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Sharon turned and saw Bloggs’ smug face as all the pilots turned to gauge her reaction.

  She felt the weight of the bag.

  “Morning sickness or just down a pint?” Bloggs was encouraged by the reactions to his first comments.

  Sharon lifted the bag and considered throwing it in his face. She walked closer to the men. The woman in the canteen frowned from overtop of the heads of the men.

  Bloggs turned to one of the other pilots. “There’s a rumour that Churchill might have to put the war on hold because female pilots are complaining about flying when they have their time of the month.”

  Sharon smiled. “Here, Mr. Bloggs, this is for you.”

  The young woman in the canteen hid a smile behind her hand.

  Bloggs was silent. He kept his hands at his sides.

  “Don’t feel like a light lunch?” Sharon lifted the bag for all to see. “Because what’s in here is better than what you’re eating right now!”

  One of the pilots laughed. The others followed.

  “Oi! Sharon. There’s a priority delivery!” Walter ran things at Castle Bromwich, the Spitfire factory. His round face wore a smile as he waved a chit at Sharon.

  She set the bag on the table behind Bloggs, turned, and walked toward Walter.

  When she was close, Walter said, “Biggin Hill.”

  Her stomach lurched. She took the piece of paper.

  An hour later, she was turning on finals for her approach to Biggin Hill. An airfield surrounded by trees and green fields (including one that was red) of various shapes. The clouds had lifted to two thousand feet. Still, the sun could not penetrate the overcast.

  I wonder if I’ll see my father this time. She looked ahead and saw a red Very light flare as it hit the top of its arc.

  Sharon checked to see if the wheels were down. “Gear down.”

  She looked ahead. Another red Very light screamed up from the control tower.

  The peripheral vision in her left eye caught a speck of motion. She turned her head.

  A pair of Messerschmitt 109s streaked along the underbelly of the overcast sky. The green-grey Nazi single-engined fighters flew side by side. Their left wings dipped as they turned to attack her from behind.

  She glanced at the overcast. Damn! Not enough time for me to climb and disappear into the cloud!

  Sharon looked at the hangars below, then over her shoulder at the yellow-nosed enemy fighters.

  She opened the throttle gradually. No! Don’t retract the gear. They’ll know you’ve spotted them. The altimeter read two hundred feet.

  She looked in the mirror just above her head. The yellow nose and one wing of the lead Messerschmitt were visible.

  Sharon looked ahead. Almost there! The timing has to be perfect. She squeezed her shoulders together and crouched lower in front of the armour plating.

  She turned right, added throttle, and aimed for the gap between the grey curved roofs of a pair of Belfast hangars.

  Tracer bullets appeared on her left.

  There was a glimpse of upturned faces in the wide-open mouth of the first hangar door.

  The Spitfire had its right wing within ten feet of the ground as Sharon hauled the control stick over, was sucked into her seat by the violence of the maneuver, and passed between the concrete walls of the hangars.

  Sharon waited for the impact of German cannon shells. She passed beyond the hangars, over a stand of trees, and down, ’til she was ten feet over a pasture. A pair of startled calves darted for their mother.

  Sharon lifted up over another stand of trees and turned right, following a roadway and a stone wall. Then she turned right again. A glance above told her the sky was clear. Another told her there was no one in her mirror.

  She turned right and checked to make sure her wheels were down.

  Ahead, a green Very light flare streaked into the sky, reached the top of its arc, and dove down.

  A smudge of oily black smoke rose up beyond the hangars.

  She throttled back. In moments, the main wheels kissed the runway. She taxied on two wheels until she was close to a hangar and throttled back.

  The engine crackled at idle and she looked in the rear-view mirror to see if the yellow-nosed 109s were attacking.

  The sky was empty.

  When Sharon shut the engine down, she waited in the silence and looked at the faces of the men who came to examine her aircraft for damage. One man stood away from the Spitfire and circled. When he came to the right wing, he stopped and looked at Sharon. A frown spread lines across his forehead and created a V at the crown.

