The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  She started preparing the last of the pigeons for the mission before dawn, waking well before Bertie. He’d barely slept last night—or the past several days, for that matter—kept awake by his rounds of coughing. The only times she didn’t hear him wheezing or blowing his nose, it seemed, was during deafening bursts of antiaircraft fire.

  Grandfather was right, she thought. There was likely nothing wrong with his heart. Just his dodgy knees and an ordinary cold that had progressed to the brink of pneumonia, given the rattle in his chest. Still, Dr. Collins had insisted that Bertie remain on nitroglycerin, as well as begin taking sulfa pills. But the medication, and hours spent with his head draped in a towel over a steaming pot of water, had done little to loosen his congestion.

  “There’s no room at St. Margaret’s. The beds are filled with casualties from London,” Dr. Collins had said. “He’ll receive better care at home.” But the infection continued to grow in his chest. Armed with nothing more than sulfa pills, measly rations, weak tea, and old eucalyptus oil that had lost its scent, she questioned if her ministrations had done him any good.

  Susan placed the last pigeon into a canister, sealed the cap, and carefully placed it on the stack. Her mind raced. Her body ached with doubt. To reassure herself, if only for a moment, she reached into her coat and removed Ollie’s recent decoded message. And read it for the fourth time.

  She glanced at the stack of dropping tubes. The loft, once filled with cooing pigeons, was silent, except for the muted scratching of talons on cardboard.

  Susan folded the note and placed it inside her coat. Gathering her strength, she left the loft.

  The past few nights, the battles in the skies had been fierce. Antiaircraft guns boomed. The earth quaked. China fell from shelves. And now the sheep pasture was speckled with shrapnel, like ugly black hailstones. As she walked across the yard, she noticed a dull shimmer among the bits of shrapnel. She stopped. A brass bullet casing, the length of a stick of gum. She imagined that the casing came from either an RAF fighter or a Luftwaffe bomber. She picked it up. The cold metal made her skin crawl. Rather than check for markings, she threw it toward the forest; it landed several yards short of a bordering beech tree.

  “I hate war!” she shouted.

  A rustle came from the RAF tent still erected in the yard. A soldier poked out his head.

  Susan glared at him. “You heard me.”

  The soldier, like a startled gopher, ducked his head back inside.

  As she approached the cottage door, she heard a wheeze. Hacking. A wet cough. She glanced up at her bedroom window, which was now left partway open for Duchess. A gust of frigid wind caused the blackout curtain to sway.

  I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza.

  She shivered. Pulling her coat around her body, she stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 41

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan entered the cottage to a wave of deep rasping coughs. The air was dank from steaming pots that had been left on the stove to loosen Bertie’s congestion. Mist covered the windows. Upholstery had turned damp. The first floor of the cottage, it seemed, had been turned into a croup tent. She hung up her coat and went to Bertie, slumped in his chair under layers of wool blankets.

  “You’re up early,” Bertie said, opening his eyes.

  Susan nodded, noticing the hoarseness in his voice. “A military lorry will be here in an hour.”

  He coughed and spat into a tattered piece of fabric. “I’m afraid I’ve soiled all our handkerchiefs.”

  She touched his arm. “That’s why we have them.”

  Bertie folded his handkerchief and leaned back.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He struggled to clear phlegm from his throat.

  Susan picked up his cup, half filled with tepid tea, from the side table and raised it to his lips.

  He sipped. Winced. Swallowed.

  She set down the cup. “Something to eat?”

  He shook his head.

  “Eucalyptus oil?”

  He pressed his handkerchief over his mouth to muffle a cough, then lowered his hand. “We need to talk.”

  “You need to rest.”

  He forced himself to sit up. Blankets slumped to his lap. “Pigeons ready?”

  “Yes.” She stared at him. Lacking the energy to shave, he had allowed white whiskers to sprout on his face. Dark bags sagged under his eyes, and his breath was sour from the infection in his lungs.

  He reached his hand and lightly squeezed her fingers.

