The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

  Ollie felt a large bump as the wagon rolled over a hole. He closed his eyes and listened to plodding hooves. Several minutes later, he was startled when the lieutenant spoke.

  “My father’s army had good aim,” Boar muttered.

  Ollie shifted. “What?”

  “I understand a little German,” Boar whispered. “Keep quiet, Yank.”

  Ollie thought of Lucien. He imagined that the monk’s mask, no doubt hiding war wounds, was the target of the soldier’s comments. But over the next several hours, as they successfully navigated through two more roadblocks, he questioned if it was more than just the man’s mask that was helping them pass. Each time they were forced to stop, Ollie heard German voices. A pause. Then a jerk, as the mules plodded on. Only once did he hear a soldier inspecting the bed of the wagon. And from what sounded like a metal rod hitting wood, Ollie suspected the soldier had merely tapped the outside of the wagon with his rifle, rather than get his weapon, or his boots, covered in excrement.

  After traveling for what Ollie believed to be most of the day, the wagon stopped. Instead of German commands, he heard Lucien climb into the back of the wagon. The panel popped open. Ollie rubbed his eyes, though the sun had already set, and crawled from his crevice. Although his shoulder had partially healed, it still ached. He suspected his ankle would also begin to hurt once circulation returned to his legs.

  Ollie stepped down from the wagon and almost fell. His legs were wonky, as if numbed with procaine. He rubbed his thighs, trying to expedite the flow of blood, and noticed a large three-story stone building, which he presumed to be a monastery. To the rear, a small cemetery with crooked tombstones. Ollie, with nerves tingling in his legs, followed Lucien and Boar to the monastery.

  Lucien approached the entrance, a large arched door of ancient boards, held together with bands of rusted iron. He knocked, then glanced toward the road.

  Ollie turned. Bordering the road, a dusk sky outlined a row of trees, their branches bare of leaves. He noticed movement. A gust of wind carrying a putrid scent of decomposition, far more revolting than the smell of manure and rotted potatoes, brought his eyes into focus. Two men and a woman, their bodies bloated and mutilated, hung from the branches of a large oak. Nooses taut. Necks snapped.

  “Oh no,” Ollie whispered.

  A breeze caused the bodies to sway. The branches creaked.

  Boar turned to Lucien. “Resistance?”

  Lucien nodded. As he prepared to knock again, a metal slat in the center of the door slid open.

  A spectacled man peered through the peephole. Ollie assumed the man recognized Lucien, no doubt by his copper mask, because the slat abruptly shut. A second later, the bolt clicked, and the door swung open.

  A monk, dressed similarly to Lucien, although he was much older judging from his gray hair and wrinkled face, led them inside and bolted the door. Without speaking, they followed the monk down narrow stone stairs barely wide enough to fit Boar’s broad shoulders. Once in the basement, the monk lit a lantern using the candle he was carrying. The room, which was probably once a root cellar, was empty, except for a pile of barren burlap sacks.

  The monk glanced at Lucien, then quickly ascended the stairs.

  Lucien took out his piece of slate and chalked a drawing.

  “You need to tend to the mules?” Ollie asked.

  Lucien nodded. He tucked away his slate and left.

  Boar picked up the lantern, scanned the cellar, and walked to the far end of the room.

  They had barely spoken all day. But that suited Ollie. And judging by the way Boar had selected a spot in the opposite corner, he suspected the man had no desire to be near him as well. So Ollie layered pieces of burlap and sat down to rest.

  An hour later, Lucien returned, carrying a small baguette and a clay pitcher of water.

  Boar took the pitcher and gulped, then placed it on the floor.

  Ollie picked up the pitcher and drank, the water cold and laced with minerals. As he finished, he noticed that Lucien had broken the bread into thirds.

  “Where are we?” Boar asked.

  Lucien shook his head.

  “Best we don’t know?” Boar asked.

  Lucien nodded.

  “Fair enough.” Boar bit into his bread.