  Sharon undid her harness and slid back the canopy. She opened the door and stepped out onto the wing.

  “Lovely bit of flying, that,” someone said.

  She looked to her right. A fitter was pointing past her at the black smoke. “Jerry tried to follow you. Isn’t that right, O’Malley?”

  She stepped down onto the ground.

  Sharon leaned against the wing when her knees began to shake. She looked at the balding man with a barrel chest and mechanic’s arms.

  O’Malley said, “Leslie?”

  “My mother’s name was Leslie. She emigrated to Canada and died last year. I came over here to meet my father.” Sharon thought, This is not how I planned for us to meet.

  The V in O’Malley’s forehead deepened. His face turned red.

  Sharon looked around her. The other men had turned their backs and were beginning to walk away.

  “You almost got yourself killed!” O’Malley’s voice echoed off the wall of the hangar and bounced back at them. “Have you ever seen a body after a crash like that?”

  Why is he yelling? “Of course I haven’t, you asshole!”

  O’Malley moved in so close that his nose almost touched hers. His voice was nearly a whisper. “I may indeed be an asshole, but I’m also your father! Do you think I didn’t know about you? I’ve heard rumours of you for years. I even got a letter from your mother before she died. Now I almost get to see you killed before my eyes because you aren’t watching out for the bloody Nazis. Those bastards have become damn good at shooting down anyone who isn’t paying attention! They’re professionals, you know!”

  Sharon’s voice shook. “Well, I guess that makes me better than that Nazi professional, doesn’t it?” She pointed in the direction of the crashed fighter.

  “Come with me.” O’Malley grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her around behind the hangar, toward the black smoke rising from the wreck of the Messerschmitt.

  “What are you doing?” Sharon asked, even though she knew exactly what he was about to do. It looked like there were fewer than a hundred yards between them and the crash site.

  “We’re at war. There is a reality to war that you need to see.”

  “Oi!”

  O’Malley stopped and turned.

  An officer approached. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and a white turtleneck sweater. “What’s so important that I had to interrupt a bloody good card game?”

  There was a stink in the air. It wasn’t just gasoline. The last time I smelled that, I was at a ranch where they were branding cattle, Sharon thought.

  “This young woman outfoxed that poor bastard over there,” O’Malley said.

  “I’m not blind, O’Malley. The men back there say she’s your daughter! This is not the way to show her what war is like. She won’t thank you for it. Besides,” he motioned in the direction of the crash, “it smells worse than it looks by now.” The officer adjusted his sunglasses. “That was a lovely bit of flying, by the way. Used Jerry’s speed against him. Think I might try that one sometime, given the right circumstances.”

  Sharon pulled her arm away from her father’s grip. “Be my guest.”

  “Squadron Leader Malan, meet my daughter,” O’Malley said.

  “Sharon Lacey.” She offered her hand. “I’ve already learned your ten commandments.”

  Malan stared at her then took her hand. “I bet you have. Understand one thing. T
hose bastards won’t hesitate if they get the chance to shoot you down.” He looked at Patrick. “O’Malley?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going to take a pair of our new pilots up for some practice. Both are green as grass. Get me three Spits ready.” Malan turned and walked toward the dispersal hut.

  O’Malley turned to Sharon. “Will you come and see me again?”

  Sharon nodded. “Where will I find you next time I’m in the neighbourhood?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “So you swore at him?” Linda chewed while holding her free hand in front of her face. In the other, she held a greasy page of newsprint and the demolished remnants of her fish and chips. “Must be some quaint Canadian custom you’ve yet to explain to me.”

  Sharon began to say something; instead, she contemplated the wallpaper.

  “Nothing to say?” Linda licked the fingers of her right hand. “I mean, you wait more than a year to meet someone, then get into an argument. I should have thought you would have prepared lots of other clever things to say.”

  Sometimes, your British sense of humour escapes me, she thought. “There’s more to it than that, actually.”

