Blackbirds

by Garry Ryan

  “The Germans won’t have a chance if they ever run into those three.” Michael rolled his eyes as he glanced sideways at Sharon.

  She started to laugh. “They sometimes scare me more than the Nazis.”

  Michael’s laughter stopped. “Not if you’d seen what happened in Poland and France.”

  “You were there?” Sharon asked.

  Michael nodded. He was quiet until they reached the airfield and stopped next to a hangar. “Don’t worry about d’Erlanger. He’s a good chap.”

  “How do you know that I have a meeting with him later today?”

  “It’s my job to know.”

  Sharon saw a deep weariness in his eyes. She smiled. Maybe I can make him laugh. “It gets a little annoying at times.”

  He smiled. “Be careful.” Then he leaned over and kissed her. She closed her eyes at the unexpected pleasure of the moment. The rain tattled on the roof. An aircraft engine coughed and started up. She opened her eyes, smiled, eased out of the MG, and pulled her flight gear from behind the seat. The rain ran down the back of her neck and she dashed for the open mouth of the hangar.

  After she flew four more deliveries, the Anson brought Sharon and another pilot back to White Waltham at suppertime.

  In the mess, she found herself alone, sitting at a table, staring at a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread. She closed her eyes and saw Sean’s face. I wonder what he’s up to at the moment? Then she saw Michael’s face, and he was smiling at something she’d said.

  Sharon opened her eyes, touched her lips, then picked up her fork. She speared a piece of potato, blew the heat from it, then gingerly put it between her teeth.

  “May I join you?” A man of forty or so years stood across from her. He wore a blue ATA uniform with a pair of wings stitched above a breast pocket.

  Sharon put her hand in front of her mouth and chewed the hot potato. “Of course.” She reached for a glass of water to cool the potato’s heat.

  He sat down, folded his cap, and put it on the table. “Gerard d’Erlanger.”

  “Sharon Lacey.” She shook his hand. “Are you hungry?”

  “I ate before you arrived. You look famished. Mind if we chat while you eat?”

  “No, I don’t mind.” Sharon took a deep breath and waited.

  “Please, go ahead.” D’Erlanger looked around the room.

  Sharon scooped up a spoonful of stew and put it in her mouth. She heard the fresh quiet that had fallen over the mess and looked around. The usual clatter of dishes, cutlery, and conversation was hushed. Two tables away, a man and a woman looked at Sharon and talked behind their hands. “Well?”

  “We really should talk in an office.” He looked for a room they could use.

  “Just talk softly. Sound dies in this room.” Sharon tore off a crust of bread and dipped it in her stew.

  He leaned closer. “There are unconfirmed reports that you’re an ace. That you’ve shot down or caused more than five German aircraft to crash.”

  Sharon let the bread soak up some gravy. “That’s more or less correct.”

  “Well, is it more, or is it less? Since we’re talking about numbers, how many is it?”

  Sharon caught a whiff of d’Erlanger. He smelled of hair oil and pipe smoke. “Eight.”

  His eyebrows popped up, creating creases on his forehead. “Bombers or fighters?”

  “Five bombers and three fighters.” Why is he so curious about the numbers?

  “Any Messerschmitt 109s?”

  “Two.” Sharon closed her eyes when a flashback splattered the bloody remains of one pilot on the chin of her Spitfire. Nausea made her head spin. She pushed the bowl away from her.

  “Are you all right?”

  Sharon shrugged.

  “We have a bit of a problem, because you’ve just proved some very powerful people wrong. They thought that women were unsuited for flying fighters, let alone for aerial combat. These are the very people who have opposed having women in the ATA. They will not take kindly to having to eat their words, especially if they find out that the ATA ace is a woman.” D’Erlanger waited for a response.

  She looked at him. Why are we worrying about what people might think? Isn’t there a war going on? Aren’t the Nazis about to invade?

  “One option is to verify your successes and call the newspapers. The other is to hush it up.” He turned his hands palms up on the table.

  “You want me to make the decision?” I could really care less.

  “Well?”

  “I would like to keep flying.”

  “And?”

  And I’m no hero. Sharon took a long breath and looked at the wall. “I don’t like being a killer. Flying is what I like to do. The rest of what we are discussing is really rather ridiculous. After all, isn’t there a war on?”

  “Yes, of course there is. The problem is, I have to deal with the politics and the organization, as well as meeting the needs of the ATA and the RAF.”

  Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? “Do I get to keep flying?”

  “What kind of ridiculous question is that? Of course you will continue flying. We need pilots, and you’re damned good at what you do!”