  As Ollie chewed his meal, he noticed that Lucien wasn’t eating. Instead, the monk placed his food into his pocket, then prepared a bed of leftover burlap. Ollie had expected that Lucien would sleep upstairs, but perhaps the swinging corpses, within a stone’s throw of the monastery, were a daily reminder of how the Nazis dealt with resistance fighters. It was probably safer, Ollie believed, for the inhabitants of this abbey to isolate themselves from Lucien as much as possible or require him to keep close tabs on the smuggled guests.

  Boar finished his bread, took a spot on the floor, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Lucien extinguished the lantern. The room turned black.

  Ollie curled up on the floor and tried to sleep, but as he lay on his side, the book containing Susan’s messages pressed against his ribs, resurrecting thoughts of what might have been. He spent the next few hours deliberating whether there was anything he could have done to change the course of events.

  Late in the evening, the scratch of a match caused Ollie to stir. He opened his eyes to see Lucien light the lantern, then quickly lower its wick to a dull glow. The monk pulled out his piece of bread, soaked it with water from the pitcher, and mushed it in his palm. Ollie thought it was rather late to be eating, not to mention that this was an odd way to prepare one’s food. As he was about to roll over, Lucien removed his mask, sending a shock through Ollie’s body.

  Lucien’s lower jaw was not merely disfigured, it was missing. Shot off. At the place where his mouth should have been was a gaping hole. No tongue. A few useless teeth dangled from his upper jaw.

  Ollie watched Lucien place a bit of bread into the hole, pick up the pitcher of water, and tilt back his head. Water gurgled into Lucien’s esophagus.

  Ollie knew, from the copper mask, that Lucien was hiding injuries from the Great War. Perhaps burns. A maimed face. But he had never expected that someone could live with such horrific injuries. And suddenly, he realized that Lucien was likely removing his mask at the roadblocks, using his mangled face as a distraction. He recalled the soldier’s comment at the roadblock. My father’s army had good aim. Anger burned in Ollie’s belly.

  Lucien inserted more bread paste. Wet burbles filled the cellar.

  He quietly rolled over to allow Lucien his privacy and noticed Boar was awake, staring, his brow contorted in disbelief.

  CHAPTER 49

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan placed her palm on Bertie’s forehead. The heat emanating from his skin caused her legs to weaken. I had a little bird, its name was Enza. She fumbled to open his medicine bottle, spilling sulfa pills on the floor.

  Bertie, too frail to cover his mouth, expelled a wet cough. His handkerchief, like a soiled doily, lay on the side table.

  I opened the window, and . . . Susan bit her lip, battling to mute the indelible chant inside her head. She scooped up the pills and placed one in his mouth. Her hand trembled as she lifted a glass of water to his lips.

  Bertie gagged. Water dribbled down his chin. On his second attempt, he swallowed the medicine.

  Susan stared at Bertie, too ill to sit up and confined to a makeshift bed on the sofa. She wished that more could be done. A miracle pill. Divine intervention. Something other than Dr. Collins’s daily visits to listen to Bertie’s chest. Each time Collins removed his stethoscope, he’d comment that the hospital beds were filled to capacity with trauma patients from London and that Bertie was better off at home to receive the individual care that he needed. The doctor’s intentions were good. But seeing Bertie’s declining state, she questioned his judgment. And she regretted that she hadn’t done more.

  “Soldiers?” Bertie whispered.

  Susan noticed the feebleness of his voice. “They p
acked up this afternoon.” She took a cloth and dipped it into a ceramic water basin. As she wiped his face, she recalled the soldiers loading up their tent and equipment, then driving away. They were assigned to another duty. And she wasn’t surprised. After all, there was nothing for them to do, considering the lofts were barren and a pigeon had not returned from France in over a week, including Duchess.

  “She’s not coming back, is she?” Susan asked, unable to control her thought.

  Bertie slid his hand from under his blanket.

  She squeezed his fingers. It had been nine days since Duchess had left. And Susan knew, from years of racing pigeons with Bertie, that a pigeon, more than a day or two unaccounted for, never returned.

  “Northampton,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she said. “The National Pigeon Service can wait.”

  He blinked, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. “I’m not getting better.”

  Susan’s skin turned cold.

  “Promise me you’ll go.” He paused to catch his breath, then licked his lips, crinkled and chapped.

