The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  “Merci.” She looked at him.

  Boar cleared his throat. “I’m blind in my right eye.”

  “I’ll call the docteur.”

  Boar shook his head. “It’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He continued examining her wound. “Broke your mirror, I’m afraid.”

  She sighed. “Just as well. I haven’t had a reason to look at myself in quite some time.”

  Boar pressed on her cut until the bleeding stopped. He cleaned her hair, leaving a section of gray roots dyed red.

  Madeleine took the handkerchief from Boar and placed it on the table. She rummaged through an ashtray and plucked the remnant tail of a cigarette. She dusted it with a finger, lit it, and handed it to him.

  He took a drag and tasted ash. A tiny amount of burnt tobacco filled his lungs.

  Madeleine stood and grabbed her coat.

  “You should lie down.” Boar dropped the smoldering nub of paper into the ashtray.

  She ignored him and retrieved a hat hanging on a hook next to her truffle bag and placed it on her head. She adjusted the brim to cover the protrusion on her temple. “The Nazis will notice a missing officer.” She buttoned her coat and opened the door. “They’ll retrace Dietrich’s steps, including his visits to requisition my truffles.”

  A gust of cold air brushed Boar’s face. “Where are you going?”

  “To talk with my friend.” Madeleine looked at him. “You leave tomorrow.” She stepped outside and shut the door.

  He thought about stopping her. But it didn’t matter. In fact, nothing mattered anymore. Although his heart beat, his lungs held air, and his limbs worked, he was broken. Worthless. Every fiber in his body wanted to fight. But now, even if he did make it back to Britain, he’d never command a squadron. Nor would he be allowed to fight with one eye. At best, he’d be assigned to work behind a desk. Bloody hell. He pulled out his pistol and took inventory of his ammunition, including the bullets in the extra clip that was attached to his belt. Consumed with resentment, he resolved to kill as many Nazis as he could and save one bullet for himself. And perhaps another for the Yank.

  An hour later, as he sat in a chair waiting for Madeleine or Ollie to return, a faint scrape on the porch caused him to raise his pistol. He listened, then crept to the window. Inching back the curtain, he peeked outside. Nothing.

  Peck. Peck.

  Recognizing the sound, he exhaled and opened the door. On the porch, he saw what had to be the Yank’s pigeon, considering its vibrant plume. “You look like a bloody peacock.” He shook his head. “Surprised you haven’t been shot down.”

  Duchess looked up and ruffled her feathers.

  Boar stepped toward the bird.

  Duchess waddled away. She stretched her wings, preparing to take flight.

  He stopped. Slowly, he slipped his weapon into the holster.

  Duchess fluttered into the yard.

  Boar ground his teeth. He paused, then turned toward the cottage and said, “Yank, your bird is back. Come and get it before it flies away.”

  He went inside, leaving the door open. Pressing his back against the wall, out of view of the pigeon, he waited. Several minutes passed. As he was about to give up, he heard a flutter, then scratching. A moment later, the bird waddled inside.

  Boar slammed the door. A crack shot through the cottage.

  Duchess leaped and flapped her wings.

  He watched the Yank’s bird fly about the cottage, banging against a curtain and knocking a cup off the table. Realizing it’d be difficult to catch a bird with his bare hands, even in a small room, he retrieved a blanket from his hole under the floorboards. He tossed the blanket, like a net, into the air.

  Duchess swooped. The blanket grazed her tail and fell to the floor. She darted to a bookshelf.

  Boar picked up the blanket, and holding it like a matador, he closed in on the bird.

  Duchess, her body aslant, clung to a shelf with her talons.

  Boar threw the blanket. The bird and several books fell to the floor. Beneath the wool fabric, a small wriggling bulge. He slid his hand inside, wrapped his fingers over its wings, and pulled out the bird.

  Duchess pecked. She flexed her wiry legs.

  Boar tightened his grip and noticed the Bakelite canister. Turning the pigeon over, he unclasped the tube from its leg. He bundled the bird inside the blanket, tying the ends to keep it from escaping.

