the sirens would howl. Bombs would fall. She feared she would never see them again.
CHAPTER 29
EPPING, ENGLAND
The attack on London began shortly after dark. The couriers had left when the flow of returning pigeons trickled to a stop. But the two soldiers remained, hunkered into their tent and likely to find their way to Bertie’s homemade bomb shelter if another air raid struck Epping.
Susan made a dinner of stale rationed bread. She toasted it, sliced it in quarters, even slathered it with the last of the gooseberry jam, but it still tasted like the flour had been replaced with sawdust. As usual, Bertie didn’t mind, even complimenting her on the weak tea that had been brewed so many times it barely colored the water. She spent the evening talking to him about the returning pigeons, a brief period of light in what felt like endless days of despair. All the while, her heart and mind were on Ollie.
As the tremor of bomb blasts escalated, she washed the dishes and then helped Bertie onto his chair. He fell asleep with his swollen knees propped on a stool. She covered him with a quilt, blew out the candle, and went off to bed, shutting out the thought that she might never see him climb the stairs again.
Susan layered mounds of pillows over her head, even packed her ears with cotton from a bottle of Bertie’s aspirin, but couldn’t shut out the rumble of explosions. The bombing was relentless. The Luftwaffe seemed to have upped their arsenal, the unnerving silence between explosions less frequent. There were rumors that 30,000 bombs had dropped on London in a single night. Nazi propaganda. If true, German factories were pumping out massive amounts of weaponry. There would need to be miles of assembly lines filling shells with explosives, not to mention ruthless conditioning of Luftwaffe pilots. After all, what human, unless brainwashed, would knowingly drop bombs on women and children? She hoped the British would never resort to such atrocities, no matter how bad things got.
As Susan rolled over in bed, the plug slipped from her ear. She slid her hand under her pillow, searching for the missing cotton, and heard it.
Peck.
She shot up, dug out the remaining plug from her ear, and looked toward the window. The blackout curtain had turned her room into a sightless void, like she had been dropped into an inkwell. Her hands trembled. She waited. Nothing. Only the echo of bombs. I must be going mad, she thought, lowering her head to her pillow.
Peck.
Her heart skipped.
Peck . . . peck.
Susan threw off the covers and ran to the window.
Peck . . . peck . . . peck.
She ripped back the curtain and looked outside. A bomb flash lit up the sky, illuminating the fluorescent feathers of an unmistakable pigeon.
“Duchess!”
The bird angled its head, then tapped the glass with its beak. Peck . . . peck.
Susan struggled with the latch, chipping two fingernails, then threw open the window. Another flash lit up the sky. And there she was. Duchess. Perched on the ledge with her head tilted, appearing surprised at how long it had taken Susan to open the window.
Susan plucked Duchess from the ledge and squeezed the pigeon to her chest. “Duchess! Where have you been?”
The pigeon cooed.
“Susan,” Bertie called. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Susan sprinted from her room. Her shoulder bumped the wall. She searched for the banister. “It’s Duchess! She’s come home!”
“Good Lord!”
Susan scrambled down the stairs. As she adjusted Duchess in her hands, she noticed the Bakelite canister attached to the pigeon’s leg and almost tripped. She tucked Duchess into her arm, then descended the remaining steps using the handrail. She stepped into the blackened living room and heard the cracking of Bertie’s joints as he stood from his chair.
Bertie struck a match, lit a candle, and hobbled to Susan. A soft glow covered the room.
Duchess blinked.
“By George,” Bertie said, rubbing his eyes. “It is Duchess.”
Susan kissed her pigeon on the head.
“Where’ve you been?” Bertie stroked the pigeon with his finger.
Susan lifted Duchess, exposing the red canister.
“Bloody hell.” He looked at Susan. “Is there a message?”
“I didn’t check.”
Bertie gently clasped Duchess’s leg. With his thumbnail, he unclipped the metal band. He held the canister to his ear and shook it.
“Anything?” She stroked Duchess.
He nodded, then began to unscrew the top.
“We mustn’t.” She touched Bertie’s hand. “We’re not permitted.”
Bertie looked at her. “This is your pigeon. She wasn’t part of the mission. And since it appears our military snatched her away, I believe that permits us to have a wee look.” He pointed to the table next to his chair. “My dear, could you get my eyeglasses?”
Susan hesitated, then retrieved his eyeglasses.
Bertie slipped on his glasses, unscrewed the canister cap, and slid a note into his hand. With arthritic fingers, he carefully unrolled the paper. As he scanned the writing, his eyes widened.
“What does it say?”
He took a deep breath, exhaled, and handed her the paper.
Susan placed Duchess on the table and held up the note. She expected to see something written in French, or perhaps an attempt at English. But it was neither.
Susan struggled to breathe. Her legs quivered. She looked up to see her grandfather hobbling to the bookshelf.