  “First, we’re going to make you well.”

  He coughed, then feebly shook his head.

  Susan’s eyes watered. She caressed his arm, thin and fragile, like the branch of a willow.

  Bertie took in a labored breath. “Be an egg, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 50

  EPPING, ENGLAND

  Susan went to the phone and found that the lines were still dead, as they had been for the past three days. Through the curtains, the sun had set, turning the sky indigo. A fading glow of amber traced the horizon. The blackout had commenced. It was too late to venture outside, but she didn’t care. Bertie’s condition had worsened, and she decided to take matters into her own hands.

  “I’m going to prepare the lorry,” she said, grabbing her coat. “We’re going to St. Margaret’s.”

  Bertie cracked open his eyes. He tried to speak but produced a wheeze.

  As she buttoned her coat, the sirens sounded. The horrid howl sent chills up Susan’s spine. She ran outside, not bothering to close the door. Reaching the truck, she lowered the tailgate, knowing Bertie would be too infirm to sit in the cabin.

  The sirens roared. She glanced up to see searchlights crisscross the sky, then turned her attention to the truck. Her mind raced on how she’d make a bed in the back. Blankets? Cushions? Suddenly, she remembered the cots that were in the bomb shelter. As she turned, antiaircraft guns fired. She flinched and covered her ears.

  Booming guns shook the ground. She looked up. Flashes lit up the sky, revealing approaching Luftwaffe bombers. The metallic grind of German engines intensified. She swallowed, then ran toward the shelter.

  Shells exploded. Her eardrums pounded. She ran faster.

  Reaching the shelter, she threw open the door and shot inside. In the darkness, she tripped over something on the floor and fell, jamming her fingers into the ground. She rummaged over the dirt floor and found the wooden leg of a cot, last used months ago when the Luftwaffe began their nightly bombings. She dragged the cot outside and froze.

  * * *

  Fifteen thousand feet above Epping, a Luftwaffe pilot struggled to steady the yoke of his Heinkel bomber. Six months ago, he had completed his flight training at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base. A mere six minutes earlier, he had assumed the position of squadron leader after the lead bomber took a direct hit and exploded into pieces as they crossed the coastline.

  Rounds of explosions shook his plane. Shrapnel pelted the wings. A search beam shot through the cockpit glass. Cold sweat clung to his forehead. The pilot, frightened and confused, either believed that the antiaircraft guns were coming from London or he was anxious to drop his bombs and flee. Regardless, he gave the order. Bombs fell from his plane. The rest of the squadron released their payloads. Twenty-two tons of explosives plunged toward the earth.

  * * *

  It was a sharp shrill above the menacing chorus of antiaircraft guns that compelled Susan to stop. Hundreds of screaming whistles. She’d heard them before, but always at a distance. The tone was different. Louder. Closer. Her body turned weak. Powerless, she dropped the cot and fell to her knees. In that fleeting moment, her mind flashed with thoughts of a future that would never be. She clasped her hands and prepared for the impact.

  CHAPTER 51

  ASCAIN, FRANCE

  Ollie awakened. He took in a deep breath, then exhaled and glanced around his sleeping cell. Silvery moonlight spilled through a crack in the curtains, illuminating bare plaster walls. A small wooden desk, void of any objects, sat in the corner. His feet dangled from the bottom of the small bed. The scent of ancient timbers and candle wax filled the air. Somewhere down the hall of the church dormitory, Boar and Lucien were sleeping. He closed his eyes and tried to rest, but a strange uneasiness stirred within him.

  They had traveled for two weeks and three days. By day, he and Boar hid, crammed like contortionists, behind the false wall of the wagon. At night, Lucien smuggled them, their bodies stiff and sore, into a monastery, church, or abbey. Most evenings, they slept in a barn or cellar. However, tonight was a rare occasion when Ollie had the luxury of a bed, as well as a room to himself. But despite having a warm place to sleep, he was restless. Perhaps it was the rumble of German patrols in the village or that he was about to embark on the last and most dangerous leg of the journey. But deep down, he knew the reason he couldn’t sleep. So he sat up, put on his boots, and crept from his room.