  He unscrewed the cap, slid out the note, and stared at the jumbled lettering. “Bollocks,” he muttered. As he was about to slip the note back into the canister, he noticed the Yank’s jacket hanging on the coatrack. He rummaged through the jacket and found the codebook tucked inside the breast pocket. Opening the cover, several notes fell out. He picked them up from the floor. As he read the messages, a much different variation from what the Yank had read to him, his skin turned hot.

  Duchess squirmed. The blanket twitched.

  Boar stepped to the blanket and placed his boot over the bulge. As he began to lower his foot, he stopped.

  Despite the urge to crush the Yank’s pigeon, he sat down at the table and deciphered the message. An acidic bile burned behind his breastbone. He crumpled the paper, tossed it into the woodstove, and watched it ignite. Then he retrieved a pencil and paper. And using the codebook, he began to write.

  CHAPTER 44

  AIRAINES, FRANCE

  Ollie’s heart pounded as he turned onto the road heading away from the village. The cabin of the car, although empty, smelled of cheese and cured meats, as if Dietrich had been spending his time requisitioning food from starving villagers. Madeleine, Ollie realized, was not the only exploited person in Airaines.

  He ground the gears, attempting to figure out the foreign stick shift. Where do I go? How far will I get? Fearing that the roads would be controlled by the Wehrmacht, he always hiked through the woods on his attempts to obtain intelligence on the airfield. Three miles down the road, he found that his assumptions were correct.

  As Ollie rounded a curve, he saw a Wehrmacht soldier blocking the road with what looked like a wooden sawhorse. The soldier picked up his rifle.

  Dread flooded Ollie’s body, causing his foot to slip from the gas pedal. His pulse increased as the car decelerated. He grabbed the pistol from the passenger seat and tucked it under his leg.

  The soldier, his weapon propped on his shoulder, stepped into the road.

  Ollie’s mind raced. Turn around? Run the roadblock? He adjusted his cap, then gripped the wheel. As he was about to slam the accelerator, the soldier grabbed the sawhorse. Ollie hesitated and noticed the small Nazi flags mounted on each of the sloped fenders. Red cloth emblazoned with black swastikas thrashed in the wind.

  The soldier pulled the roadblock aside, then snapped to attention. He shot up his arm, stiff and straight in a Nazi salute.

  Ollie stared ahead, avoiding eye contact. As he approached, he raised his arm, mirroring the soldier, and saw blood on his cuff. His breath stalled in his lungs. Quickly, he lowered his hand as he passed by. He shifted gears and accelerated. In the rearview mirror, he expected to see the soldier raise his rifle. Instead, the sawhorse was slid back into the road.

  For two, maybe three minutes, the road remained clear, until a convoy of Wehrmacht trucks approached from the opposite direction. Soldiers packed into the back of the trucks looked down at him as he passed.

  Ollie lowered the cap on his head, hoping they wouldn’t recognize a farm boy from Maine disguised as a Nazi officer or detect the peculiar mass in the back of the car. Wind from the trucks blasted the automobile. He steadied the wheel and noticed sweat growing on his back, quickly realizing it was blood from Dietrich’s tunic seeping through his undershirt. When the last truck passed, he rolled down the window and sucked in air.

  A few miles farther, he turned into a barren field. The car bounced from the ruts. Dietrich’s body pressed against the back of his seat.

  He drove to the edge of the woods and wedged the vehicle
under a row of pines. Flooring the accelerator, Ollie propelled the car deep into the canopy, until the tires sank into the mud. He turned off the ignition and got out. Scanning the area, he saw the remains of a burned farmhouse fifty yards away. The roof was missing, windows were broken, and the siding was streaked with char marks. He pulled Dietrich’s body, which was beginning to stiffen with rigor mortis, from the back seat. Unable to straighten the Nazi’s legs, knees scrunched to the torso, Ollie placed Dietrich on the trench coat and used it to drag him across the field.

  As he neared the farmhouse, he saw a stone well surrounded by tall weeds. He tugged harder. His shoulder throbbed. Reaching the well, he fell to the ground as the sound of a vehicle approached. He closed his eyes and listened to the engine whine closer, then fade away.

