Blackbirds

by Garry Ryan

  Everyone stood looking at her.

  “NOW! She’s being transported to the burn unit at East Grinstead! MOVE!”

  It was later, when she had time to think, that she decided she had her father to thank for the voice she’d found.

  By the time the ambulance pulled up next to the air taxi, the pilot was about to climb inside the aircraft.

  He turned.

  “There’s a slight change in plans. The three of us —” Sharon pointed at Linda on the stretcher “— are going to East Grinstead.”

  “Where’s your authorization?” the pilot asked.

  Sharon lifted the blanket covering a shivering Linda. The lower half of both legs were blackened and blistered.

  Sharon heard the pilot inhale. She knew he could smell the burned flesh. She took a breath and kept her voice low. “She’s going into shock, and the hospital at East Grinstead treats burns. You’re going to fly us there.”

  The pilot hesitated.

  “Otherwise, these men” — she pointed at the ambulance driver and his assistant — “are prepared to restrain you, then help me load up my friend. I’ll fly her to the hospital myself.” Sharon prayed that no one would contradict her.

  Linda moaned. The men unloaded the stretcher from the back of the ambulance and moved toward the Dragon Rapide.

  “All right. Get her on board.” The pilot turned, climbed onto the aircraft’s wing, and entered through the side door. Sharon followed and helped manoeuver Linda inside.

  The flight took too long. But then, five minutes would have been too long. It’s better than going by road, Sharon thought. Linda’s teeth were chattering by the time they were halfway there, and her body was shivering uncontrollably when they landed in a field near the hospital.

  After the engines shut down, Sharon said, “Thank you,” to the pilot who had radioed ahead to advise the hospital of their arrival. An ambulance was waiting, and the attendants helped her get a delirious Linda off the plane.

  The younger of the two attendants said, “I suppose someone put tannic acid on her burns.”

  “There’s no tannic acid on her burns! Just get her to the hospital,”

  Sharon said.

  The ride to the hospital was brief. A woman — who weighed more than two hundred pounds and wore a uniform that made her look like a nun — greeted them. “Women are not treated in this hospital!”

  Sharon jumped down out of the back of the ambulance. “She’s a pilot, she’s badly burned, she’s going into shock, and this is a hospital for burn victims!”

  “No bloody whelp of a Yank is going to tell me how to run my hospital!” The nurse’s entire face turned the colour of her rouged cheeks.

  “It’s okay, Margaret.” A man put his arm around the nurse’s shoulder.

  “But Lewis, she’s a girl,” Margaret said.

  Lewis turned Margaret around until they both faced Sharon. His head was turned to one side. A column of flesh connected his nose to his shoulder.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Sharon realized it was her.

  Lewis’ eyes smiled through a face being reconstructed after the fire. “How did you know to bring her here? Are we getting recommendations already?”

  Sharon said, “I listened to a Lysander pilot. He’d been burned, and he said this was the hospital to come to.”

  Lewis said, “She’s lucky. If you’d taken her anywhere else, they likely wouldn’t have known what to do. We can make one exception, can’t we, Margaret?”

  “Make it quick, before I change my mind.” Margaret looked around as if she expected someone in uniform to appear and contradict her.

  Linda and the stretcher were carried down the hall behind Margaret, who issued orders and seemed to be pointing in all directions at once.

  Sharon said, “By the way, I’m not a Yank. I’m a Canadian.”

  “Care for a walk?” Lewis asked.

  Sharon looked at her hands. They hadn’t stopped shaking since Linda was pulled from the wreck. She clasped them together, hoping to still them.

  “She’s a friend of yours?” Lewis asked.

  Sharon nodded.

  “You saw her burn?”

  “Yes,” Sharon said.

  “I still smell my own burning skin when I’m having a nightmare.”

  He’d said it with such frank honesty that Sharon looked closer at his new face. The smile seemed permanent, and she saw that he had one ear. She said, “Her legs. They’re black.”

