by Alan Hlad
“Your pigeon is rubbish,” Boar said.
“Susan’s pet,” Ollie said. “She wasn’t part of the mission.”
Madeleine stepped outside. She looked down at the pigeon and asked, “Has she returned?”
Ollie shook his head. “Never left.”
Madeleine pointed to the canister. “Have you checked?”
Ollie hesitated, then removed the canister from Duchess’s leg. The pigeon jutted its head as it waddled in a figure-eight pattern. He unscrewed the top, expecting to find his note. But what he found was a rolled piece of yellow stationery, quite different from the military-issued paper in the drop cages. His eyes widened. He looked at Madeleine. “Inside.”
Ollie placed Duchess on the table and took a seat. Madeleine sat next to him while Boar remained standing.
“What does it say?” Boar asked, as Ollie unrolled the paper.
Ollie scanned the message, a series of five-letter words. His heartbeat accelerated. “It’s coded.” He retrieved the book from his jacket and began to decipher.
Madeleine leaned over Ollie’s shoulder.
“Hurry up, Yank,” Boar said.
After a few minutes, Ollie finished decoding. He took a deep breath, then read the message out loud.
Ollie glanced down at Duchess, pecking at a speck of gray bread. “Sorry,” he said, removing the crumb.
The pigeon angled its head, then sat, like a hen nesting an egg.
“That’s it?” Boar asked.
“There’s more.” Ollie continued reading.
“What about the RAF?” Boar asked.
“Nothing.” Ollie folded the message and placed it in his pocket.
“Bloody hell,” Boar said. He ran his hand over the table and found his cup, then took a swig of brandy. “The message should have come from the RAF, not from her.”
Ollie noticed a tone of jealousy in Boar’s voice. “Duchess isn’t a military pigeon.”
“Bollocks,” Boar said. “Get some paper. I’ll tell you what to write.”
For the next several minutes, Boar dictated a note to the RAF. Ollie scribbled, but he ignored the lieutenant’s commands. Instead, he coded his own message. By the time Boar was finished, he had begun to slur his words. Fortunately for Ollie, he hadn’t drunk his brandy and was able to recite Boar’s message from memory.
The lieutenant, seeming satisfied, slouched into a chair.
Ollie slid the note into the canister. He looked at the lieutenant, drunk and bandaged, and asked what had been on his mind since Boar had beaten the hell out of him in the Glasshouse. “Why do you hate Americans?”
Boar lowered his cup. “You’re all bloody cowards.”
“You know nothing about us,” Ollie said, tightening the canister lid.
“I know far more than you think, Yank.” He looked in Ollie’s direction. “You join the party late, screw our women, and then go home.”
Madeleine crossed her arms.
Ollie placed the canister on the table. “What are you talking about?”
Boar stood and stumbled. “My father was American.”
Ollie stared at the lieutenant.
“Bastard maker was stationed near Epping.” Boar grabbed the table to steady himself. “Like the other bloody Americans, he arrived three years after the Great War began. Coward never saw combat, so he found time to get his way with my mother. Got her pregnant, and when his regiment was sent home, promised to come back for her. But my mother never heard from him again. No telegram. No letter.” He paused, attempting to keep his body from swaying. “The woman named me after my father, and she was reminded of that son of a bitch every time she looked at me.”
“What he did was horrible,” Ollie said. “But we’re not all like your father.”
Boar reached back, as if he was about to take a swing, then lost his balance. He fell into the table, causing a plate to shatter on the floor.
Madeleine took Boar’s arm and helped him to the sofa. The lieutenant leaned his head back and mumbled something neither Ollie nor Madeleine could understand. Seconds later, the lieutenant began to snore.
“Jeez,” Ollie said, “no wonder he hates me.”
“What should we do?” Madeleine asked.
“Let him sleep it off. I’ll get him under the floor later.”
She pointed to Duchess. “And what about her?”
“I’ll release her in the morning.” He picked up Duchess and fastened the canister to her leg. She squirmed, then fluttered to the door.
“She wants to leave,” Madeleine said.
Duchess pecked the door.
“I don’t think pigeons fly at night.”
“How do you know?”
“Just a guess.” He kneeled to Duchess, then stroked her back. “You need to rest.”