  Linda leaned back in her chair. She sat across from Sharon in the living room of her Aunt Rose’s cottage, located within walking distance of White Waltham. The same Aunt Rose who had gone to visit with her daughter’s family while her son-in-law was off at sea. “I’m waiting.”

  “He was angry with me for not keeping my eyes open. The problem was my being preoccupied with what to say should I meet my father. So in a way, it was his fault I didn’t spot the Messerschmitt 109s right away.” Sharon remembered how red her father’s face had gotten when she swore at him.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t spot the Messerschmitts right away?” Linda rolled the newspaper into a ball and looked for a place to toss it.

  “A pair of Messerschmitts were hanging around the airfield, and they turned to get on my tail while I was landing.”

  Linda leaned forward in her chair. The newspaper dropped on the floor. “What?”

  “Two Messerschmitts. Both had yellow noses.” How did I remember that?

  “How did you get away from them?” Linda was all ears now. There wasn’t a hint of irony in her voice.

  “I flew in between a pair of hangars just as the first one opened fire.” Sharon remembered the panic, elation, and a remarkable clarity of thought that came with engaging the enemy fighters.

  “And?”

  “I circled around and landed.” Sharon looked out the window, where day turned to dusk.

  Linda shook her head. “And Jerry just let you go on your merry way?”

  “By that time, the remaining 109 had run off.”

  “Remaining 109?”

  “The one on my tail crashed. The wingman left after that.” Sharon remembered the smell of burning flesh. The stink of Linda’s greasy fish and chips caught at the back of her throat.

  “You caused him to crash?”

  “That’s right. I turned. He tried to follow and he either went into a high-speed stall or clipped one of the hangar roofs. I’m not sure which.”

  “You outfoxed the Luftwaffe.”

  “Well, not the entire German air force. Just one pilot.” Sharon swallowed as her mouth filled with saliva.

  CHAPTER 5

  “The longer we go with no news at all, the more I think my brother’s not coming home.” Linda had her white flight suit zipped up just under her chin. Her legs were crossed and her hands were stuffed into her pockets.

  Sharon stood next to the bench outside of the White Waltham dispersal hut. She tried to come up with a reply, but found herself unable to find the words.

  Linda looked up at her friend. “You’re still in a funk over that Jerry pilot, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Sharon sat down beside Linda and handed her a cup of coffee.

  “What are you upset about, exactly?” Linda held the cup out front with the little finger of her right hand pointing to the sky, where the first hint of sunrise brushed blue over black.

  I killed him. I smelled him burning in the wreckage.

  Linda crossed her right knee over her left and adopted a thinker’s pose. “Is it because what’s left of him would fit in a biscuit tin, or because he smelled a bit like fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s news?” She took a sip of tea and fluttered her eyelashes.

  Sharon felt her rage ignite. “How can you joke about this? I knew what I was doing. I knew he couldn’t follow me into a turn. I led him right into a trap! He’s dead, and it feels horrible to know I caused it!”

  Linda set her cup down on the bench beside her. She unzipped the top of her white coveralls, uncrossed her legs, exhaled, and leaned her back up against the rough wood of the wall. Linda looked up at the sky.

  “I know what you’re going to say!”

  Linda continued looking up. “What is that? It doesn’t sound like it has twin engines.”

  “That it was him or me!”

  Linda looked south, listening to the drone of an approaching aircraft.

  “Somehow, that doesn’t make it right! He’s dead and I’m alive. How is that right? Why are you ignoring me?”

  Linda watched the approaching aircraft turning toward the airfield. “Sounds like our ride has arrived. What is it?” She pointed. “Just so you know, I’m glad you’re alive. As for my tasteless sense of humour, I make no apologies.”

  Sharon squinted toward the southeast. The high-winged aircraft had its landing lights on. It was lit from beneath with the orange glow of a sun just beyond the horizon. “Lysander.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  Sharon looked again. “Yes.”