  “That’s what happens. The good news is they use salt baths here instead of that God-awful tannic acid, and they know how to prevent infection. Are you going to hang about? It could take a day or two before the doctors have anything to tell you. Does your friend have anyone else who would want to know she’s here?”

  Sharon stopped and looked around her at the stark, antiseptic hallways. “Oh, Christ! I need a telephone!”

  “Come on, then.” Lewis turned and walked down a hallway to the open door of a small office. He poked his head inside. “Quick, nobody’s about. Make it fast, before Margaret shows up. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a stickler for regulations.” He closed the door. Sharon sat down and tried to think of what to say. She dialed the number.

  After five rings, Honeysuckle said, ”Hello.”

  “Honeysuckle, it’s Sharon.”

  “Oh, hello, dear.” Honeysuckle hesitated. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? What’s happened to Linda?”

  “She’s in East Grinstead at the Queen Victoria Hospital. She was burned in a crash. We just arrived, and the doctors are with her,” Sharon said.

  “How badly is she burned, Sharon?” Honeysuckle asked.

  She sounds so calm. “It’s her legs. I don’t how bad it is. All I know is that they treat burns here.”

  “When did the crash happen?” Honeysuckle asked.

  “This morning,” Sharon said.

  “This morning! It’s hardly midday. How did she get to a hospital so quickly?” Honeysuckle asked.

  “She was flown here. What do you need me to do for you?”

  Honeysuckle was quiet for a moment. “I have to make travel arrangements. Where did you say the hospital was?”

  “East Grinstead. South of London on the A22.”

  “I’ll leave shortly.” Honeysuckle hung up.

  CHAPTER 7

  [ AUGUST 1940 ]

  Mother looked tired when he said, “Things are really heating up. The Hun is on the move. This delivery is a priority.” He handed Sharon a chit. “We’re short of pilots. You must know by now, the reward for good work is more work.”

  Sharon smiled, took the chit, and sprinted to catch the Anson air taxi. The pilot had already started one engine. She opened the door as he started the second engine.

  “You’re late! Where to?” the pilot said.

  “Castle Bromwich.” She sat in the only empty seat.

  Spitfires were a priority, so she would be dropped off first.

  In a matter of fifteen minutes, she was strapped in and starting the Merlin engine.

  The fitter said, “This one’s even got oxygen! You could squeeze in some high-altitude flying while no one is watching.”

  The propeller began to turn. The engine caught and belched black exhaust past the open cockpit. She caught a whiff of it and opened the throttle. The propeller blew the smoke away.

  Sharon looked up at the cumulus clouds stacked between fifteen and twenty thousand feet. Maybe today I will ignore the one-thousand-foot maximum.

  After the Spitfire kissed the runway for the last time and the wheels were tucked into the wings, she strapped on the oxygen mask. She set a compass heading for Biggin Hill and began to climb.

  At ten thousand feet, she checked her course and made sure the oxygen was turned on. She leveled off at over twenty thousand feet, exhilarated by the climb. The aircraft felt nimble as she flew down a canyon between a pair of clouds. The canyon grew narrower and she squirted out the other side into clear air.r />
  Ahead, another cloud. She flew over the hills and down into the valleys atop the cumulus cloud. The cloud whispered past as she dipped into an opaque world and out again. A bit of rough air made the Spitfire bounce.

  A shadow flitted over a cloudy hill, then fell off the crest. Sharon felt her exhilaration shift to dread.

  She looked up. A twin-engine fighter was diving on her. She recognized a Messerschmitt Bf 110 with a lethal combination of machine guns and cannons in its nose. Sharon pushed the stick hard right and steep-turned the Spitfire onto one wing.

  The nose of the Nazi fighter sparkled as it opened fire. Tracer bullets streaked harmlessly by on Sharon’s left. She continued her turn and watched the 110 duck into the cloud and then reappear. It was turning toward her, attempting to get into position to open fire again.

  Sharon rolled the Spitfire onto its back and dove for a cloud. Inside the opaque middle of the grey, she was disoriented until the aircraft popped out the other side like a wet bar of soap.

