The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Another bark. Louder.

  Ollie imagined the sentry releasing the dog, now galloping toward him with sharp canine teeth. At any moment, he expected the dog to pounce on his back. Chew the skin from his arms. Maul his face. His respiration surged. He hobbled forward, the pressure torturing his leg.

  An airplane engine sputtered. Propeller blades buzzed, muting the crackle of pine needles beneath his feet. As he reached the railroad tracks, he noticed that the dog had stopped barking. He hoped that it had only been irritated by the plane preparing to take off. But he wasn’t sticking around to find out. He crept through the woods, determined to get the intelligence to Susan.

  CHAPTER 35

  AIRAINES, FRANCE

  “Where’ve you been, Yank?” Boar said, as Ollie entered the cottage.

  Ollie placed Duchess, curled into a feathery ball inside her cage, onto the table. He fell into a chair and wiped sweat from his face.

  Madeleine, stirring a pot of boiled cabbage, put down her spoon and exchanged it for a cigarette.

  “I didn’t give you permission to leave.” Boar adjusted the bandage covering his eyes.

  Ollie loosened his bootlaces and propped his aching foot onto a chair. “I’m not in the RAF.”

  “Don’t care, Yank.” Boar touched his holster. “I won’t tolerate you placing us at risk.”

  Ollie looked at Boar. He suspected that the lieutenant, despite being unable to see, was near enough that he’d have no trouble putting a bullet in him. But after his close encounters with the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe, Boar seemed almost harmless in comparison. He removed the canister from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  Hearing the sound, Boar jerked his head. “What’s that?”

  “Got intelligence to send home,” Ollie said.

  Madeleine sucked on her cigarette. The tip glowed and crackled. She glanced at Louis, resting on the floor.

  Boar looked in Ollie’s direction. “What did you see?”

  Ollie told them about the Wehrmacht patrol and how he had stumbled upon the Luftwaffe airfield. He described the precise location of the airfield, including the type and quantity of planes, then retrieved a pencil and paper stored in Duchess’s military-issue cage. As he began to document his findings, the sound of a car engine made him freeze.

  Boar clenched his hands. “Were you followed?”

  Ollie thought of the sentry. Did the dog follow my scent?

  “Hurry.” Madeleine tossed her cigarette into the sink.

  The engine growled. Louis grunted.

  They pushed aside the table and quickly plucked out the boards.

  Brakes screeched. The engine sputtered, then stopped.

  Boar slid into the hole. Ollie followed. Madeleine reached for a board.

  “Wait,” Ollie said. “Duchess.”

  A car door slammed.

  Madeleine plucked the cage from the table, causing Duchess to flap her wings. She lowered the pigeon. Boards slapped into place. As she slid the table over the floor, there was a hard knock. Louis snorted. She rubbed the hog’s head, then went to the door.

  “Herr Dietrich,” Madeleine said, opening the door.

  Through a crack in the floor, Ollie saw what he believed to be a Nazi SS officer. The man wore a gray uniform with a swastika patch on his left sleeve. His visor cap was gilded with silver skull-and-eagle insignias. Polished jackboots shined like volcanic glass. Ollie’s pulse pounded.

  The Nazi had waxen skin and pink eyelids that appeared almost translucent. And even more distinguishable, a chunk was missing from his left ear, like a moth wing that had been clipped in half. The absence of cartilage caused his cap to sit cockeyed.

  The officer glanced at Louis and wrinkled his nose. “Schweine-stall.”

  Madeleine retrieved her leather satchel and gave him a handful of truffles.

  The Nazi felt the weight in his hand and shook his head. He grabbed Madeleine’s bag.

  Louis snorted.

  Ollie sensed Duchess moving in her cage. He braced himself, ready to leap from the hole.

  The Nazi emptied Madeleine’s satchel. Truffles plopped onto the table. And one small truffle, the size of a blackberry, fell to the floor, rolled, and settled next to Ollie’s peephole.

  Ollie stared at the truffle, which partially blocked his view. He prepared for the Nazi to snatch the fallen fungus and notice the crack, the loose boards. Perhaps Boar could get off a shot, but considering his lack of vision, he’d be lucky to land a lethal hit. Then the Nazi would unload his pistol. Ollie imagined bullets shattering the boards, his body punctured with lead. This crawl space would be his grave. Helplessness roiled in his gut. He struggled to control his breath.