  Susan forced a smile.

  He released her hand, then adjusted his blankets. “You’re making a difference in this war, Susan. Despite the losses, our pigeons are gathering intelligence on Hitler’s military.”

  She thought of the empty cubbies, the hundreds of missing pigeons. “We need more to train.”

  “We won’t receive more.” He blew his nose but produced nothing but a thick gurgle.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve already spoken to Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service.”

  “That’s not fair,” Susan said. “Just because you’re feeling poorly doesn’t mean that we can’t continue with Source Columba. I’ll talk to Mr. Wallace, tell him that I’m perfectly capable of taking on the extra work until you recover.” She stepped to the telephone.

  “It’s not my condition, my dear.” He labored to inhale. “It’s our location.”

  Susan stopped. She turned and looked at him.

  “Our farm is near an RAF airfield, a target for the Luftwaffe.” He coughed, then picked up his cup and drank. “We’re also directly under their bloody flight path to bomb London. It’s not safe.”

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “The National Pigeon Service is setting up training farms in Northampton, away from the bombings.” He cleared his throat. “Jonathan is saving a position for you.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Britain needs you.” He paused, then tucked his dirty handkerchief under his blanket, as if to hide the evidence of his worsening condition. “We’ll soon have no pigeons. Unless you go to Northampton, you’ll no longer be part of Source Columba.”

  She stepped to his chair. “I won’t leave you.”

  “I’ll join you later, my dear.” He glanced at the bottle of sulfa pills on the side table. “The McCrearys can check in on me until I’ve recovered.”

  “Nonsense.” Susan crossed her arms. Mrs. McCreary was a sweet woman who would no doubt go out of her way to care for Bertie. But her husband, a meek man who spent much of the day hiding in his root cellar, would be of little, if any, help. Regardless, she’d never leave Bertie. Ever. Rather than argue, she leaned over him and retrieved his cup. “We’ll talk of this later.”

  In the kitchen, she prepared tea. As the leaves steeped, she heard him cough, struggling to expel mucus from his lungs. A sudden sense of helplessness washed over her. She wanted to cry. Give up. Instead, she bit her lip and buried her tears. Be an egg.

  As she carried his tea into the living room, a flutter came from upstairs. She placed the cup on Bertie’s side table, spilling tea on the floor. She turned to see Duchess swoop down the stairs and land on the sofa.

  Susan rushed to Duchess and swept her into her arms. Cold feathers pressed against her skin.

  “Your open bedroom window works splendidly to avoid the soldiers,” Bertie said.

  Susan kissed Duchess on the head. As she removed the canister from the pigeon’s leg, a tail feather fell to the floor. She stopped, noticing that Duchess’s once-shimmering fluorescent colors now appeared dull, as if bleached by the sun. Along with the bird’s rapid heart rate, Susan realized that Duchess wasn’t cooing. She blew warm air over her frigid wings. After a few minutes, Duchess began to produce a soft murmur. Susan exhaled. She retrieved a jar of grain that she had stored in the kitchen and sprinkled the feed onto the table. Gently, she placed her pigeon in front of the food.
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  Duchess gave a few pecks, then sat down and closed her eyes.

  Susan pushed grain to her.

  The pigeon made no effort to eat.

  “She can’t keep up the pace,” Susan said to Bertie. “It’s too much.”

  Duchess tucked her head under her wing.

  Bertie leaned forward, attempting to get a better view from his chair. “She’s doing what she believes to be her duty.”

  Susan hesitated, then opened the canister and slid out the note.

  “No need to read it all to me,” Bertie said. “Merely tell me the intelligence, and I’ll scribble it on paper for the soldiers.”

  Susan nodded.

  Bertie removed a sulfa pill from the bottle on his table and swallowed it with a gulp of tea. He looked at Susan. “You’ll see him again, my dear.”

  She stepped to him and gave him a hug.

  “Not so close. Don’t want you ill.”

  “Don’t care.” She squeezed him tight, noticing that he’d lost weight. Bones protruded under his pajamas.