  The sky was filled with green twin-engined bombers flashing in and out of the shadows of the clouds. The Perspex noses glittered with reflected light. The wings of the bombers had black crosses and swastikas marking their tails. Exhaust trails left their dark pathways in the sky.

  “Heinkels!” Sharon pushed the nose forward.

  The engine coughed.

  Sharon held her breath.

  She aimed for a narrow opening between the lead bomber and the next Heinkel in formation.

  The engine roared as fuel reentered the cylinders.

  There were a series of images, each with its own momentary clarity. The face of a pilot. The head of a gunner. The green and grey of a camouflaged wing. A black cross outlined with white. The white tails of tracer bullets.

  She ducked low into her seat, expecting the shock of a collision.

  “Whoa!” She passed safely through the formation of bombers.

  Sharon glanced in the rear-view mirror above her head. She saw the Messerschmitt Bf 110 burst out of the cloud. Its pilot opened fire.

  Tracer bullets reached out and passed over Sharon’s Spitfire.

  The 110 sliced the lead Heinkel in half. The bomber’s wings and nose flew on for a moment, carried forward by momentum and its propellers. Then the stricken wreck pulled itself into a vertical stall.

  The Messerschmitt, with one wing gone, promptly flipped onto its back and fell into another cloud.

  Sharon dove through a cloud and found herself in a sky with two columns of smoke, some floating debris, and the blossom of a single parachute.

  She continued the dive, changing direction every few seconds while maintaining a general heading toward Biggin Hill.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a careful inspection of the sky, she landed and taxied over to the hangars. She switched off and was enveloped in the sudden silence.

  Someone knocked on the Perspex. She saw the face of a mechanic on the other side and slid the canopy open.

  “Must be hot up there — you’re dripping.” He helped her with the harness and oxygen mask.

  Sharon took off her flying helmet and felt her hair. He’s right; I’m soaked with sweat.

  “Best be off and get yourself a cuppa,” he said.

  She stepped from the wing onto the ground.

  She looked around her. A pair of mechanics worked on the engine of a Spitfire in the shade of the hangar.

  Outside, a petrol bowser fueled another fighter.

  There was the sound of an approaching aircraft. Sharon shaded her eyes to watch a Spitfire on finals and saw the pilot guide his aircraft to a slick landing. “It’s like the battle never happened.”

  “What’s that?” the mechanic asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” Sharon walked away in search of a cup of coffee.

  She found one in a nearby tent and sat down outside in a chair. The sun caressed her face. She looked around to see if her father was nearby. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted to see him or not. Their last meeting had not ended well, and it wouldn’t be wise to tell him about her latest adventure.

  A pilot walked toward the tent, and a group of men gathered around a table about ten feet away.

  The approaching pilot said, “You boys missed an unbelievable bit of flying!”

  The other pilots looked up expectantly.

  “A lone Spit just broke up a formation of Heinkels! He dove out of a cloud with a Messerschmitt 110 on his tail. The Spitfire flew right between the two lead bombers, and the Messerschmitt opened fire. The Jerry pilot in the 110 mustn’t have been paying attention, because he flew right into the lead Heinkel. The rest of the bombers ended up in a bloody shambles. I fell into the middle of them all and managed to pick off two.”

  “Any idea who the other pilot was?” one of the sergeant pilots asked.

  “He landed just before me. Must be around here somewhere.” The pilot looked around. “Who just arrived?”

  The pilots all looked at Sharon.

  A pilot said, “That young girl over there, the one with the brown hair, she landed just before you did.”

  One of the pilots leaned forward in his chair. “Couldn’t have been her. The pilot must have landed somewhere else.”

  Sharon stood up and walked away. “Maybe the air taxi is here.” Couldn’t have been her! You arrogant pricks! She felt her body vibrate with anger.

  As she passed the mouth of a hangar, a voice said, “I hear the female pilots are getting four extra days off every month. It seems they’re unable to fly because of the curse.”

  Sharon turned and saw Bloggs in the shade next to the hangar. There were other men with him, smoking.

  One of them laughed.

