by Alan Hlad
She reached home as the first bombs struck London. Through the windshield, she watched white-hot flares illuminate the horizon. Seconds later, the sound waves hit. Rumbling blasts. The ground, truck, and even her bones seemed to vibrate. She got out, leaving the key in the ignition, and ran to the cottage. The scent of expelled gunpowder filled her lungs. She threw open the door and shouted, “Grandfather!”
Bertie stood from a kitchen chair—placed near a front window—and threw his arms around her.
Susan felt a huge squeeze. “Sorry.”
Bertie looked at her. “Are you all right, my dear?”
She nodded.
“I tried to get the soldiers to help me look for you, but they bloody wouldn’t leave their posts. Cowards.”
“Did the pigeons make it back?” she asked.
“All of them.”
“Any from Source Columba?”
He shook his head, then leaned his weight against the chair. “What happened?”
Susan heard a loud explosion and hesitated. “They blacked out all the road signs.”
Bertie raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
Susan swallowed. “Preparation for the invasion.” She didn’t have the courage to tell him that the coastline was being protected by department-store mannequins.
CHAPTER 33
EPPING, ENGLAND
Susan stared at her bowl of porridge. Despite her hunger pangs, and the fact that her ribs had begun to protrude like those of a stray dog, she couldn’t bring herself to lift the spoon. She hadn’t slept. The bombing had been extraordinarily heavy. So fierce that she thought there would be nothing left of London, except a hole all the way to Earth’s core.
For much of the night, sirens howled. Guns fired. The earth quaked. With her blanket, Susan curled into a cocoon and prayed, until her knuckles ached—for the safety of Londoners, for Britain to survive, for Ollie to return home. And this morning, she woke to find that only one additional pigeon had returned from France. One out of almost 400 that were still missing. It wasn’t Duchess.
“You must eat something,” Bertie said.
“I can’t.”
“Try,” he said. “We must keep up our strength to win the war.”
Susan thought of Clacton-on-Sea. The fake pillboxes. Mannequin soldiers. For the first time, her hope of winning the war had not just faded; it had been snuffed out. At best, the British would need to find a way to live under Hitler’s rule.
Bertie nudged her bowl. “Be an egg, my dear.”
Her eyes watered. She wiped her cheeks and picked up her spoon, then ate every bit of her porridge, bland from the lack of milk, spice, or sugar. Dropping her spoon into the bowl, she believed that Source Columba would need a miracle, the revelation of a weakness in the Nazi armor, if Britain were to survive.
The morning was spent caring for the pigeons. While she cleaned the lofts, Susan looked to the sky, hoping to see Duchess circle the birches. But the trees were empty, except for cheeky squirrels scrambling to collect nuts for winter. As she was disposing of droppings into the rubbish bin, she heard a military truck rumble up the lane. The soldiers, alerted by the sound of the engine, came out of their tent. Bertie stepped from the cottage and zipped up his coat.
Susan quickly learned that the military was dropping off parachute cages for the next wave of pigeons. But this time, the cages were nothing like the ones used for the previous mission. These weren’t cages, nor were they baskets. They were tubes. Nothing more than cardboard, reminiscent of mailing tubes for posters, with small attached parachutes. No screen. Only holes poked in the endcaps for air. A pigeon would be sealed inside what appeared to be a tubular sarcophagus.
“It’s inhumane!” Bertie said, inspecting a tube.
The delivery soldier, a man with a square jaw, freckled skin, and hair the color of a phone box, stepped to Bertie and said, “It’s a new design.”
“New design, my arse,” Bertie said. “It’s a mail tube.”
“They won’t be able to move,” Susan added. “Or see.”
“The cages took up too much room in a Blenheim.” The soldier blew on his fingers to warm them, then stuffed his hands into his jacket. “With these, it’ll take fewer planes, risking fewer pilots.”