  Sharon could hear the shifting of pilots at the other tables. They’d overheard the last comment. “So I didn’t break any rules?”

  D’Erlanger smiled. “Of course you broke some rules. All of the rules that needed to be broken, anyway.”

  “I’m being difficult, aren’t I?”

  “A little. And I’m being a bit of a Colonel Blimp.”

  Sharon laughed.

  D’Erlanger smiled. “We’ll meet again after this is over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The battle. We’re in the middle of it. The Luftwaffe will throw everything it has at us now.”

  “Oh, that battle.” Sharon tried to smile but failed.

  CHAPTER 21

  [ MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 1940 ]

  “Did you hear the news? Manston has closed down. Too much damage to the airfield and buildings. It’s no wonder. It’s so close to the coast that the Luftwaffe hit them with very little warning. London was bombed. So the RAF bombed Berlin last night.” Mother sipped a cup of tea as Sharon wrapped her fingers around her coffee.

  “So d’Erlanger was right. The Luftwaffe is throwing everything it has at us.” Sharon looked at the chit in her hand.

  “Do you really want to go back there?”

  “I have to go sometime.” Sharon folded the chit and stuffed it into the breast pocket of her blouse. She looked toward the runway, where the air taxi — a twin-engined biplane — elegantly touched down. Sharon leaned away from the wall. “My ride is here.”

  “See you when you get back.”

  An hour later, she was strapped into the cockpit of a Spitfire at Castle Bromwich. It smelled of fresh paint. I love that new airplane smell. Sharon leaned to the right and poked her head out of the open cockpit. “Clear!”

  The aircraftsman gave her the thumbs up.

  The propeller turned over and black smoke puffed out of the exhausts. The engine crackled to life.

  After she took off and the wheels were tucked into the wings, Sharon scanned the sky. I used to love this part — now I keep waiting for the Luftwaffe to pounce.

  The clouds above her gave the ground a mottled look as the fields were alternatively glittering and cast into shadow.

  Sharon landed at Biggin Hill at 10:45 that morning.

  She looked for William, but did not see him. She shut down and climbed off the wing as fighters took off. The air raid siren wailed.

  The first wave of bombers appeared.

  A big gun opened up on the other side of the field.

  There was a nearby slit trench in front of a pair of anti-aircraft guns. Sharon ran to it and jumped in.

  “Christ!”

  She’d landed on a mechanic. “Sorry.” Sharon rolled off the man.

  “Oi, Freddy, it’s O’Malley’s daughter!”

/>   Freddy sat up and stared at Sharon. “You’re right, Bill.” He held out his hand.

  Sharon took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

  The first bomb exploded. The ground shook. The nearby antiaircraft guns opened up.

  Sharon peeked over the rim of the trench. At the nearest gun, two people sat at the back of the Bofors. A man loaded rounds. On one side, a tiny woman wearing a too-large helmet pressed a pedal to fire the anti-aircraft shells. Two other men worked furiously bringing ammunition.

  Sharon watched the way the woman concentrated, aimed, stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth, and fired.

  One of the men slapped her on the helmet. “We got another one of the bastards, Annie!”

  The blow almost knocked Annie off her perch; she weighed perhaps one hundred pounds. Annie pressed the pedal, stuck out her tongue, and fired again.

  Sharon looked up. A Junkers 88 trailed smoke and turned for home as it jettisoned its bombs.

  Thirty minutes later, Sharon met Annie at the canteen. She was eating a sandwich and sipping a cup of tea while the men of her crew talked excitedly and received congratulations.

  Sharon sat down at the next table and sipped her coffee. “Nice shooting, Annie.”

  Annie pushed back an unruly lock of blonde hair and focused on Sharon. “Thank you, Canada.” Then her blue eyes widened. “It’s you! The ace!”

  Conversation stopped.

  “Look boys, it’s the Lady Ace.” Annie smiled at Sharon. “What’s your name?”

  “Sharon.” She looked around for an escape.

  “William showed us your Spitfire after the Luftwaffe gave us a pasting. How did you manage to get that wreck home?” Annie turned to face Sharon to take the measure of her.

  The men went back to planning how they were going to bag their next Hun.

  Annie grabbed her sandwich and tea. She came to sit next to Sharon.

  “Where did you learn to shoot?” Sharon asked.

  “Oh, training. You know, I was always good at that sort of thing. Throwing rocks. Slingshots. Never fired a gun before sitting on the Bofors, but I usually hit what I’m aiming at.” Annie took a bite of sandwich. “You learned to fly in Canada?”