  He took in deep breaths to gather his strength, then propped Dietrich against the well. Refusing to look at the man’s face, he covered him with the coat. His back strained as he lifted the body. With one huge heave, he rolled Dietrich, trench coat and all, into the well. He expected to hear a splash. Instead, he heard a revolting thud.

  He tossed Dietrich’s cap, along with the tunic, into the well. Frigid air bit at his exposed skin, making him regret that he hadn’t brought his jacket. He returned to the car, then ripped branches from a pine to cover the vehicle. In time, the car and Dietrich would be discovered. Hopefully, it would look like the work of the French Resistance, not a sweet woman who collected truffles. He removed the pistol from the car and placed it in the back of his trousers. As daylight faded, he worked his way through the forest, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

  * * *

  Returning to Airaines was far more difficult than any of Ollie’s previous nocturnal excursions. Shortly after disposing of Dietrich’s body, it began to rain. What started as a light drizzle turned to sleet. Without a coat, he struggled to keep his teeth from chattering. Storm clouds hid the moon and stars. With no markers to guide him, Ollie was forced to travel near the road. As headlights appeared, he hunkered on his belly in the underbrush. Ice pellets stung his neck. After each vehicle passed, he stood and continued his trek, knowing that, within a few minutes, he’d likely be back on his stomach.

  The road swarmed with military traffic. Either the Nazis were searching for their missing officer or the Wehrmacht were adamant about maintaining their strict nightly curfews, regardless of the inclement weather. And high above the storm clouds, Luftwaffe bombers droned as they continued their nightly efforts to pulverize Britain.

  What should have taken a couple of hours took almost four. It was late in the evening by the time Ollie reached Madeleine’s cottage. He shivered. Wet clothes clung to his skin. He knocked, unable to feel his frozen knuckles rapping on the door. A moment later, a blackout curtain moved, exposing a flicker of candlelight.

  The door swung open. Madeleine helped him inside and placed a blanket over his shoulders.

  “Were you spotted?” Boar asked, sitting at the table.

  Ollie shook his head. He tightened the blanket around his body and looked at Madeleine, a patch of her hair crusted with dried blood. “How’s your head?”

  She shrugged, then poured him a cup of warm water from a kettle.

  Ollie gripped the cup, allowing the warmth to thaw his fingers. He sipped, then noticed Madeleine, her head lowered and staring at the floor. “What’s wrong?”

  Madeleine’s lip quivered.

  “Your bird came back while you were gone,” Boar said.

  Ollie placed his cup on the table. The blanket fell from his shoulders. “Where is she?”

  Boar picked at a cigarette stub in an ashtray. “I sent it back with a message informing the RAF of our escape.”

  A cramp formed in Ollie’s abdomen. “Was she carrying a message?”

  Madeleine drew in a choppy breath. She retrieved a piece of paper from the kitchen counter and handed it to Ollie.

  On first glance, Ollie noticed that the message was written on Source Columba stationery. But it wasn’t coded. And it wasn’t Susan’s handwriting. As he read the words, a shock jolted his core. He looked at Boar. His bad eye appeared as if its socket was filled with smoke. “You did this.”

  Boar scowled “Go to hell, Yank.”

  Anger flared. Ollie dropped the message, then stood and grabbed the lieutenant’s collar.

  Boar leapt to his feet, toppling his chair.

  “No!” Madeleine screamed.

  Ollie cocked back his arm and heard a click, then felt something hard against his torso. He looked down to see the lieutenant’s pistol.

  “The bird wouldn’t let me get close.” Boar pressed his weapon into Ollie’s chest. “Madeleine caught it.”

  Ollie lowered his arm and slid his hand behind his back to grip the Nazi’s pistol tucked against his belt.

  “Enough!” Madeleine wedged herself between them, like a boxing referee breaking up a fight.

  Boar lowered his pistol.

  Madeleine, with watery eyes, looked at Ollie. “I returned from the village to find the flight lieutenant trying to catch Duchess. She wouldn’t go near him.” Gently, she placed her hands on Ollie’s shoulders. “She came to me.”

  Ollie’s body went numb. He picked up the message. Unable to read it again, he slid the paper into his pocket. In a fog of disbelief, he left the cottage and walked into the freezing rain.