  Quietly, he walked down the darkened hall, careful not to disturb the clergy tucked away in their sleeping cells. He stopped when he reached the glimmer of the cloister hall connecting the dormitory to the church sanctuary. A medieval ceiling arched high above his head; a wall of stained-glass windows glowed with luminescence. He sat on the stone floor and stared at the glass mural encrusted with red, green, gold, and purple glass. It depicted the scene of a garden paradise. He supposed the angelic figures and lush garden served as a daily reminder for the priests and monks—a promise of paradise at the end of their earthly lives.

  “The world is falling apart.” Ollie’s voice resonated through the hall. “And you do nothing.”

  He stared at the angels, their eyes looking away, as if ignoring him or offended by his words. Lowering his head onto his knees, he ran his hands through his oily hair. He sat in the cloister for over an hour, hoping to receive a revelation. But nothing came. Returning to the dormitory, he found Lucien and Boar awake.

  “We’re leaving, Yank,” Boar said, standing outside his door. “Best to get started before sunrise.”

  Ollie retrieved his coat from his room and returned to the hallway. He stepped to Lucien, who was holding up his slate to show a chalked map. A jagged line depicted the mountain border between France and Spain. A winding band, which Ollie believed to be a river, was marked Bidasoa. There were two dots: Ascain, the village of their current location; and Ergoien, Spain, where Lucien had presumably arranged to hide them in another church until they could be smuggled to a British consulate or, in Ollie’s case, a United States embassy. Ollie nodded, letting the monk know that he understood.

  “You’ve done well, Lucien,” Boar said.

  Eyes blinked behind the copper mask. Lucien erased the chalk with his sleeve, then tucked his slate inside his cloak.

  As they left, Ollie noticed that the church remained silent. When they had arrived yesterday evening, the monks, although willing to harbor them, had scattered like mice. He envisioned the clergy creeping from their rooms and going about their daily routine once they left. Best to pretend that they hadn’t collaborated with Germany’s enemy.

  Outside, cold air stung Ollie’s face. He blew on his hands and glanced at the unhitched wagon. The mules had done their duty and were now tucked inside a barn. From here, they’d walk. He looked to the south and saw a silhouette of mountain peaks, traced by a spattering of stars. The Pyrenees.

  As they crept from the village, Ollie
recalled their travel. Lucien had gone to great lengths to avoid roadblocks by traveling on back roads. But as their path took them closer to the coastline, the presence of German troops escalated, giving rise to the clack of tanks and the buzz of planes. They had maneuvered south, smuggled within Lucien’s Catholic network, going through Tours, Poitiers, Bordeaux, Dax, Anglet, and, most recently, the village of Ascain. And now the protection of the Church was gone. Ahead, a grueling seventeen-hour climb through the Pyrenees lay between them and freedom, assuming they could avoid Spanish patrols, which, according to Boar, would throw them in prison for illegally crossing the border.

  By the time they reached the base of the mountain, the air had turned damp. Thick clouds had moved in, blocking out the moon. They began their ascent by marching upward through thick pines. The scent of crushed needles beneath Ollie’s feet reminded him of Maine, giving him a brief surge in energy. They continued their climb into a dense fog. Lucien, leading the way, disappeared and reappeared from the mist, as if he were an apparition.

  Two hours into the trek, it began to rain. The pines disappeared, leaving little protection from the wind. Wet gusts beat against Ollie’s face. Water seeped through his coat. He began to shiver. Heavy clumps of mud stuck to his boots. As the air thinned, he labored to lift his feet. He struggled to keep pace with Boar and Lucien. The weeks of being confined to the interior of a wagon, not to mention an ankle that hadn’t fully recovered, had taken their toll.

  “Pick it up, Yank,” Boar said, looking back.

  Ollie stopped and sucked in air, then continued his climb.

  Within minutes, the mountain turned to steep inclines. The once-wide path became narrow. His ankle began to swell, pressing against his boot. As daylight came, so did heavy rain. Huge drops stung his exposed skin. With no trees for protection, Lucien stopped under a rocky overhang and removed the pack he was carrying.