  “What did you say?” Sharon walked toward them. You superior bastards!

  Two of the men laughed and prodded Bloggs. His face turned red.

  “I asked you a question!” Sharon stopped less than a yard from Bloggs.

  Bloggs took a step back.

  “Well?” Stop baiting him!

  He moved a bit to her right.

  Sharon’s hands made fists. “Having trouble dealing with a woman who’s not afraid of you?”

  Bloggs turned to the men, who were laughing at him. One held his arm up to point at Sharon, then dropped it limply to his side.

  “Hey, you lot!” the voice came from behind Sharon.

  The men stopped laughing and dropped their cigarettes.

  Sharon turned to face her father.

  “The war’s not waiting on you boys. We’ve got a new Spitfire that needs guns and ammunition. We’re short of aircraft after that shambles this morning!” Patrick had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his fists on his hips. “And you!” He pointed at Bloggs. “Is that any way to talk to a young lady?”

  Bloggs smirked. “She’s far from being a lady.”

  “You smarmy bastard, she’s my daughter!” Patrick cocked his arms, made fists and moved closer to Bloggs.

  Sharon had never felt a combination of pride at being her father’s daughter and fear that he was about to beat Bloggs to a bloody pulp.

  Mechanics appeared from inside the hangar to join the smokers. “Oi!”

  “What’s got your wind up?” a mechanic asked.

  Several of the men got in between Patrick and Bloggs.

  One said, “Sergeant Major! He’s just another posh bastard with a pair of wings!”

  Bloggs backed up a few steps, then retreated down the side of the hangar.

  The mechanics studied Sharon with renewed interest.

  “Should’ve known!” one said.

  “What’s that mean, Nigel?” Patrick asked.

  “I heard the pilots talkin’ over there.” Nigel pointed toward the canteen. “They said a pilot broke up a bomber formation, and at least two Jerries went down. They thought she couldn’t have done it, but if she’s your daughter, that would make it entirely possible.” Nigel pushed his shoulders back, waiting for Patrick to do his worst.

  Patrick turned
to Sharon. “You flew through a Nazi formation?”

  Sharon nodded.

  Patrick put his hand to his forehead. “Christ!”

  “It’s not like I went looking for trouble,” Sharon said.

  “But trouble sure has a way of finding you!” Patrick pointed at his men. “Get that new Spitfire fitted out. We’ll need it to be ready to go as soon as possible.”

  The crew wended its way into the hangar.

  “I’d better go and get a ride back to White Waltham,” Sharon said.

  “That might be a bit of a problem.” He walked alongside her.

  She breathed in the scent of him under the oil and the shaving cream.

  The pilot of the air taxi was asleep under the wing of the Anson.

  “Drunken bastard,” Patrick said.

  Sharon saw Roger on his back with an arm draped over his eyes. He was snoring. “Dad, can you give me a hand?”

  The word was out before she could think about it. It hung there for a minute.

  “Yes.” Patrick’s voice broke. He put his hand over his mouth and pretended to cough.

  They picked up the snoring Roger and hefted him in through the back door of the aircraft.

  Patrick said, “Christ, he smells like the backside of a pub. He landed about an hour ago. The landing was bloody awful. He stumbled out, started drinking from a flask, and passed out.”

  “Just another hazard of my present occupation,” Sharon said.

  Patrick laughed. “You’re not going to let him fly, are you?”

  “Hell no! Help me strap him into a seat, and I’ll fly us both back to White Waltham.” Sharon climbed inside the aircraft. It smelled of fabric, oil, sweat, and gin.

  She lifted Roger under the arms. Patrick grabbed him by the knees. They crammed him into his seat.

  Patrick tightened the harness. “Don’t want him getting up and moving about. Want me to get some rope?”

  “He’ll be fine, I think.” She turned to her father. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He took her hand. “The next time you’re here, there are things we need to talk about.”

  “What things?” Sharon asked.

  Patrick released her hand and squeezed his way down the fuselage, stepped out the door, and poked his head back in. “Next time.”