Duchess blinked, then pecked.
“Okay.” He peeked through the curtain, then opened the door.
Duchess waddled over the threshold, flapped her wings, and disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 39
AIRAINES, FRANCE
Ollie sat in the barn with the decoded messages on his lap. He blew on his fingers, numb from the cold, and read the words again. And again.
For the past five days, he had corresponded with Susan. Each afternoon, Duchess swooped down from the sky and gracefully landed on Madeleine’s doorstep. And considering that the pigeon’s flights had become keenly accurate, like the arrival times at a train depot, Ollie was often already peeking through the curtains, prepared to snatch her inside.
After removing Duchess’s canister, he’d stroke her wings and give her fresh water, while his pulse quickened with anticipation. Then he’d open the canister to retrieve the note. And there, on a small piece of rolled yellow stationery, were Susan’s words, hidden under a plethora of codes.
Susan’s messages, which Flight Lieutenant Boar had demanded be read out loud, confirmed that the intelligence on the airfield was being relayed to the RAF. But there was nothing directly from the RAF, which rankled Boar. It didn’t surprise Ollie that the RAF wasn’t communicating with them. After all, Duchess was Susan’s pet, and the British military had recently fled France and were occupied with Luftwaffe bombings, not to mention preparation for their own German invasion. Besides, there was nothing the military could do for them. Behind enemy lines, they were on their own.
Mostly, Susan’s notes contained bits of news and words of hope that were directed toward Ollie, which he purposely left out during his readings to Boar. It wasn’t that he feared the lieutenant, although he’d have to admit, the man was intimidating, even blindfolded. The fact was, some of what was in the messages was none of Boar’s business.
He leaned against a barn stall and read the deciphered messages, focusing on Susan’s closing words. Whispering somewhere deep inside his head was the sweet sound of her voice.
Ollie gently touched the paper, then retrieved another message.
I wish I could be with you. Hold you. And never let you go. But he couldn’t say that. Any of it. After all, the chances of him making it out of France were slim at best. He couldn’t imagine causing her any further sorrow. She’d already lost too much. And now, he learned, Bertie’s health was in decline. As much as he wanted to say more, the most he could do was journal his emotions, which he kept tucked inside the codebook.
He read through Susan’s messages a second time, then took out a piece of paper and began to write. Hopefully, Duchess had made it to Epping. He’d have another message, which included the recent sighting of a dozen Panzer tanks, ready to send when Duchess arrived. As he wrote, he debated whether to tell Susan about the pigeons.
He’d learned from Madeleine, returning home after standing for over four hours in a bread line, that some of the starving French had resorted to eating Source Columba pigeons. Dropped across the ravaged countryside, some of the pigeons, depending on when the person finding them had had his or her last meal, were viewed as food packages. Rather than send what they may
have viewed as a futile message to Britain, along with what could be a meal for malnourished children, the French were smuggling pigeons into their homes and eating them. He hoped that Madeleine’s stories were exceptional instances of survival. But considering the rationed scraps she was permitted to bring home from the market, he feared that the situation would only get worse. Much worse.
To complicate matters, the Wehrmacht had enlisted falcons. During Ollie’s last reconnaissance at the airfield, he had witnessed a German soldier at the far edge of the field with a raptor perched on his arm. Ollie had expected to count only planes, their numbers seeming to multiply like rodents in a corn silo. But as he peered through the underbrush, his eyes were drawn away from the rows of Messerschmitt fighters to that soldier.
The soldier had dropped his binoculars, raised his arm, and slipped off the falcon’s leather blindfold. The raptor awakened. It flapped its large wings and surged skyward. Ollie saw its target. A bird, high above a row of pines, less than a hundred yards away. And he knew, from his brief time with Susan, that it was a pigeon. The falcon closed in. The pigeon, unaware of the predator, continued its westerly flight toward the Channel. Within seconds, the falcon had shot out its talons and snagged the pigeon in midair flight. It glided to the ground with its prey in its grasp. As the falcon ripped away flesh with its beak, Ollie hoped that Duchess wouldn’t fly near the airfield. Despite being an agile pigeon, she’d be no match for a falcon.
