The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Ollie took the hammer and pry bar, then hesitated. “If we stay in the barn and we’re caught, you could pretend that you didn’t know we were there.”

  “Wouldn’t matter. They’d shoot me either way. When the Germans invaded, there were British soldiers that didn’t make it out of Dunkirk. They hid in basements, attics, and barns. Many were captured. French residents were shot, regardless if they knew the soldiers were there.” Ashes dropped from her cigarette. “The Nazis have no tolerance for those in the company of their enemy.”

  Guilt swelled in Ollie’s head. He hated placing this woman at risk. But considering his physical condition, he didn’t have much choice.

  She looked at him. Dark bags sagged under her eyes. “The Nazis have pillaged our country. They’ve killed most of our soldiers, and the ones lucky enough to only be captured were sent away to prison camps. We’re starving, waiting in endless lines for morsels of bread while they eat our meat, drink our wine. Even our police have become cowards, preferring to collaborate rather than fight.” She tapped out her cigarette in a clay ashtray and took another from her pocket. “Nazi flags hang from our streets, even our schools.”

  Ollie adjusted the sling around his neck. The air turned thick. He couldn’t imagine what Madeleine must be going through. A prisoner in her own country.

  Madeleine pulled up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing her bony wrists, and lit her cigarette. “You remind me of my twin boys, Marius and Marcel.”

  “How’s that?” Ollie asked.

  “Committed to fight for a belief, despite the cost.” Smoke rose from her cigarette and spread over the ceiling. “They were good boys.”

  Ollie pushed aside the tools and took a seat next to Madeleine.

  “Marius liked to read and dreamed of becoming a professor. Those are his books,” she said, pointing to a bookcase.

  Ollie eyed the rows of books, looking out of place in the rustic cottage, like fine china on a picnic table.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Madeleine said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  She tapped him lightly on his hand. “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  The woman smiled. “My family was well educated. But we chose a simpler life.” She stood and retrieved a photo from the bookcase. “Marcel wanted to be a truffle hunter like Guillaume, his father. These were my boys,” she said, handing Ollie the photo.

  Ollie looked at the picture of two young boys wearing pressed school uniforms. The identical twins were mirror images of each other. Standing beside the boys, a man and woman. “Is this you, Madeleine?”

  “Yes.” She tucked gray hairs behind her ear. “I was once beautiful.”

  “You’re still lovely,” Ollie said.

  “Sweet boy,” she said, staring at the photo. “I regret I have few pictures to show you. They were handsome, strong, and, most of all, they were gentlemen.” She closed her eyes. “Marius and Marcel were killed in battle.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ollie said, sympathetically.

  She nodded, returned the photo to its spot on the bookcase, and then took a seat. “My boys were born on the same day; they died on the same day. Together.” She inhaled on her cigarette and glanced at her fingernails, stained brown with nicotine. “It was hard to move on, especially for Guillaume. He would have gone off to war, despite being too old to fight, if I would have let him.”

  Ollie noticed a man’s hat hanging on a rack near the front door.

  “Guillaume’s,” Madeleine said.

  “Where is he?” Ollie asked.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Guillaume was delivering truffles in Arras when the Germans invaded. He hasn’t returned home.”

  Ollie noticed a gloss in the woman’s eyes. The lines in her face appeared deeper.

  “My heart still believes that Guillaume will someday walk through that door. But my head thinks otherwise.” She coughed, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “There’s a rumor that hundreds of the French Resistance have been executed in Arras. Despite being an old man, I fear my husband would have tried to fight.”

  Louis stood and walked to Madeleine’s side. The hog nuzzled her leg. She scratched him behind the ears. “Until Guillaume comes home, we’ll hunt truffles. Yes, Louis?”

  The hog snorted.

  She sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleeve, and changed the subject. “So, Ollie, why would an American be on an RAF plane? Has the United States joined the war?”

  “As far as I know, the United States plans to remain neutral,” he said.

  “Then how did you end up here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” Madeleine tapped the floor with her shoe. “You can tell me while you pry up those boards.”

