Blackbirds Read online

  CHAPTER 27

  [ THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1940 ]

  Sharon lingered over a cup of coffee as she watched the aircraftsmen tucking in one of White Waltham’s Ansons for the night. Not much point in getting in a rush to go home since Linda and Sean left. And, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not ready to read another of my mother’s letters.

  “Lacey!” Sharon looked up.

  One of the pilots waved at her. “Mother is looking for you!”

  Sharon stood up and walked to the dispersal hut.

  “There you are!” Mother waved her over. He had a chit in his hand. His hair hung over his ears and back collar. He never seemed to have a day off and, as a result, didn’t have time to get his hair cut.

  I thought I was done for the day.

  “Someone’s got their wind up! You ever hear of Gibraltar Farm?” Mother asked.

  Sharon nodded. I wonder if Michael will be there.

  “They’ve got an urgent order for a replacement Lysander, and they specifically asked for you. I wrote the directions down.” He pointed at the back of the chit.

  Sharon took the paper and read the back. It told her where to pick up the Lysander. This time, it was just on the southwest side of London. “It’s very close.”

  “A car is on its way to pick you up. You’ll receive more directions when you reach the assembly hangar.” Mother pointed at Sharon’s coffee cup. “Have another one of those.”

  The driver of the black Austin arrived twenty minutes later. He never got out of the car, never said a word to her after asking, “Are you Sharon Lacey?” and never stopped until they reached the small airfield where the new Lysander sat outside of the open doors of the hangar. The sun was just at the horizon. It painted the surrounding trees in a variety of vibrant shades of green. Blackbirds skimmed the grass, then climbed for the higher branches of the trees.

  A mechanic sat and watched her from a chair set just inside the hangar door. He sipped from a cup as she carried her parachute, helmet, and bag over to the Lysander.

  “I was told you would have some instructions for me.” She turned to watch the Austin sedately fart away in a cloud of blue exhaust.

  The mechanic reached into the breast pocket of his coveralls and handed her an envelope. He put his tea down and walked over to the Lysander, where he leaned his shoulder up against the fuselage before crossing his arms and legs.

  This is bloody ridiculous. Closed-mouthed men hanging about, and nobody tells me a bloody thing! Sharon tore open the envelope and read the instructions: “Tangmere — land on the green Very light signal, and near its point of origin. Then taxi to the waiting petrol bowser.”

  She was airborne ten minutes later as dusk turned to night.

  In less than thirty minutes, a green Very light flare snaked its way up into the sky at Tangmere airfield. As instructed, she landed close to the flare’s point of origin.

  A torch waved its beam from side to side. It directed her to the petrol bowser parked next to a car.

  Sharon shut down, undid her harness, and climbed down the side of the aircraft.

  The driver of the truck pulled the fuel hose over to the Lysander. The nozzle clanked against the neck of the fuel tank. The scent of petrol filled the air as he began to top up the tanks.

  Someone touched Sharon’s elbow. She turned and saw the silhouette of a man who said, “Miss Lacey? Please come over to the car.”

  She followed him. His voice is familiar. She saw a white triangle of cloth reaching from his shoulder to his belly. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Hit a bomb crater when I landed this morning. Made a bloody mess of my kite and my shoulder.” He brought out a torch and shone it on the hood of the car. “There’s a map in the back seat. Bring it out, please.”

  Now I remember who it is. “How are you otherwise, Richard?” Sharon opened the back door of the car. The inside smelled of liniment and mint. She felt around and retrieved the map.

  “You have a very good memory. Open the map up, would you?” There was a no-nonsense tone to Richard’s voice.

  Sharon got a glimpse of his scarred face from the glare of the flashlight. When she saw the map, her nerves got the best of her and her back twitched. “It’s a map of France!”

  “Of course it is.” He pointed at the south. “And this is Morlaix. About one hundred and fifty miles southwest of here.”

  Sharon could feel his eyes on her, as if waiting for her to say what was on her mind. “You’re telling me I’m flying to France?”