Susan couldn’t imagine her pigeons being stuffed like blueprints into tubes. They weren’t pieces of paper to protect from being wrinkled. They were pigeons. Her beautiful, intelligent, loyal pigeons. These devoted animals could possibly be Britain’s only insight into what the enemy was doing across the Channel, and they were being treated like second-class mail. She wanted to stomp on the tubes, rip them apart, and burn them in her grandfather’s fireplace.
As she stared at a stack of tubes, her mind raced. Had the soldier been told everything? Did the cages work? Had some of the parachutes failed to open? Susan shuddered. She wished Ollie were here, recalling how he had reassured her that the parachutes would safely float the pigeons to the ground.
She watched the soldiers unload the last of the tubes and drive away, their tires digging deep grooves into the mud. She turned to Bertie and noticed that his face was red, his hands clenched.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“The military is turning the mission all to pot,” he said, hobbling from the yard.
“Where are you going?”
“To stretch my legs,” he said.
“Take your walking stick.”
He shook his head and shuffled toward the field.
Susan suspected he was headed to the barn. Bertie cherished his sheep, which he used solely for shearing their woolen fleece. Bleating sheep, although not as soothing as cooing pigeons, always seemed to comfort him. And since the lofts were now filled with cardboard tubes and parachutes that would send his blood pressure rising, spending time with the sheep would be a good way for him to forget about Source Columba, if only for a short while.
She went about her duties, caring for the pigeons for the remainder of the morning. She poured feed. Refilled water bowls. Examined squabs. Even repaired loose boards that separated the cubbies. Anything to keep her mind occupied.
After Susan finished sweeping, she went inside and made lunch, albeit it was nothing but leftover oatmeal mixed with withered bits of turnip. As she placed the food on the table, she noticed it was almost two o’clock, rather late to be having lunch considering the sun would be setting in a few hours. So she went to retrieve Bertie, hoping he was enjoying his brief time of solace. As she crossed the field, a herd of sheep, huddled in one of the few remaining sections of green grass, began to disperse. What she saw took her breath away.
A shoe. A calf. A scream boiled in her throat. She tripped and fell. She struggled to get up, stepped on her skirt, and dropped to her knees. Sheep scattered. And there he was, facedown in clover, surrounded by crying lambs.
CHAPTER 34
AIRAINES, FRANCE
“The flight lieutenant doesn’t like you,” Madeleine said, walking with Ollie to the barn. Louis trotted along behind them.
Ollie glanced at the cottage.
Madeleine rubbed Louis’s snout, causing the hog to snort. “Is he angry with you for getting stuck inside his plane?”
Ollie opened the barn door. “Let’s just say he’s not fond of Americans.” He carefully removed Duchess, tucked inside his sling, and then placed her into the cage, which he had hidden under a pile of straw. Duchess closed her eyes, as if she were sleepy, then curled her head under her wings. He stood, his ankle stiff and sore, and looked at Madeleine. “Especially ones that strike an officer.”
Madeleine laughed. A rasp rattled in her lungs. “Over a woman?”
He nodded.
“Susan?”
“You could be a palm reader, Madeleine.” Ollie poked a finger into the cage and examined Duchess’s leg, wondering how he could have failed to properly secure the canister. What can I use to attach a message with now? String? Wire? Tape? “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I could find a
pigeon canister, could you?”
She paused, then glanced outside. “Oui.”
Ollie adjusted his weight. His swollen ankle pressed against his boot. “Where?”
“An hour, through the woods,” Madeleine said. “Louis and I were returning from collecting truffles when your parachutes dropped from the sky.”
“How do I get there?”
“Too dangerous,” Madeleine said. “The Wehrmacht have patrols. And the Luftwaffe have an airfield. They’d spot you.”
“I’ll blend in,” Ollie said, pointing to his clothing.
“Your English will get you shot.”
He swallowed. “I must try. We need another canister. And if there are more pigeons, we could use them to send intelligence to Britain.”
Madeleine hesitated, then said, “Best to go at night.”