  Ollie kneeled and began work on the floorboards, but he quickly realized it would be tough to extract nails using only one arm. In fact, it was damn near impossible to slide the claw of the pry bar under the nail heads. Chipping out chunks of wood could expose the nails, but marring the boards was not an option. So Madeleine helped by holding the pry bar in place as he tapped it with the hammer. It worked. Although slow and tedious, the claw wedged under the nail head. He pried, causing the board to screech. He tried to keep one side of his body steady, but it was of no use. Pain flared into his shoulder socket. He managed to loosen two nails before having to take a break.

  “Hurt?” Madeleine asked.

  Ollie nodded and leaned against the wall. He was sweating, despite the temperature in the cottage being cold enough to store meat.

  The sound of a motorcar caused Madeleine to glance out the window. She squeezed the crowbar. The hum of the engine faded as the vehicle passed.

  “Best we get this finished,” Ollie said, picking up the hammer.

  For the afternoon, they worked on removing floorboards. To distract himself from the pangs radiating into his shoulder, he told Madeleine about his family. His journey to Britain. And his dream to fly for the RAF, only to end up working on a mission for the National Pigeon Service. But most of all he talked about Susan, and for the first time since plummeting into German-occupied France, he didn’t notice the pain.

  “Pigeons are smart, like Louis,” Ollie said, placing a board to the side. “Susan’s a remarkable trainer. She’s gonna help us win the war.”

  Madeleine smiled and adjusted the cigarette in her mouth.

  Ollie removed the last board, making a three-foot-diameter opening, big enough for him to crawl through. He stuck his head into the hole. A dirt floor. Cobwebs. The smell of earth and stagnant air. The cottage, or at least the area under the kitchen, had been built without a basement. It was a simple cobblestone foundation. No more than two feet of space lay between the earth and floorboards.

  With pieces of canvas that Madeleine retrieved from a shed, Ollie lined the floor of the crawl space. He replaced the boards, like pieces of a puzzle, and noticed the glaring holes left by the missing nails. So he removed the nail heads with a pair of thick pruning shears, then glued them over the holes using paste they made from flour and water. It had taken them all day. Except for a few scratches, the loose boards were almost unnoticeable.

  As Ollie admired their work, he heard a sizzle. The scent of sautéing onions. His mouth watered. He made his way over to Madeleine, hovering over a wood-fired stove, stirring the contents of an iron skillet with a wooden spoon.

  Madeleine tossed in a handful of limp carrots, including the withered tops. “Hungry?”

  “Yes,” Ollie said. The aroma of caramelized onions was intoxicating. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten.

  “Get your friend,” she said, pointing her spoon.

  Ollie found the lieutenant just as he had left him. Sleeping. It took several attempts to wake him, and he had to resort to kicking his boots.

  Boar slowly sat up and rubbed the stubble on his jowl. “How long was I out?”

  “All day,” Ollie said.
<
br />   “You gave me too much anesthesia, Yank.” He took a few deep breaths.

  Ollie gave the lieutenant a moment to get to his feet, then led him into the cottage, where Madeleine was spooning browned vegetables onto plates. He helped Boar into a chair as Madeleine set the table. A buttery scent of steaming vegetables filled Ollie’s nose. His belly gurgled.

  Madeleine placed a fork in the lieutenant’s hand.

  Boar blindly stabbed at his plate. Metal tines clicked against the pottery. After forking a hunk of carrot, he stuck it in his mouth, chewed, then gagged. He spit the food into his palm and placed it on the side of his plate. “Take me back to the barn, Yank.” Boar lowered his head onto the table. “I need to rest.”

  “We’re sleeping inside,” Ollie said, standing up from the table.

  Ollie removed the floorboards and helped Boar into the hole. The lieutenant hunkered into the crawl space, like a bear entering a cave for hibernation.

  When Ollie returned to the table, Madeleine leaned over his plate and rubbed something over a grate. Black snow dusted his meal.

  “May need a little something,” Madeleine said.

  “Truffles?”

  She nodded.