  “Um.” Richard hesitated. “Actually, I’m asking you to consider flying to Morlaix, dropping off some cargo, and then returning with an agent.”

  “When?” Sharon asked.

  “Tonight. I was supposed to make the pickup, but the plan has to change. You see, with the Battle of Britain going on, and the shortage of experienced pilots, there really is no one else available, as far as I can see.”

  I’ll take that as a compliment. “Who is this agent?”

  “I believe you met him the night we met. He’s the brother of that friend of yours who knows how to defend herself. If memory serves correctly, so do you.” Richard kept his finger on the map. The lens of the torch remained focused there.

  Michael! “Is he all right?”

  “Frankly, we’re not sure. We received a report that the he was betrayed and the Nazis are hunting him down.”

  “Have you calculated the compass heading?” Sharon felt a combination of excitement and dread.

  “Yes.” He tapped the map with his forefinger. “You just follow this heading, then turn left down the Rivière de Morlaix until you find the viaduct. It’s like one series of arches built on top of another. Then you travel fourteen miles south of the arches. The landing site is there. There will be nine torches in a line — make sure it’s exactly nine — to indicate the field. You land and aim the Lizzie into wind. They will do the offloading and loading. You keep the engine running, and be ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Use full flap for a short field takeoff.”

  “What about using the landing light?”

  “That’s up to you. Just be very careful. The last time I was in the area, I think I saw a Messerschmitt 110 nosing about.”

  Sharon looked at the map, memorizing the shoreline and compass headings. “What altitude do you fly?”

  “I like to keep it at or below five hundred feet over the Channel. I’m not sure if the Germans have radar on the coast yet, but I don’t want to take the chance. Just make sure your altimeter is set properly, or you’ll end up in the drink.” Richard shut off the torch.

  “Anything else?” Sharon folded the map, tucked it in the pocket of her flight suit, and took the torch. “I might need this.”

  “Be sure you’re back before dawn. After sunrise, you’ll be a sitting duck for any Luftwaffe morning patrols over the Channel.”

  Sharon nodded. She turned toward the Lysander. The man doing the refueling wound the hose back into the petrol bowser.

  Richard walked over the rear cockpit and reached for the ladder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m coming along to show you the way.”

  “No, you’re not. If I don’t make it back, you’re going to tell Michael’s family and my brother, Sean, what happened.” She stood on one leg of the undercarriage.

  “How do I get in touch with them?” Richard asked.

  “Ask around Gibraltar Farm. You’ll figure it out. They live near Ilkley. The family name is Townsend.”

  Richard tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Got it. Townsend from Ilkley. Now, you make sure you use up the fuel in the auxiliary tank first. That way she flies better on the way home. That’s when you’ll have extra weight in the rear seat.”

  In fifteen minutes, Sharon was over the Channel and on course. The darkness wasn’t total, but it was close. She looked at the stars on her right side. She thought back to night flights over the Canadian prairies. The voice of her
mother’s boss came to her. You can find your way home by using the stars. Just pick your star or constellation. I like the Big and Little Dippers. Remember where the stars are located on the windscreen when you fly outbound and keep them there; I like to leave a thumbprint on the canopy as a guide. Keep the stars in the same place on the other side of the canopy on the return flight. That way, you keep your eyes on the sky where they should be, and not always on your instruments.

  Sharon cycled her eyes from the instruments to the stars and to the darkness, ever watchful for a subtle wavering shadow or the glow of exhaust indicating another aircraft.

  She checked her watch and looked down to her left. The island of Guernsey was a darker shade against the ocean. The luminescence of the waves against its shoreline framed the near side of the island. I wish I’d taken the time to stop at the bathroom.

  She made a mental calculation of the time it would take to make the next landfall and checked it against Richard’s numbers. She estimated thirty minutes, if she flew directly to Morlaix, which would make her on time for the rendezvous.