Ollie shook his head. “The chances of finding a basket in the dark, especially when I can’t use a flashlight, would be almost nonexistent. Besides, the pigeons, if they haven’t already been found, won’t last long. It’s cold, and they have no water.”
Madeleine picked at a loose thread on her sweater.
“Tell Boar that you tried to stop me,” Ollie said, “but I insisted on taking a look around.”
She crossed her arms and lowered her head.
Ollie placed his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t plan on being caught. But if I were captured, I’d never tell them that you helped me.”
“Follow the stream,” she said reluctantly. After providing him details of where she’d seen the falling parachutes, she gave a ragged sigh. “Be careful.”
He nodded and zipped up his jacket.
If Ollie had known how much his ankle would hurt, he wouldn’t have left. Fifteen minutes into his trek through the forest, his foot began to ache. And like a falling line of dominoes, the pain worked its way up his leg and triggered a spasm in his shoulder. Soon his foot was throbbing, forcing him to waste precious time to find a wishbone-shaped branch to use as a crutch. Ollie labored on, limping through the underbrush. He climbed moss-covered logs and waded through shallow streams, using his recollection of Madeleine’s directions to guide his way.
In less than an hour, he reached a rolling field, similar to what Madeleine had described. Sitting down to rest, he tightened his sling to keep his shoulder from shifting in its socket, then he loosened his boot laces. Instantly, he felt a relief in pressure. He slid up his pant leg and peeked inside his boot. His ankle, nearly twice its normal size, was the color of an eggplant. He grimaced. If not broken, like the French doctor had said, he’d swear his ligaments had been stretched in a taffy puller.
As he contemplated applying cold mud to reduce the swelling, he scanned the terrain. The field was bare. Whatever had been planted had been harvested. Dead plant stubs pricked up through the soil, as though the field had been given a crew cut. At the far end of the field, movement caught his attention: a creamy speck, as if a pillow had been tossed into the field. He squinted. Wind whistled. And the silky parachute flapped, exposing a wooden cage. He got to his feet and limped ahead.
Several paces into the field, he heard what sounded like a lawnmower. He froze. Held his breath. Listened. The engine grew. He turned and ran. Pain shot through his foot. The crutch gouged his armpit, sending a fiery flare into his shoulder. He hopped on one foot. The engine whined. He dove into the underbrush, just as three Wehrmacht soldiers, two on a motorcycle, the third in a sidecar with a mounted machine gun, crested a hill. Ollie’s chest pounded. He prayed he hadn’t been spotted.
The soldier in the sidecar pointed. The motorcycle screeched to a stop. The soldiers got out, slung their weapons over their shoulders, and walked into the field.
Damn it. He wanted to cover himself with dirt and fallen leaves but feared any movement would draw their attention.
As the first soldier reached the cage, he lifted the parachute with the tip of his rifle. “Taube,” he said. The others gathered.
The soldier, a tall, lanky man who had been driving the motorcycle, raised his rifle and slammed the butt of his weapon into the cage. A crack echoed over the field. A flock of starlings shot from the trees, causing the soldiers to glance in Ollie’s direction.
Ollie lowered his head, chin pressed into the earth.
The soldiers’ attention returned to the cage. And the tall one reached in and ripped off the canister, producing a crisp snap, like a pencil breaking.
Ollie clenched his hands.
The soldier unscrewed the top and looked inside the canister. A severed leg hung from the clasp. “Nichts,” he said, tossing the canister into the broken cage. He ground his boot into the debris, as if he were extinguishing a cigarette.
The soldiers, appearing satisfied that there were no more cages in the vicinity, returned to their vehicle. The driver kick-started the engine and revved the throttle. Smoke spewed from the exhaust. As they drove away, Ollie heard, under the whine of the motorcycle, what he thought was laughter.
Once Ollie was certain they were not coming back, he stood and limped into the field. With each step, the base of his crutch sank into the soil. Dried leaves clung to his jacket; he made no effort to brush them off. Acrid gas fumes hung in the air. He pressed on until he reached the remains.