  Ollie didn’t know if it was the truffles, or if it was because he hadn’t eaten in the past two days, but this simple meal of onions and withered carrots was extraordinary. The truffle, although ugly, like a shriveled potato, gave a slightly garlicky and earthy taste to the food. It was one of the best meals he could remember. The last time he had tasted something this good was when he had eaten Susan’s soup, laced with shellfish that had sent him running to the loo. He felt a tug at the corners of his mouth and realized he was smiling.

  “You like, yes?” Madeleine asked.

  “Yes,” Ollie said. He ate his food, then finished it off with a glass of cold water. He looked over at the hog, sleeping in the corner of the room. “Nice work, Louis.”

  The hog twitched its ears but continued sleeping.

  Madeleine grinned, then continued eating her meal.

  Ollie sat with Madeleine until she finished eating, realizing how rude he had been to devour his food so quickly. He helped her clean the table, then took Louis out to the barn for the night. He was surprised that the hog followed him, but the animal obviously knew it was dinnertime. Per Madeleine’s request, he tossed a handful of potatoes into the hog’s trough. The potatoes, if one could call them that, were in nasty condition: molded black, covered in hairy sprouts, and wriggling with grubs. By all accounts, the potatoes were spoiled. Inedible. But Ollie quickly found out that Louis was not a tuber connoisseur. The hog ate his potatoes, meaty grubs and all, then flopped on his side to rest. Ollie glanced at the empty trough and wondered what the coming winter would do to the French. Would they starve? Or resort to eating rotten potatoes? Grubs? Or worse? He shook the thought from his mind and left the barn.

  When he returned, Madeleine lit a candle and closed the drapes. She placed two tattered woolen blankets into the hiding place. Ollie lowered himself into the hole in the floor, careful not to step on the lieutenant. He lay down, feeling thankful to have a piece of canvas under his back, and watched Madeleine place the boards over them. Board by board, the hole above him grew smaller.

  He looked up through the slit in the floor. “Madeleine,” he said.

  “Oui?”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman nodded. She lowered the last board and sealed the hole.

  Everything went black. Wood scraped as Madeleine slid the table above him. Her footsteps faded. Then silence. If it weren’t for the snores of an RAF lieutenant, he would have believed he had been sealed inside a coffin.

  He balled up the blanket and used it to elevate his arm. He tried to sleep but couldn’t rest, despite his exhaustion. It wasn’t the constant ache in his shoulder nor the throb in his ankle each time he moved his toes. It was regret. His mind roiled with mistakes and missed opportunities. Why did I leave Epping? How could I have gotten stuck in a Blenheim? Will I ever see Susan again? Why didn’t I say more?

  He thought of Susan. The enchanting resonance of her voice. The way her sandy-blond hair gracefully rested on her shoulders. The subtle lavender scent of her perfume. How his skin tingled when she leaned over him to pour tea. The silhouette of her delicate hands, cast by candlelight as she knitted Bertie a sweater. Her passion for saving Britain, and her belief that pigeons could win the war. He adored her. Missed her. God, I wish things could have been different, he thought.

  Time was running out. A day, perhaps a week. He couldn’t live under the floorboards forever. They’d have to come out, and when they did, the Nazis would eventually find them. There was no future. Only the past and present. So he spent the night reliving his brief time with Susan, over and over again, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

  CHAPTER 31

  AIRAINES, FRANCE

  Atickling on Ollie’s neck caused him to stir. He took a deep breath, taking in the scent of damp soil and old wood. He opened his eyes, but everything remained black. Is it night? Morning?

  Something brushed his clavicle. Groggy, he reached to scratch under his collar and touched something. Long. Thin. Hairy. Adrenaline rushed into his body. He tried to grab it, but whatever it was quickly scuttled under his shirt. He jerked, bumping his head on a floor joist.

  “Christ, Yank!” Boar said, waking up. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  “Bug,” Ollie said, reaching into his shirt.

  Boar kicked Ollie’s leg. “Go back to sleep.”