  Don’t think about Michael. Don’t think about what to say. Keep your eyes open, and keep your mind on the job. There will be time for talk after you land back at Tempsford. It’s eighty miles to the viaduct, then turn south.

  She made landfall twenty minutes later, and eight minutes after that, she spotted the double arches of the Viaduc de Morlaix. The viaduct’s distinctive outline passed beneath her as she cruised at five hundred feet and headed south.

  She estimated five minutes to the rendezvous and was thirty seconds off.

  A series of faint flashes made her turn right. She counted the light from the torches.

  Eight? No, there are nine. She throttled back, set the flaps, and began her circuit.

  Her eyes scanned the sky, looking for any evidence of other aircraft — any telltale blue or yellow from an engine exhaust. “Nothing.”

  She turned onto her final approach, checked her airspeed, and dropped over a stand of trees. The wheels skipped onto the pasture, with its line of torches marking the makeshift runway.

  Sharon backed off on the throttle, then applied the brakes.

  The Lysander was almost at a full stop. She opened the throttle, pushed the rudder, and swung the tail around to be ready for takeoff.

  Out of the dark, silhouettes appeared. They opened the hatch below and to her right. She felt the aircraft shiver. A pair of men ran back into the shadows carrying a box.

  She watched as a man was hoisted up the side of the fuselage. He slid the rear canopy open.

  Sharon felt the night air at the back of her neck. She heard the rear canopy slide shut. Someone pounded on the side of the fuselage.

  To her right, she saw a man on the ground. The torch illuminated his face. He smiled and held a thumb up in front of his face before backing away.

  Sharon opened the throttle. When enough speed built up, she pushed the stick forward and eased the Lysander off of the field and over the trees.

  She leveled off at five hundred feet and set a direct course for Tempsford. The viaduct was on her right now. Sharon checked the stars, found the constellation she’d been navigating by, and set it inside a windshield frame on her left side.

  Now take a look. She twisted around to see over her right shoulder. Through the narrow space between the auxiliary tank and the windscreen, she could see a pair of smiling eyes watching her. Outside of the cockpit, she caught a glimpse of something far more sinister.

  Lines of tracer bullets streamed toward them.

  Sharon instinctively shoved the stick hard over to the left.

  A pair of cannon shells smashed through the right side of the cockpit.

  She turned tighter to the left. She felt herself being dragged back down in the seat.

  The attacking aircraft flew overtop of them on the right side. There was a glimpse of blue-yellow exhaust, twin engines, and twin tails.

  “Messerschmitt 110!” she said.

  It climbed, coming around for a second attack run.

  Pain radiated from Sharon’s right thigh, just above her knee. She leveled out. You know what needs to be done. He’s faster than you, but he also thinks you’re easy prey. His blood is running hot. He wants this kill. Use it against him. Sharon eased the throttle back and lowered some flap.

  She looked at the airspeed indicator. Its glass cover was shattered, and the instrument’s arrows pointed uselessly toward her feet. Fly by feel.

  Sharon looked over her shoulder as the 110 turned and climbed. A predator rising into the black. Its passage marked by stars, which blinked off, then on.

  Let him think he has you dead to rights. She burned with the primal, protective instinct mothers feel when one of theirs is threatened. “You come after Michael and me, and I’m gonna kill you bastards!”

  Sharon put her hand on the throttle.

  The Messerschmitt leveled off, turned toward her and closed to within one hundred yards.

  Sharon added throttle, pushed the stick hard over to the right, and watched the 110 try to follow.

  He fired wildly. The tracers burned a falling arc through the sky she’d left a moment ago.

  The Lysander’s right wing pointed at the ground. She estimated her height as she swung the stick hard over to the left, always keeping in mind that she must get them closer to the Channel.

  She looked up and to her left. The 110 climbed, stall-turned, reversed direction, and dove on her. Sharon rolled the Lysander on its back, pulled back on the stick, and eased off the throttle.