  The Nazi scooped truffles from the table and placed them inside his cap, using it as a basket. He lifted a fungus to his nose and sniffed.

  Ollie saw Madeleine’s hand pass by the peephole. The truffle vanished. He squinted and saw her brush off the fungus and place it into the Nazi’s cap.

  “Sie finden mehr,” the Nazi said, admiring his truffle treasure.

  Madeleine lowered her head.

  The Nazi turned to leave and found Louis blocking his way. He swung back his leg and sunk his jackboot into the hog’s ribs.

  Louis squealed. The hog shot over the floor, knocking over a chair.

  Ollie’s skin turned hot. He wanted to shoot the Nazi. While he contemplated snatching Boar’s pistol, he heard the door open as the officer left.

  Soon an engine started. Tires spit gravel. And the car drove away. A moment later, the table scraped over the floor, and Madeleine plucked out the floorboards.

  “You okay?” Ollie crawled from the hole.

  Madeleine nodded.

  “Louis?” Ollie asked.

  She rubbed the hog’s ribs, causing its tail to twitch. “Oui.”

  “Bloody Nazi,” Boar said, taking a seat on the floor.

  Duchess flapped her wings. Ollie retrieved the cage from the crawl space and placed it on the table.

  Boar pressed his hands over his bandaged eyes. “Think your bird can get a message to the RAF?”

  “I know she can,” Ollie said.

  Ollie finished writing a message, then removed Duchess from her cage. He attached the canister, inserted the note, and carried the pigeon outside.

  “Let’s try this again,” Ollie whispered to Duchess. “The canister is on better this time.”

  Duchess cooed.

  Ollie tossed Duchess into the air. As the pigeon circled the perimeter, he thought of Susan and their trip to Clacton-on-Sea. An image of her sandy-blond hair, dancing in the North Sea wind. Her eyes, the color of sapphire, gazing to the sky as her pigeons flew away. The stacks of empty cages. And his growing sense of foreboding as Susan told him that most of the pigeons would not return from France.

  Ollie watched Duchess disappear over the trees. He returned to the cottage, hoping that in just a few hours Susan would be reading his message.

  CHAPTER 36

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan crawled to Bertie, facedown in the field. His limbs were splayed, like a fallen scarecrow. The lambs scattered; their wavering cries grew. She touched his shoulder. No movement. Her breath accelerated, spawning cloudy puffs in the cold air. She rolled him over to find his eyes closed. Mud covered his cheeks. Coagulated blood clung to his forehead.

  Susan trembled. Quickly, she placed her ear to his chest. A pulse. Then another. His chest slowly rose, then fell.

  “Grandfather!”

  He moaned. His eyelids quivered but didn’t open.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Bertie swallowed. “Susan,” he whispered.

  “I’m here.” She touched his face.

  “I fell.” His hand lifted, then settled to the ground.

  She tried to lift him, but his limp body was too heavy. “I need to find help,” she said, glancing across the field. The cottage was a mere speck in the distance. With no other choice, she quickly ripped off her
coat, tearing off two buttons, and placed it over her grandfather’s chest.

  Bertie slowly opened his eyes. “Give me a moment, my dear.”

  “I’ll be back,” she said, squeezing his hand. Before he could argue, she stood and ran, sprinting over the sheep pasture. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Cold air stung her skin. Her boots sank into the wet soil, causing her to lose one of her wellies. She retrieved her boot and put it on, then dashed towards home.

  As she neared the cottage, she released a deep howling yawp that tore at her vocal cords. She shouted again. Louder. And the soldiers fled their tent.

  “What is it?” a soldier asked, rubbing his eyes, as if woken from a nap.

  “Grand . . .” Susan sucked in air and pointed. “Grandfather collapsed. I need help.”

  He paused, then said, “We can’t leave our post. I’ll ring for an ambulance.”

  “There’s no time!”

  The soldier straightened his back. He glanced at his comrade.

  Susan grabbed the soldier’s sleeve. “Now!”