  Duchess raised her head, stretched her wings, and fluttered to Bertie’s chair.

  He stroked a wing with his finger.

  Susan retrieved a note that she had already written for Ollie. She began to place it in the canister and hesitated. She grabbed a pencil and the codebook, then added to her message.

  She rolled the paper, placed it inside the canister, and attached it to Duchess’s leg.

  Duchess flew to the window. She pecked against the glass.

  “No,” Susan said. “You need to rest.”

  Duchess tilted her head and ruffled her feathers. She pecked at the glass.

  Susan picked up Duchess and stroked her back.

  Duchess squirmed, then fluttered from Susan’s hands. The pigeon returned to the window and pecked harder.

  Bertie coughed. “She wants to leave.”

  “Too soon.”

  For several minutes, Duchess incessantly tapped on the glass. Each time Susan tried to touch Duchess, the pigeon flapped away and then waddled along the baseboard. After Susan’s sixth attempt to calm her, Duchess fluttered around the living room.

  A breeze brushed Susan’s face. She turned to see Duchess land on the mantel.

  “Please,” Susan said. Slowly, she stepped to the fireplace and gently rubbed the soft tuff on Duchess’s head. “A wee rest.”

  Duchess waddled. Her talons scratched over the wood.

  Susan glanced at Bertie and noticed that he was pointing to the ceiling.

  A jolt hit her. My bedroom window. She looked up.

  Bertie nodded.

  As Susan turned to go to her room, Duchess leaped into the air and swooped upstairs. Susan’s heart raced. She ran, her wellies feeling like deep-sea diving shoes as she scaled the steps. Reaching her room, she found Duchess perched on the windowsill.

  “Wait!”

  Duchess dove from the ledge.

  Susan stuck her head out the window. Cold wind bit at her cheeks. She watched Duchess flap her wings, using more effort than usual, as if her canister were filled with sand. As her tired pigeon slowly gained altitude, Susan shuddered. There’s no place to rest over the Channel.

  CHAPTER 42

  AIRAINES, FRANCE

  “Bury him in the woods,” Boar said, standing over the body. “And hide the car in the barn.”

  Ollie looked at Dietrich, his mouth gaped. Blood oozed from his shattered hand. “No.”

  “Do it,” Boar barked.

  Ollie glanced at Madeleine, sitting next to him on the ground and pressing a hand to the cut on her scalp. “We can’t leave any evidence. The Nazis will know his routine. They’ll search this place and blame Madeleine.”

  Boar stepped to them.

  Madeleine looked up and gasped. “Your eye!”

  Boar touched his face, as if he were expecting to find one of his eyes still bandaged. Instead, he found a shriveled cornea. His face turned pale.

  Madeleine reached for the lieutenant.

  Boar turned. He stormed into the cottage, leaving the door open.

  “Let me see.” Ollie kneeled next to Madeleine and examined her head. Near her temple was a quarter-inch-deep gash. And a protrusion the size of a small river stone. He plucked a dead leaf from her hair, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully pressed it to her wound.

  “Merci,” Madeleine said.

  “What happened?”

  “Herr Dietrich had come for his truffles. He wasn’t due to arrive for a few days.” She rubbed Louis’s head.

  The hog snorted.

  “When I told him that I had no truffles, he became angry and said he was going to shoot my schwein.”

  “Jesus,” Ollie said. “That’s it?”

  “The Nazis have little tolerance.” She took the handkerchief from Ollie and glanced at the bloodied fabric. “Even for a woman who’s neglected her truffle hunting.”

  Ollie helped Madeleine to her feet. “You’ve been busy helping us. I’m sorry we’ve put you in this mess.” He looked at the Nazi’s car; its shiny grille and bug-eye headlights appeared to stare back at him. He paused, then slipped off his jacket.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m gonna take care of this.” He removed his shirt.