  Sharon nodded. “A friend of the family taught me, and when I came over here, I heard the ATA was looking for pilots.”

  Laughter from the next table temporarily filled the tent.

  “They’re pretty full of themselves today.” Annie finished off her sandwich. “God, I hope the war will be over soon. I’m sick and tired of bully beef and mutton.”

  “It is decidedly disgusting.” Sharon looked at her sandwich, pulled off a bit of crust, and put it in her mouth. “Beef never tasted like this where I come from.”

  “What brought you to England?”

  “Family.” Sharon washed the bread down with coffee. “How did you come to be a gunner?”

  Annie reached into her bag, rummaged inside, and pulled out her lipstick. She lifted a round mirror our of her side pocket and applied a bright shade of red. “My daughter, Linda. She’s just three. You know, I thought I’d do my bit so that she’d be safe from Hitler and his gang. How about you, love? Who are you taking care of?”

  “Sean, my brother.” I hope he got the letters I wrote last week.

  “O’Malley’s son?” Annie touched Sharon’s forearm.

  Sharon nodded. She felt her eyes filling with tears.

  “Bloody war plays hell with families.”

  CHAPTER 22

  [ THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 1940 ]

  Sharon felt absolutely knackered as she sagged into the wing-backed chair that took up much of the sitting room. She loosened the towel wrapped turban-like around her head and began rubbing her hair dry. She looked at the letters staring back at her from the ottoman. It was the same unnaturally hideous floral print she was sitting on. “I’d better get through these before I go to bed.” She opened Sean’s letter first.

  DEAR SHARON,

  HONEYSUCKLE SAYS I HAVE TO WRITE YOU A LETTER EVERY DAY. SAYS IT’S PART OF MY EDUCATION.

  LINDA SAYS I HAVE TO WRITE YOU EVERY DAY BECAUSE YOU’RE MY SISTER, AND WE NEED TO GET ACQUAINTED (I WAS A LITTLE FOGGY ON HOW TO SPELL THAT WORD, SO SHE SPELLED IT OUT FOR ME).

  LINDA SAYS YOU CAN’T GET UP HERE VERY OFTEN BECAUSE THERE IS A MAJOR BATTLE GOING ON. WELL? IS THERE A BATTLE GOING ON?

  THE BBC SAYS THE NAZIS ARE ATTACKING THE AIRFIELDS, AND THAT THE RAF IS SHOOTING DOWN LOADS OF JERRIES. HAVE YOU SHOT DOWN ANY MORE? I KNOW YOU PROMISED YOU’D STAY AWAY FROM THAT, BUT I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU HAD TO DEFEND YOURSELF WHEN A SWARM OF MESSERSCHMITTS ATTACKED YOU, AND YOU HAD NO OTHER CHOICE BUT TO FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE.

  LINDA AND HONEYSUCKLE ARE WORRIED ABOUT SOMETHING. THEY TELL ME NOTHING IS WRONG, BUT I CAN TELL. IT’S SOMETHING ABOUT MICHAEL, BECAUSE WHEN I ASK, THEY GET TEARS IN THEIR EYES.

  THIS IS MY FIRST LETTER, SO YOU SHOULD EXPECT ONE A DAY FROM NOW ON.

  YOURS TRULY,

  SEAN

  Sharon reached for the next letter. Let’s see what Mr. McGregor has to say.

  DEAR SHARON LACEY,

  THIS LETTER IS TO INFORM YOU THAT ALL RELEVANT DOCUMENTS HAVE ARRIVED AT THIS OFFICE.

  AT THIS MOMENT, THE PROCESS WILL BEGIN TO HAVE YOU DECLARED LESLIE LACEY’S LEGAL HEIR AND, THEREFORE, ENTITLED TO HER INHERITANCE.

  YOU WILL BE ADVISED OF FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS AS THEY OCCUR.

  YOURS SINCERELY,

  WALTER MCGREGOR, QC

  Sharon looked at the nightstand. Her mother’s letters lay there, still neatly tied with a ribbon — the letters Honeysuckle had given Sharon. She reached over and took the packet. She held them up to her nose, hoping to catch her mother’s scent. Nothing.

  She flipped through the letters until she got to the most recent one. She tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter, held it close to her nose, and inhaled. There was the faintest scent of her mother’s lavender perfume and the musty scent of smoke from her cigarettes.

  DEAR HONEYSUCKLE,

  I FEAR I AM ABOUT TO IMPOSE UPON OUR FRIENDSHIP ONCE AGAIN, AND, I BELIEVE, FOR THE LAST TIME.