  Perhaps it was her shouts or her recent meltdown with the soldiers that created the misconception that she had a smidge of authority. Either way, she didn’t care. She needed help. Anyone’s help. Finally, after a hard tug on the man’s arm, the soldiers disregarded their strict instructions to man their posts and came to her aid.

  When they reached Bertie, he was sitting up and rubbing a large goose egg on his forehead. He tried to stand and fell. His legs were weak, like sticks holding up a piano. Susan requested that the soldiers carry him, despite Bertie’s refusal for help.

  “Put me down,” Bertie said.

  The soldiers ignored him and pushed on, marching through the muddy field.

  “Put me down, I say,” Bertie repeated.

  The soldiers carried him, arms clasped under Bertie’s legs and back, like a human sedan chair. When they finally reached the cottage, the soldiers placed him on the sofa. Susan called for the doctor. The soldiers glanced at each other and slipped outside, driven by Bertie’s reprimands for carrying him against his will or, more likely, when he somehow mustered the strength to snatch his walking stick and attempted to give them a swat. By the time Doctor Collins arrived, Bertie was insisting that he needed to get back to work, despite his inability to stand on his own.

  Doctor Collins, a plump man with thick spectacles and small, childlike hands, cleaned the cut on Bertie’s head with a swab and alcohol. He plucked a stethoscope from his bag and listened to Bertie’s chest.

  “The bump is here,” Bertie said, pointing to the protuberance on his forehead.

  Doctor Collins continued listening to Bertie’s chest, front and back, then removed the stethoscope from his ears. “You may have a concussion.” He coiled up his instrument and looked at Bertie. “And your heart sounds enlarged.”

  Susan took a deep breath.

  “Nonsense,” Bertie said. “I merely fell and hit my noggin.”

  Susan looked at Bertie, his skin still pallid, his clothes stiff with dried mud.

  “Were you dizzy before you fell?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Light-headed?”

  Bertie shook his head.

  “I want you to rest,” the doctor said.

  “I’ve got work to do,” Bertie said.

  Susan stepped to her grandfather. She looked at the doctor, the same physician who had delivered her into the world. When she was a child, he had mended her back to health from an acute case of the whooping cough. “Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?”

  Doctor Collins sighed. “Recovering at St. Margaret’s isn’t an option, I’m afraid. The beds are full. More casualties are coming from London every day.”

  “I don’t need to go to the bloody hospital,” Bertie said.

  The doctor retrieved a bottle from his bag and set it on a stand beside the sofa. “I want you to place one of these under your tongue if you have any chest pain.”

  “My heart’s fine.” He tapped the doctor’s leather bag. “But if you have anything in there for dodgy knees, I’ll take it.”

  The doctor looked at him. “Hope our boys in the fight have as much tenacity as you, Bertie.”

  Susan glanced at the brown bottle with a cork top. It contained minuscule white tablets, like aspirin cut in quarters.

  “Nitroglycerin,” Dr. Collins said. “It’s for angina.”

  Susan nodded.

  “I don’t have angina,” Bertie said. “Nor do I have an enlarged heart. I stepped in a bloody rabbit hole, for God’s sake. If anything, I have wonky legs and a blasted headache from that psychopathic dictator dropping his bombs.”

  Doctor Collins placed a hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Rest.”

  “I’ll rest when we win the war.” Bertie took a deep breath and straightened his back.

  Doctor Collins looked at Susan as he put on his coat. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” He tipped his cap and left.

  Susan followed the doctor to his car. She looked down at her wellies, covered with mud. “Will he be all right?”

  The doctor tossed his bag into the passenger seat. “Bertie overexerted himself.”

  Susan crossed her arms and bit her lip. What did he hear through that stethoscope?

  The doctor hesitated, then glanced at the military tent in the yard. “There’s a rumor in Epping that your pigeons have gone off to war.”

  Susan ignored his comment. She slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped Ollie’s note.

  “You’ll need to pick up Bertie’s duty,” the doctor said, taking a seat behind the wheel. “Until he recovers,” he added.