  CHAPTER 45

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  The earth quaked, knocking one of Bertie’s smoking pipes off the mantel. Susan, desensitized from the nightly bombings, picked up the pipe, dusted it against her skirt, and returned it to its proper place. Then she kneeled beside Bertie, slumped in his chair. She picked up a washcloth from a small ceramic water basin and wiped his face.

  Bertie opened his languid eyes.

  “You must drink something,” she said.

  “Later,” Bertie said.

  As she moistened the cloth in the basin, a concussive detonation shook the cottage. Bits of plaster dropped from the ceiling.

  Bertie coughed phlegm from his lungs. “I want you to sleep in the bomb shelter.”

  Susan noticed the rattle in Bertie’s chest. Despite the sulfa pills, eucalyptus oil, Dr. Collins’s daily visits, and hours of sitting over a steaming bowl of hot water with a towel draped over his head, her grandfather’s condition was worsening. As days passed and his congestion thickened, she disguised her fear with a fa-çade of optimism, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice. “No,” she said, placing the cloth on his forehead. “We agreed we’d never go back there.”

  “It’s getting worse,” he said.

  Susan thought of the bombings. The Luftwaffe had attacked Britain each night for well over a month, but she’d stopped counting. London was crumbling. People were dying. And the enemy was showing no sign of letting up. In fact, the attacks had only escalated, in both frequency and intensity, as if the Luftwaffe had limitless numbers of planes and explosives. They kept coming. Every night. The bombs bigger. The destruction greater. She had stopped reading the newspaper, dreading the reports of fatalities, many of whom were civilians. She also made it a point to step outside when Bertie listened to the daily radio broadcast. The words over the airways were depressing, speaking often of war atrocities and reminding her that Ollie was stuck in the midst of Nazi occupation. Hitler would likely bomb Britain into submission by spring. Life, as she knew it, would be changed forever. “I won’t allow them to make us sleep in holes.”

  Bertie removed the washcloth from his head and dropped it into the basin. “I want you to go to Northampton,” he said, taking her hand.

  His weak grip caused a lump to form in Susan’s throat.

  “I’ve always been proud of you,” he said. “I can’t imagine a better granddaughter.”

  Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Source Columba needs you, my dear. You’re of greater help to Britain by training pigeons than caring for an old man with a wee cold.”

  “I
’m not leaving you.”

  “I’m not asking you, Susan.” He looked at her, his eyelids swollen with fever. “I’m telling you.”

  Susan felt his fingers relax. She watched his frail hand, covered with dark, bulbous veins, drop to his lap.

  He coughed and pulled his blanket to his chest. “You got your stubbornness from me, I’m afraid.”

  Discreetly, she wiped her eyes. He’d brought up the subject of her going to Northampton more than once over the past two days. And knowing Bertie, he’d continue his endeavor to keep her safe. But how could she leave him? Who would care for him? Although she’d sent word with Duchess to inform Ollie about Northampton, she wasn’t ready to leave. This was her home. Her grandfather. Her pigeons. Deep down, she knew she’d have to go. But not today. Or tomorrow. The most she could do, at least for the moment, was to delay the inevitable.

  Susan retrieved the washcloth, squeezed out the excess water, and returned it to Bertie’s forehead, noticing that his skin was hot to the touch. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go to Northampton, when you’ve recovered.”

  She had expected him to argue. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Have I told you the story about how your parents met?”

  Susan smiled. “Yes,” she said, “but I’m fond of how you tell it.”

  Amid coughs, sniffles, and the muted scent of eucalyptus, Susan listened to a much-shortened version of Bertie’s story. She’d heard the tale perhaps a hundred times, but tonight was different. His words were precious to her, as she realized that the times she would hear his beautiful stories were numbered.

  CHAPTER 46

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan looked at Bertie, asleep in his chair. A candle, burned to a nub, flickered a dull amber glow over the room. His chest rose, then fell. She exhaled. Refusing to leave his side, she’d spent the night on the sofa rather than her bed. After an evening during which he coughed frightfully, she was glad he was finally able to rest. And she hoped that the worst of tonight’s bombardment was over.