  I HAVE WRITTEN OFTEN AND AT GREAT LENGTH ABOUT SHARON. BY NOW, YOU MUST FEEL AS IF YOU KNOW HER ALMOST AS WELL AS IF SHE WERE YOUR DAUGHTER.

  AFTER I AM DEAD, IT IS CLEAR TO ME THAT SHARON WILL TRAVEL TO ENGLAND TO VISIT MY FAMILY. SHE HAS ALSO EXPRESSED A DESIRE TO MEET HER FATHER. SHARON OFTEN SPOKE OF HER WISH THAT WE SHOULD VISIT ENGLAND BEFORE I BECAME ILL. SINCE THEN, SHE HAS NOT MENTIONED IT AGAIN. I AM CERTAIN THAT ONCE I AM GONE, THIS WISH WILL BRING HER TO ENGLAND, AND, I AM HOPING, TO YOUR DOORSTEP.

  AS YOU ARE AWARE, A MOTHER’S MAIN WORRY IS FOR THE SAFETY OF HER CHILD. WE BOTH KNOW ABOUT THE PROCLIVITIES OF MY BROTHER, MARMADUKE. PLEASE KEEP A CLOSE WATCH ON SHARON SHOULD SHE APPEAR AT THE ESTATE. I FEAR THAT MY BROTHER’S RUTHLESS NATURE WILL GET THE BETTER OF HIM SHOULD HE MEET HER AND DISCOVER WHO SHE IS. IT IS WITH THIS IN MIND THAT I’VE ENCOURAGED HER TO VISIT YOU AND YOUR FAMILY. MY DAUGHTER, I’M AFRAID, IS THE TYPE OF PERSON WHO WILL TRAVEL OVERSEAS DESPITE THE WORSENING SITUATION IN EUROPE.

  SHARON IS AN ACCOMPLISHED PILOT. YOU’VE OFTEN SPOKEN OF YOUR DAUGHTER, LINDA, AND HER PLANS TO BECOME AN AVIATRIX. PERHAPS THE PAIR OF THEM WILL FIND SOME COMMON GROUND AS A RESULT OF THIS SHARED INTEREST.

  HONEYSUCKLE, YOU HAVE BEEN A DEAR FRIEND DURING MY LIFETIME AND ESPECIALLY DURING THE PAST TWENTY YEARS SINCE I LEFT ENGLAND. OVER THAT TIME, I HAVE COME TO APPRECIATE YOUR KINDNESS AND YOUR STRENGTH. BESIDES LEAVING MY DAUGHTER BEHIND, MY OTHER GREAT REGRET IS THAT I WILL BE UNABLE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

  BE ADVISED THAT I HAVE MADE ARRANGEMENTS FOR A PACKAGE TO BE DELIVERED TO YOU.

  SINCERELY YOURS,

  LESLIE LACEY

  Sharon folded up the three letters, returned them to their envelopes, and set them on the ottoman.

  CHAPTER 23

  [ FRIDAY, AUGUST 30, 1940 ]

  “Sorry, Sharon, the commandant says no leaves are possible at this time.” Mother turned t
he side of his mouth up as he shrugged, as if to say, There’s nothing either of us can do.

  Sharon felt like she’d been shot in the gut. “Not even for a day? I need to see him.”

  “The commandant told me we can’t spare a pilot right now because we have to keep the squadrons supplied with aircraft. When the Luft–waffe stops attacking, then he can start handing out leaves.” Mother held his hands out front as if they could cool her anger.

  “Shit!”

  Mother handed her a chit. “A Hurricane for Coltishall.”

  “Where the hell is that?” Sharon grabbed the chit and walked away.

  Why are you so mad at him? It’s not like he’s handing out leaves.

  “Northeast of London. Close to Norwich,” Mother said.

  Sharon was still fuming when she collected the new Hurricane from the factory. Its two-hundred-mile-an-hour cruising speed made the trip to Norwich in thirty minutes.

  She only smiled after the fighter settled gently onto the grass.

  A mechanic waved at her as she taxied closer to the hangars. She guided the aircraft onto a concrete apron and shut it down.

  Sharon stepped out onto the wing and pulled off her flying helmet.

  “Oi!” the mechanic said. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a woman flying a Hurricane before.”

  Sharon glared at him.

  A horizontal crease appeared between his black eyebrows and his black close-cropped hair. “Honestly, I meant nothin’ by it.”

  Sharon stepped off the trailing edge of the wing. “Forget it. It’s me. I’m in a foul mood.”

  “Don’t see why you should be after a landing like that. Bloody smooth piece of work, that was.” The mechanic went to the tail and began to lift and push.