  Susan watched the doctor drive away, the underside of his car scraping the deep ruts left by the convoy of military vehicles. Then she returned to Bertie, who was already asleep on the sofa. He looked exhausted. Mud still crusted his cheeks and clothes. I’ll clean him up later, she decided. Retrieving a worn patchwork quilt her grandmother had sewn together from scrap material, she gently covered him. Many of the other blankets were thicker, softer, and no doubt warmer. But this tattered piece was his favorite.

  Bertie opened his eyes and forced a smile. “A wee rest, my dear, and I’ll get back to work.”

  Susan tucked the quilt over his shoulders. She glanced at the bottle of pills and wondered if the medicine would collect dust, just like his walking stick. But deep down, she already knew the answer.

  CHAPTER 37

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Bertie slept for most of the day. Each hour, Susan checked on him only to find that he hadn’t moved. She’d pause, wait to see his chest rise, then quietly leave. It was quite unnerving for Susan to see her grandfather, always a diligent man, sleeping through the afternoon, even though she knew he needed the rest.

  When Bertie finally woke, Susan washed the grime from his face, then gathered a clean set of clothes. While he changed in the living room, given privacy by the curtain strung across the kitchen door, she prepared him broth made from boiled cabbage. As she ladled the watery mixture into a bowl, she wondered if he had told her everything. Had he been dizzy? Did his chest hurt? And if so, would he even tell me? Of course not.

  She retrieved a spoon and carried the bowl to Bertie. As she entered the living room, she saw that he had somehow managed to maneuver himself into his living room chair. A pile of soiled clothes lay at his feet. He looked exhausted. Chin dropped. Eyes closed. She glanced at the bowl of broth. The tiny amount of nutrients from withered cabbage was barely enough to tame one’s hunger, let alone nurse an elderly man back to health. As she placed the bowl on the stand next to his chair, Bertie stirred.

  “Thank you, Susan,” Bertie said. “But I insist on sitting at the table.”

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  He nodded and tried to stand, then fell back into his chair. He grunted, then reached out his hand.

  Susan helped him to his feet. The crackle of his knees reverberated through his bones and into her hands. Slo
wly, she helped him shuffle to the table.

  “I don’t want you worrying about me,” he said, taking a seat.

  “Eat, then rest.” She retrieved his broth and placed it in front of him, noticing that the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes appeared deeper.

  He tapped Susan’s hand. “Merely a fall, my dear. I’ll be better tomorrow.” He picked up his spoon and tasted his broth. “Splendid. Never knew soup could taste so rich.”

  Susan watched him eat his broth, his hand shaking as he raised the spoon to his mouth. “How about you keep a lookout for returning pigeons,” she said, as he finished, “while I tend to the lofts.”

  Bertie lowered his spoon.

  “I could put your chair on the porch,” she said.

  He nodded.

  She had expected him to put up a fuss. The fact that he didn’t caused the knot in her belly to tighten. “Merely for this afternoon,” she added, immediately realizing that she was reassuring herself.

  “Perhaps it’s a good idea that one of us keeps watch,” Bertie said. “The soldiers are daft eggs.”

  Susan washed the dishes, then moved Bertie’s living room chair to the porch. It took some effort to squeeze the oversized upholstered piece through the door frame; she had to flop it on its side and wiggle it through. As he settled into his chair, she noticed the fabric had been torn.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tucking the stuffing under the ripped flap of fabric. “I’ll mend it.”

  “Gives it character, my dear,” he said, patting her arm.

  She covered him with layers of blankets. Beside him, she placed his walking stick and the bottle of pills, even though she knew full well he’d never touch either one. Then she went to work.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, she forced herself to go about her duties. She dreaded leaving Bertie, but she had no choice. Five hundred pigeons needed to be prepared for the next mission, which was less than a week away, and by her standards, they weren’t ready. Not even close. They needed several more training flights, but she’d only have time for one, perhaps two at most. Normally, she’d select only the strongest pigeons. However, to meet the deadline, she’d have to rely on any pigeon that was capable of making a three-hour flight. Then the canisters would need to be attached to their legs, a task that would take the better part of a day. The worst part would be placing the pigeons into those god-awful tubes. She was determined not to expose Bertie to seeing their pigeons stuffed into the containers like mail. That job she’d do herself.