  Darkness filled her sightline. She pulled out of the inverted vertical dive with the wind shrieking through the holes in the cockpit, then leveled out at what she estimated to be one hundred feet above the ground and added throttle. They’re too heavy to follow that manoeuvre when they’re this close to the ground. You’ve just killed two more men.

  She looked over her right shoulder as she turned.

  She caught the silhouette of the 110 pulling out of his dive.

  Sharon watched as the Messerschmitt appeared to level out at the bottom of a split S turn.

  The belly of the Nazi fighter was illuminated by a splash of sparks when it touched the ground. Then the Messerschmitt and its crew were transformed into heat and light.

  Sharon closed her eyes too late. The fireball blinded her. Her night vision was gone for the time being.

  She looked down at her compass. It had been shattered by the same hot metal that had struck her leg. The wind blew through the holes in the fuselage and made her eyes tear. She pulled her goggles down over her eyes.

  Sharon climbed to what she hoped was five hundred feet and headed in the direction of what she thought was the northeast. Give it a few minutes. Your night vision will return. You’ve got time now.

  She looked out the left window. Her constellation was there. She lined it up in the spot she’d chosen on the windscreen. That’ll get us home. She trimmed the Lysander for level flight.

  Sharon looked down. She saw the jagged effervescence of the French coastline and made a mental calculation of how far it was to the Isle of Guernsey.

  She felt a touch on her shoulder. Sharon turned to see Michael’s hand. The silhouette of his face was visible. She imagined him smiling encouragement.

  She caught a whiff of gasoline fumes from the auxiliary fuel tank behind her seat. There must be a hole in it. Thank you, Richard, for telling me to drain it first. She checked the instruments, which still functioned. Engine temperature and oil pressure were where they should be.

  Do something about your leg. Sharon reached for the map with her right hand, held it over the wound on her thigh, and pressed it tight. The pain made her jerk back in her seat. Her hand lifted. The wind blew the map back over her shoulder. Hold your hand right there on your leg! You can’t pass out now! You have no idea how much blood you’ve lost. She looked at her watch. Another twenty minutes to Guernsey, and at least that long to Tempsford. An hour. Hang on for an
hour.

  Sharon wiggled the toes in her right flight boot. My foot feels wet. The blood must be running down my leg.

  Michael kept his hand on her shoulder.

  Sharon breathed deeply. Calm. You’ve got to keep calm. She kept one hand on the leg wound. The other worked the controls.

  They passed Guernsey. She cocked her head to the right. Michael gave her another squeeze on the shoulder.

  Sharon began to shiver. Another half an hour. Plan ahead for the landing. Hold onto the wound.

  She flew the last thirty minutes with her teeth gritted while going through the landing preparations in her mind. Holding pressure on the wound. Holding on to the control stick with her left hand, even though her arm and hand were shaking with fatigue. Holding on because she needed to pee so badly, she could almost taste it.

  Half an hour later, Sharon saw blue where the horizon met the sky.

  By the time they reached the coast, she could make out a few landmarks, like the Isle of Wight.

  Tempsford was just a few miles inland. She looked down at her leg and saw a bloody stain on the coveralls under her hand.

  She lifted her right hand from the wound, wiped it across her chest, and used it to hold the controls while giving her left a rest. She began her landing checklist.

  Sharon spotted the airfield and began her approach. On finals, the green Very light streaked into the sky. She landed, using the rudder pedals to guide them toward the straight lines and right angles of the white control tower, a decidedly ugly structure.

  After stopping in front of the tower, she idled the engine until the temperature dropped, shut it down, and switched off.

  She looked to her left and right. No one’s about. She heard the canopy slide open behind her. She looked at the shattered remains of the aircraft’s instruments. There were holes in the windshield and others she hadn’t noticed in the skin of the fuselage.

  A bloody face appeared on the other side of the hole in the windscreen.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s me. Michael.” There was blood caked along his hairline and in his eyebrows. His cheeks were streaked with it. His shirt was stained with it.