Bertie dug through the shelves. He flipped book after book to the floor. The pile grew. He stopped when he reached a copy of Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott. Behind it, pressed against the back of the bookshelf, he retrieved a small leather-bound book. He worked his way over to Susan.
She took the book, wiping a layer of dust from a companion copy of her father’s artillery codebook. She glanced at the note. Garbled codes. It was if she were eight years old, preparing to decipher one of Bertie’s playful messages, which had sent her rummaging through the cottage in search of a hidden piece of caramel. But this wasn’t a game. And she was no longer a child. Besides her and Bertie, there was only one other person who had seen her father’s codebook. Deep down, she knew something dreadful was on that piece of paper.
They sat at the kitchen table. Duchess pecked at a piece of bread crust, then dipped her beak into a teacup filled with water. Susan shuddered as she opened the codebook.
Bertie leaned over her shoulder. “It’s all right, my dear.”
Susan flipped pages and scribbled onto the stationery. Barely through the first sentence, she stopped and reread the words. Her heart pounded. She dropped the pencil.
“What is it?” Bertie said.
“It’s from him.”
“Who?”
“Ollie.”
Bertie clasped the table. “Jesus wept!”
Susan picked up the pencil and pressed it to the pa
per. The tip snapped. She continued writing with the broken piece of lead rather than take time to sharpen it. As she continued to decipher codes, her brief sense of relief turned to despair. Her hands shook as she examined the message. “It can’t be,” she said.
“What’s it say?” Bertie asked.
Susan closed the codebook. She took a moment to gather her courage, then read the message to her grandfather.
Susan looked up to see her pigeon waddle across the table. She felt her grandfather place his arm over her shoulder. She wiped her eyes and continued reading.
Her hands trembled. She swallowed, preparing herself to read further.
A warm drop rolled down Susan’s cheek. She made no effort to wipe it away.
“He’s alive, my dear.”
Duchess waddled to Susan.
“Can he make it back?” She caressed Duchess and sniffed back tears.
“He bloody well made it to France. He’ll bloody well make it home.” Bertie stood and peeked behind the blackout curtains. “Luftwaffe is gone. Go to the lofts and retrieve some paper from the dropping cages.”
Susan looked at him.
“Quickly, before the soldiers wake.”
Susan put on her wool winter coat, covering all but the lower fringes of her nightgown, and threw on a pair of wellies. She crept to a loft and collected a piece of paper from an unused cage. Returning inside, she saw Bertie searching through a cabinet to retrieve a pencil sharpener.
She handed him the paper.
Bertie placed the paper on the table and twisted the pencil into the sharpener. Woodchips and lead dust coated the table.
“What are you going to do?”
“Rewrite the message.” He blew on the pencil tip and pressed it to the paper.
“We must turn this over to the RAF,” Susan said.
Bertie stopped. “The bloody RAF. Bollocks. How are we to win the war with such incompetence? If they hadn’t placed Duchess on a plane, Ollie would be with us right now.”
Bertie’s words stung Susan. A wave of guilt followed. “I should have kept Duchess with me.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” He reached and held her hand. “Our military will get their intelligence. But they will not see what is meant for you.”
Susan watched Bertie carefully rewrite the message, much shorter than the one she had deciphered, and finished by signing, Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar, RAF.
“Grandfather!”
Bertie placed his pencil on the table. “Our Oliver from Maine has had enough trouble with the RAF. Being viewed as a stowaway could create trouble for him when he returns.” He clasped her hands. “And he will return, my dear.”
Susan squeezed his fingers.
“Trust me,” he said.
“Very well.”
Bertie rolled up his note, slid it into the canister, and screwed on the top. “Let’s wake the soldiers.”
Susan followed Bertie outside and almost ran into him when he suddenly stopped.
“God help us,” he said.
His words sent shivers up her spine. She looked toward the London skyline. In the ashen haze of daybreak, the fires gave the appearance of a monstrous sun rising over the city.
She lowered her head, regretting that she had chosen to look up, and helped Bertie down the porch steps. At this hour, the world was at its worst. After waves of sirens, whistles, and explosions, the sudden silence was unnerving. Even the birds, stunned by the bombardment, had delayed their chirping. She squeezed her grandfather’s arm and pressed forward.
As they approached the tent, a soldier stepped outside and zipped up his jacket.
“We have something for you,” Bertie said.
The soldier blew on his hands, then rubbed them together.
Bertie handed him the canister. “A pigeon returned to our cottage.”
The soldier glanced to the fires in London, then turned his attention to Bertie. “Why didn’t it return to the lofts?”
Bertie shrugged.
“Where’s the pigeon?” the soldier asked.
Susan stepped forward and showed him Duchess. The pigeon tucked its head under its wing.
“If another bird returns to the house, bring it directly to us,” the soldier said. “Understood?”
Bertie and Susan nodded.
The soldier slipped the canister inside his jacket and returned to the tent.