Ollie pressed his pencil against the paper. The air inside the barn was thick with the smell of manure. He struggled between truth and faith, whether he should include details about the fate of the pigeons or believe that the mission, despite its losses, would eventually be successful. In the end, he omitted news on the pigeon casualties.
He finished his note and slid it into his pocket, then rubbed the ache in his foot. The past few days had done him some good. The swelling had receded. Although he had trouble raising his elbow, he was able to remove the sling and walk with his arm at his side. He was feeling better, perhaps even enough to make the escape attempt. But he couldn’t say as much for the lieutenant.
Boar’s eyes were still bandaged. It’d be two more days until the doctor returned to examine him. Over the past week, Boar and Ollie had stayed away from each other, as much as two men sleeping in the confinement of a crawl space could. It was clear, at least to Ollie, that there was no changing Boar’s dislike toward him, an American corresponding with an Englishwoman. And the daily messages from Susan only seemed to fuel Boar’s envy.
As Ollie was about to leave the barn, he heard an engine. The ping of pistons grew. He stopped. Crouched. The engine stopped. He peeked through a crack in the siding. A Nazi officer got out of his vehicle and adjusted his cap over his partially missing ear. In contrast to his dark uniform, his waxen skin appeared to glow.
Dietrich. Ollie froze. His mind raced. Would Madeleine have time to hide Boar?
The Nazi’s jackboots crunched over gravel. He stepped to the door and knocked.
Shivers shot up Ollie’s spine.
Dietrich slipped off his leather gloves and knocked harder.
Ollie scanned for a place to hide. A minuscule pile of hay. A mound of rotten potatoes.
The cottage door opened.
“Herr Dietrich,” Madeleine said.
The Nazi pushed her aside. He stepped inside and shut the door.
Choices flooded Ollie’s head. Stay? Hide? Run? He struggled to clear his thoughts. Despite his instincts to flee, he stayed. Waited. Minutes passed. His skin turned cold. As he was second-guessing his decision not to hide in the woods, he heard a crack, like a chair falling over. Squeals. Shouts. Hairs stood on the back of his neck.
Ollie stared through the crack. He expected to hear shots. Instead, the cottage door flung open. Dietrich, holding Louis by the hind leg, dragged the hog outside. Adrenaline flooded Ollie’s veins.
Louis squealed and wriggled, frantically attempting to dig his front hooves into the earth. But the tiny truffle hog, no bigger than a dwarf-sized bulldog, was no match for the Nazi.
“Arrêtez!” Madeleine screamed, as she ran from the cottage.
Dietrich pulled the hog into the yard and unfastened his pistol strap.
Louis, desperately trying to escape, twisted and arched his head toward Madeleine.
Ollie clenched his fists.
In one fluid move, Dietrich removed his pistol and aimed at the squirming hog.
Madeleine, reaching Dietrich, pounded her hands against the Nazi’s chest.
Dietrich snarled. He cocked back his arm and struck Madeleine with his pistol, snapping the woman’s head back and tumbling her to the ground.
Ollie scanned the barn. A rake. Mushy potato piles. Broken boards. Above him, hanging from an iron hook, a broken scythe missing its handle, the blade chipped and rusted. He grabbed it anyway.
Madeleine slowly raised her head. Dry leaves clung to her hair. A wad of saliva hung from her lower lip. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air. Somehow, she managed to get to her feet. She wavered, as if she were about to fall, then approached Dietrich.
The Nazi shook his head. The hog wriggled in his grasp.
Madeleine, her hair wicked with blood, stepped to him. “S’il vous plaît. Libérez-le.”
Dietrich pointed the pistol at her face.
She closed her eyes. Her hands trembled. But she held her ground.
If it weren’t for Louis’s squeals, and the fact that Dietrich had his back turned to him, Ollie couldn’t have approached without being detected. For the moment, a squirming hog and a bold Frenchwoman had Dietrich’s full attention. At least until he pulled the trigger. And it would all be over—Louis’s squeals, Madeleine’s cries. Ollie limped faster. His pulse pounded in his ears. Ten yards. Five yards. Then gravel crunched under his boots.
Dietrich jerked. Pupils widened. A scowl flared. He turned his weapon.
Ollie swung back. He lurched forward and brought the rusted blade down over the man’s hand. He expected a discharge of gunpowder and braced for a bullet to pierce his rib cage. Instead, a loud snap, like a hickory branch that had been swung against the base of a tree.