  “But the flight lieutenant—”

  “I know what Boar said, but I’m not leaving this Nazi or his car on your farm for the Germans to find.” Cold wind whipped through his undershirt, causing goose bumps to crop up on his arms. He handed the clothing to Madeleine, then stepped to Dietrich and began to unbutton his tunic.

  “No,” Madeleine said.

  Ollie finished unbuttoning Dietrich’s tunic, noticing that the man’s body temperature was already beginning to cool. He slid the Nazi’s arms from the sleeves. As he attempted to pull off the tunic, the clothing remained stuck to Dietrich’s back. He swallowed, rolled the body over, and lifted the tunic over the scythe that protruded from his spine. Burying a wave of nausea, he slipped on the tunic, then retrieved Dietrich’s cap and pistol.

  Madeleine grabbed his arm. “You must not do this.”

  Ollie pulled away, then opened the trunk of the car, only to find that it was barely big enough to fit a small bag, let alone a Nazi. With no other option, he grabbed Dietrich by his jackboots and dragged him to the car. Struggling to lift the weight with his bad shoulder, Ollie flopped the body onto the floor of the back seat. He covered the Nazi with a black leather trench coat that had been neatly folded on the passenger seat.

  Ollie looked at Madeleine as he fastened the top of the tunic. The collar tightened against his neck. “I need you to trust me.”

  Madeleine squeezed her handkerchief. Louis pressed against her leg.

  “Make sure Boar doesn’t do anything stupid.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll listen to you.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “Find Guillaume’s friend. Tell him that we leave tomorrow. If I’m not back by morning, have them go without me.” Before Madeleine could respond, he got into the car and shut the door. As he reached for the ignition, he noticed the key was missing. He found it by leaning into the back seat and searching Dietrich’s pants pockets. His hand shook as he inserted the key into the ignition.

  CHAPTER 43

  AIRAINES, FRANCE

  Flight Lieutenant Boar tried using the back of a spoon to see his reflection, but the pewter was too tarnished. He threw the utensil back into the sink and went to Madeleine’s bedroom. Although he rarely left the confinement of the kitchen, other than sleeping under the floorboards, he knew exactly where her room was located by the creak of her footsteps. He found what he was looking for above a washbasin—a chipped gilt-framed mirror. He stepped toward his reflection. And saw a monster.

  The left eye worked properly, although his brow was bulbous and the sclera was completely bloodshot. But the right eye was gruesome. A disfigured eyelid was pieced together with stitches. Lashes gone. And th
e cornea was sunken and clouded, like a spoiled fish. He touched his eye, shriveled and broken. His socket contained what appeared to be a hunk of gristle.

  Boar slammed his fist into the mirror, sending shards of glass over the floor. He pressed his hands to his face. I’ll never fly again. His breath quickened. He adjusted his weight. Under the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots, he heard a mechanical cough. A rev of an engine. He ripped his pistol from the holster and ran to the door. On the porch, he saw the Nazi’s car driving away, the Yank behind the wheel. Rage boiled. It’s your fault. He raised his weapon.

  “Arrêtez!” Madeleine shouted from the yard.

  Boar aimed at the rear window. The only reason he hadn’t used his pistol to kill the Nazi was that the shots would have alerted the Wehrmacht. But now he didn’t care. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Madeleine scrambled toward the porch. Her hog squealed. She waved her arms. “Please . . . no!”

  Boar squinted. His depth perception, with one eye, was gone. As he narrowed his sight on the silhouette behind the wheel, Madeleine grabbed his arm, causing him to lose his target.

  “He’s trying to help,” Madeleine said.

  “Idiot.” He lowered his pistol and watched the car disappear.

  Louis brushed Madeleine’s leg. She patted her hog on the head. It snorted and nestled under a bush.

  Madeleine paused to catch her breath, then retrieved Ollie’s jacket and shirt from the yard and went inside the cottage.

  Boar, noticing that a patch of Madeleine’s hair was soaked with blood, slipped the pistol into his holster. He followed her inside and helped her into a chair. Taking her handkerchief, he dipped the end in a pitcher of water and softly dabbed her scalp.