Susan cradled Duchess and walked with Bertie toward the lofts. “Are you sure we did the right thing?”
“Absolutely, my dear.” He stroked Duchess’s head with a finger. “She must be hungry. Perhaps you could feed the pigeons early. I’m sure the others will be happy to see her.”
Susan nodded and opened the loft door. The squeak of the hinge caused the pigeons to flutter from their cubbies. She gently tossed Duchess toward her favorite perch, a beam above the grain barrel.
Duchess flapped her wings. Instead of landing on her perch, she swooped around.
Susan felt the breeze from Duchess’s wings across her face. As the spring door was about to close, Duchess darted outside. The door slammed shut.
She threw open the door and ran outside. Looking up, she watched Duchess soar above a hornbeam tree.
“Duchess!” she shouted.
Bertie turned, just shy of reaching the cottage. The soldiers sprang from their tent.
Susan watched Duchess circle high over Epping Forest. As the pigeon looped around the perimeter for a second time, Susan’s heart skipped a beat. She’s gaining her bearings, like she’s preparing to fly home. But she’s already home!
The pigeon finished her circumference and flew east.
“No!” Susan ran across the yard. She tripped and fell, then struggled to her feet. “Duchess!”
The pigeon continued her flight.
Susan fell to her knees. Her muscles turned weak. Helplessly, she watched Duchess fly toward the English Channel, until her pigeon disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER 30
AIRAINES, FRANCE
Ollie stepped into the cottage and saw Flight Lieutenant Boar sitting on the floor, lightly touching the gauze over his eyes. Madeleine, standing over Boar, pushed away her truffle hog as he insistently sniffed at the lieutenant’s boots.
The creak of Ollie’s weight on the floorboards caused Boar to raise his head. “Did the doctor fix my eyes?”
Ollie recalled the sickening scent of anesthetic, the doctor manipulating the severed cornea with a pair of tweezers. A brownish discharge now blotched the lieutenant’s bandages. “Yes,” Ollie said.
Boar exhaled, then picked at the tape on his bandage.
Madeleine pushed Boar’s hand away. “No. Ten days.”
Boar dropped his hand and licked his lips, crusted with dried saliva.
Madeleine placed her hog outside, then poured a glass of water from a ceramic pitcher. “Drink,” she said, placing the glass to Boar’s lips.
Boar gulped the water, spilling much of it down his flight jacket.
“Take him to the barn, then come back,” Madeleine said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Ollie helped the lieutenant to his feet and guided him to the barn. The lieutenant’s legs were still weak from the anesthesia, causing Ollie to support much of the man’s weight. Ollie’s arm joggled inside his sling, no matter how hard he tried to isolate his lifting, sending hot flares into his shoulder socket. The additional stress of Boar’s weight made his swollen ankle throb. He desperately wanted to rest but feared that a Wehrmacht platoon could arrive at any moment and spot him in the open. So he buried his pain and pressed on.
Reaching the barn, he placed Boar on the ground and cleared away an area of molded feed potatoes. The place reeked of manure and rotting vegetables. Last night, he had paid little attention to the smell, distracted by the overwhelming pain in his shoulder, dislocated like a chicken wing that had been snapped by a butcher. He noticed that Boar, still groggy, didn’t seem to mind the stench. The lieutenant rested his hand on his holstered pi
stol, leaned back, and immediately fell asleep.
As Ollie returned to the house, he saw Louis nestled beside a shrub, his head lowered on his front hooves. Ollie glanced around the farm to make certain there were no approaching vehicles, then reached down and petted the hog on the head. Louis twitched his tail and snorted.
“You can come in now,” Madeleine said, standing in the doorway.
Ollie thought the woman was speaking to him, until the hog sprang up and trotted inside. Its hooves tapped across the wood floor.
“He’s smart,” Ollie said, entering the cottage. “I’ve never seen a tuffle hog before.”
Madeleine laughed and produced a cigarette from her pocket. “Truffle.”
“Truffle?”
“You don’t know what a truffle is, do you?”
Ollie noticed a hoarseness in her throat, as if years of smoke over her vocal cords had lowered her voice a full octave. “No,” he said.
Madeleine sucked on her cigarette. Wrinkled skin stretched over her sharp cheekbones. “I’ll teach you about truffles,” she said, exhaling smoke. “But first, we have work to do.” She retrieved a wooden toolbox from a doorless cabinet, concealed by curtains made from a burlap bag. She placed the box on the counter and retrieved a hammer and a small pry bar. “Move the table.”
Ollie slid the table to the side of the room. His shoulder ached.
“Remove them.” Madeleine tapped her foot on a floorboard. “But don’t scar the wood.”
Ollie looked at her, suddenly realizing what they were about to do. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Madeleine took a deep drag on her cigarette, then exhaled. “The Wehrmacht stop here. One of their officers is quite fond of requisitioning my truffles.” She scratched her hog behind the ears. “They’d find you if they searched the barn.”