The pigeon’s torso was flattened, its wings crumpled like origami fans. As Ollie reached into the cage to retrieve the canister, his hand brushed the bird, and he noticed that its body was still warm. The pigeon’s head was twisted. Bloodied feathers clung to the cage. He carefully removed its leg from the clasp. As he placed the canister into his pocket, he thought of Susan and regretted he hadn’t arrived sooner.
The return trip took longer, since Ollie had to make several stops to rest, prop up his leg, and ease the blood flow to his ankle. When he reached a railroad track, he feared he had gotten lost, until he noticed, in the distance, the church steeple of Madeleine’s village, Airaines. As he turned to adjust his direction, the sound of aircraft engines caught his attention. He ducked under a pine tree. The buzzing grew. Moments later, a Messerschmitt squadron swooped over the forest. Instead of gaining altitude, the fighters formed a line. Their landing gear lowered. And they disappeared beneath the trees on the opposite side of the tracks.
Choices flooded his head. He could go back to Madeleine’s. After all, he had gotten the canister he needed. His ankle, not to mention his shoulder, hurt like hell. But how could he pass up the opportunity to gather useful information? For now, the only thing he could send back to Susan—and the RAF, for that matter—was that he and Boar were hiding like rats under floorboards. Before he could change his mind, he crossed the tracks and worked his way through the pines.
Fallen needles created a soft blanket under his feet. He crept forward. In minutes, he reached the edge of an airfield. Under a canopy of branches, he lowered himself to the ground. He slithered on his belly. His heart rate quickened. Four runways had been created by the Germans, who had commandeered several farms and leveled them with bulldozers, now parked along a barbed-wire fence. Where crops once grew was now a port for a Luftwaffe armada.
Along the side of a field were dozens of Messerschmitt fighters, their black noses and sleek, shark-gray bodies giving them a ferocious appearance, even on the ground. There were over forty Heinkel bombers, each big enough to hold enough explosives to pulverize a city block. There were numerous Stukas, ugly mechanical mosquitoes with a reputation for precision dive-bombing, and several other aircraft Ollie didn’t recognize. He’d read about Germany’s growing air superiority at the Buxton Library. He’d seen their planes over Epping and the English Channel. But nothing prepared him for the ominous sight of the resting Luftwaffe, as though he had walked into a den of sleeping lions.
Near a hangar, soldiers were loading bombs and boxes of ammunition onto a truck, likely in preparation for another night of raids. Beside a runway, there were hundreds of oil drums.
Ollie inched forward, then stopped. At the far corner of the airfield, a
sentry was walking the perimeter. A machine gun hung from his shoulder. His hand was tethered to a German shepherd.
Oh, brother.
He scanned the area. At the corner of the field, the ground sloped sharply upward to a group of sagging pines. If he could get there, he’d have an elevated view of the runways, enabling him to get an accurate inventory of the aircraft. But he’d be right next to the fence and likely to be seen when the sentry rounded the corner. At the very least, the dog would pick up his scent. After all, he reeked of sweat, and it was a good thing the wind was blowing toward him; otherwise, he might have already been detected.
As he was about to crawl back into the woods, he heard a shout. The sentry snapped to attention and extended his arm in a salute. An officer, given the curved shape of his cap, approached the sentry. The dog sat on its haunches like a garden statue.
Ollie hesitated. The officer conversed with the sentry. A minute passed. He glanced at the spot at the corner of the field—twenty, perhaps thirty yards away. Rather than waste another second, Ollie crawled forward. He buried the pain in his shoulder and ankle, and he reached his destination. When he looked up, he saw that the officer had departed. And the sentry was rounding the fence.
He quickly counted aircraft on the first runway. Then the second.
The sentry pressed forward. The dog sniffed the ground, its shoulder blades flexed under its thick brown coat.
He counted the remaining aircraft, hoping he had an accurate inventory of the airfield. And as he crept into the forest, the dog barked.
Shit. He tripped and caught himself with his crutch. A spasm shot through his ankle.