  The bug scurried toward Ollie’s armpit. Shivers shot up his spine. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hairlike legs crept over his skin. A centipede? Millipede? He slid his hand under his injured arm, bit his lip to shield back the pain that was now flaring into his shoulder socket, and pulled out the bristly intruder. It wriggled in his hand, like a worm about to be set on a fishing hook. Bugs, especially ones he couldn’t see, gave him the willies. He tossed it and immediately realized he had thrown it in the wrong direction when he heard what sounded like the lieutenant having a seizure.

  “Wanker!” Boar brushed over his flight suit as if he were covered in bees.

  Ollie heard him flick something from his clothes, the ping of the bug landing somewhere in the bowels of the crawl space.

  Boar gave Ollie a kick to the shin. “I should have shot you back in the field.”

  Ollie elbowed the lieutenant in the ribs. “I’m all you got.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Ollie had expected the lieutenant to pull out his pistol, or at the very least throw another punch. After all, the anesthetic had worn off. Other than the lieutenant’s eyes, Boar was in better physical shape. Ollie, on the other hand, was a wreck. In the tight confinement of the crawl space, the lieutenant could have beaten the hell out of him if he had wanted to. The only thing stopping Boar, Ollie believed, was that he couldn’t see. And that maybe the lieutenant temporarily needed him. Unfortunately, considering Ollie’s lack of military training or knowledge of escape routes, he needed the lieutenant, too. As the sting in his shin faded, it suddenly occurred to him that Boar might not be the fearless RAF pilot he thought he was. After all, the man was more afraid of bugs than he was—a thought that made Ollie chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” Boar asked.

  “You.” Ollie gave another chuckle.

  “You’re a bloody lunatic, Yank.”

  Ollie’s laugh faded, and he suddenly realized that if it were not for his choices—or, more accurately, countless errors in judgment—he could have been waking up in a neutral country. Instead, he was hunkered in a hole in German-occupied France with an ill-tempered lieutenant. “You may be right,” he said.

  Ollie heard the scraping of wood above him as the table inched over the floor. A moment later, Madeleine removed the boards. Sunlight flooded the hole. He squinted and shielded his eyes.

  “Too loud,” Madeleine said. “Do you want the Wehr
macht to find you?”

  As Ollie’s eyes adjusted, he saw Louis’s pink snout. The hog’s nostrils twitched as he sniffed over the hole. Ollie reached up and scratched the hog’s chin.

  Louis grunted.

  “What time is it?” Ollie asked.

  “It’s morning,” Madeleine said. She struck a match and lit a cigarette.

  Ollie crawled out of the hole, then carefully adjusted the sling holding his arm. He rubbed his fingers, which had turned cold from lack of circulation.

  Boar stood, then took a seat on the floor, his legs dangling into the crawl space. He rubbed the bandages over his eyes and sniffed. “Do you have another cigarette?”

  Madeleine blew smoke threw her nostrils, then gave her cigarette to Boar.

  Ollie sat patiently as Madeleine and Boar smoked, passing the cigarette back and forth until a thin haze filled the cottage. He spent the time by scratching Louis behind the ears.

  Madeleine tapped out the cigarette in a clay ashtray, filled with cindered remnants of hand-rolled paper. She stepped to the kitchen and prepared breakfast—grayish bread and yellowish coffee.

  Sitting at the table, Ollie bit into the hardened bread and almost cracked a tooth. He looked at Boar, gnawing on his hunk of crust, like a dog chewing rawhide.

  “Tremper.” Madeleine shook her head, then dunked her bread into her coffee.

  Ollie followed suit and sank his bread into the yellow mixture, a coffee brewed from what he believed to be roasted barley. The bread softened nicely but tasted like ground straw. He washed it down with the coffee, polluted with bits of gray matter. Despite the taste and texture of the bread, it felt good to have something warm in his belly. Sleeping on the ground had lowered his body temperature. He felt like a reptile in desperate need of the sun.

  “Well,” Madeleine said, lighting another cigarette. “What shall we do with you?”

  “As soon as I can see, we’ll leave,” Boar said. He gulped his coffee, then set the cup on the table. “In the meantime, we’ll get word to the RAF on where we are, assuming that bloody bird can fly across the Channel.”