Dietrich howled. The pistol fell.
Ollie glanced at the Nazi’s hand, a thumb cocked at an obtuse angle, as if he had suddenly grown an extra joint. He expected Dietrich to run. Retreat. At the very least, raise his hands to surrender. Because, Ollie believed, that is what a typical human would do. But he quickly realized that the Nazi was no ordinary man when the German came at him like a Greco-Roman wrestler. Hands extended. A bone, resembling a bloodied piece of chalk, protruded from his thumb.
Okay. It’s you or me. Ollie swung. As the blade cut through the air, a sick feeling flooded his gut. He had underestimated Dietrich’s quickness. And aimed too high.
Dietrich ducked, shot forward, and landed his shoulder into Ollie’s leg.
Ollie’s knee buckled. His ankle gave out, and he toppled to the ground with Dietrich pouncing on his chest. His ligaments strained, and his injured shoulder was about to pop from its socket. He struggled to use the blade. But Dietrich, like a rabid dog, bit into Ollie’s coat sleeve. Incisors ground into his flesh. Pain flooded his arm. And he dropped the blade.
Ollie’s jaw snapped back as Dietrich, with his one good arm, landed a punch. Dazed, he clawed for the blade.
Madeleine screamed. She pounded her fists against Dietrich’s back.
The Nazi jammed his elbow into Madeleine’s torso. Her high-pitched cries were gagged as air rushed from her lungs. She collapsed, clutching her stomach.
Dietrich rolled off of Ollie’s chest. Initially, Ollie thought the Nazi had found the blade and was preparing to sink it into his skull. Instead, he saw Dietrich scrambling like a crab. A few feet away, the pistol.
Ollie dove. He seized Dietrich’s leg.
The Nazi stretched his arm. His fingers inched toward the weapon.
A jackboot smashed into Ollie’s cheek. His vision turned
black. He struggled to clear the fog in his head and realized that Dietrich was out of his grasp. It’s over, he thought. A few seconds was all the Nazi needed. He expected to hear shots ring out. Instead, a high-pitched yelp. He raised his head and saw a trail of gauze in the yard. And Dietrich with the blade protruding from his back. Standing over him was Flight Lieutenant Boar.
Dietrich flung his arms. Twisted. Turned. But couldn’t reach the blade, placed like a harpoon between his shoulder blades.
Boar tackled Dietrich onto his back, sinking the blade deep into his body. The Nazi screeched.
Boar gripped Dietrich’s neck. His forearm muscles flexed as he cut off the man’s air.
Dietrich kicked. His legs weakened. A foot twitched. Then his body went still.
Ollie crawled to Madeleine. “You okay?”
She nodded; blood and dirt smeared her face. Louis nuzzled her side.
Boar released his grip on Dietrich’s neck, then stood over the body. “Fools,” he said with his back to Ollie. “You risked our lives for a bloody pig.”
“He was gonna shoot her,” Ollie said.
The lieutenant turned.
The first thing Ollie noticed was Boar’s missing bandages. The second, the lieutenant’s eyes. One clear and alert. The other dead, like unpolished alabaster.
CHAPTER 40
EPPING, ENGLAND
Susan attached the canister to the pigeon’s leg, caressed its wings, and gently slid the bird into the cardboard tube. She felt the weight of the pigeon sink to the bottom. Sealing on the cap, perforated with holes to allow in air, she placed the tube with the others in the corner of the loft. She stacked them in a pyramid, careful not to rotate the pigeons upside down, realizing that in a few hours the military would load them onto planes like airmail.
She lifted a parachute and rubbed the silky material between her fingers. The parachute appeared to be terribly small, more suitable for floating a child’s toy soldier from a second-story window than dropping a pigeon from a plane. Also, the cardboard tubes looked flimsy in comparison to the former RAF baskets. She understood the reasons why the military had made the changes. Smaller packages equals fewer planes equals fewer dead pilots. But she loathed them anyway. The tubes were far too dark and restrictive, not to mention coffin-like. No way to treat a pigeon, especially one that was risking its life to save Britain. She dropped the parachute and continued loading. And with each pigeon she removed from its cubby, anxiety swelled inside her chest.