  “Let’s see if you’re right.” Linda sipped her coffee and crossed one ankle over the other.

  They watched the approaching aircraft, heard the pilot throttle back, and saw the flaps drop above the inverted U of its fixed undercarriage. The radial engine and dragonfly wings confirmed Sharon’s identification.

  After the Lysander landed and began to taxi toward the hangar, Linda said, “You’re absolutely right, of course. You have remarkable vision. It’s a good thing Jerry’s vision wasn’t as good as yours, because we might not be having this conversation if it was.” She put her coffee down, stood, and walked toward the hangar.

  Sharon followed. She watched the Lysander’s propeller slow, stutter, and stop. Why is the aircraft painted black?

  A silver-on-black Bentley saloon car poked its long nose out from the far side of the hangar. It parked next to the Lysander.

  The morning light painted the scene in shadow. The pilot slid the forward canopy back. The rear canopy opened.

  The driver of the Bentley opened his door. “What made you decide to land here?”

  The pilot pulled off his flying helmet, revealing scarred, mottled skin on the left side of his face. “Tangmere is fogged in. In fact, the entire south coast is socked in. My orders were to proceed here as a secondary airfield.” He pointed his thumb at his passenger. “They want him in London right away. And White Waltham is close by.”

  The man in the rear cockpit stood up and lifted his legs over the side. He was dressed in a black coat and baggy black pants. Sharon thought, He looks like he’s from France.

  Linda gave a start.

  Sharon sensed Linda’s attention focusing on the passenger, who was sliding down the side of the Lysander to stand on the tarmac.

  The passenger door of the Bentley opened. “Come on, get your finger out! We haven’t got all day!”

  Linda stepped forward.

  The Frenchman approached the men in the car. He’s kind of handsomely familiar.

  “Michael!” Linda said.

  The Frenchman turned in her direction. He stood still as he recognized her.

  “You bastard!” Linda moved forward.

  Sharon heard a metallic click.

  Michael turned to face the beefy men standing next to the
Bentley. One of them stepped forward with his hand inside his coat. “For Christ’s sake, put that away!” Michael moved toward Linda. He was a head taller, with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes.

  She ran at him and struck him just under the ribs with her closed fist. “We thought you were dead! Why didn’t you send word?”

  Michael was a windless kite crumpling to the ground as his knees failed him.

  One of the bodyguards grabbed Linda’s arms and pulled her back. She promptly crushed his instep with her heel. He howled and released her.

  The other bodyguard reached for Linda. Sharon kicked him in the kneecap. He folded.

  “That’s quite enough, ladies.” Linda and Sharon looked at the pilot, who was leveling a revolver at them. The pilot kept his eyes on Linda while pointing the pistol at the bodyguards. “I take it you’re either a Nazi spy or a relative.”

  Michael managed to gasp out, “She’s my sister.”

  “Ah, siblings.” The pilot uncocked the revolver and slipped it back into its holster. “A family reunion, then.” He rubbed at a phantom left ear with the back of his hand. All that was left was scar tissue and a hole in the side of his head. “Who do I need to kill for a cup of coffee?”

  “I couldn’t send word. Not even to Father. The continent is a shambles.” Michael rubbed his belly as he stood.

  “I could use another cup of coffee,” Sharon said.

  “That’s your justification?” Linda asked.

  “You’re Canadian, then?” the pilot asked.

  “Look around you. Put it together, Linda! No one is supposed to know I’m alive,” Michael said.

  “That’s right, the prairies.” Sharon tried to follow two conversations at once.

  “Will you shut up? I’m talking to my brother!” Linda said to the pilot and Sharon before turning back to Michael. “You’re a spy? Then Father would have to know about it!”

  The pilot moved closer to Sharon. “They’re going to be a while, and I need you to show me where the coffee is. It’s all I’ve thought about since leaving France. By the way, my name is Richard.” He took Sharon by the elbow.

  “Just a moment, young lady,” one of the beefy men said. “You’ve assaulted representatives of His Majesty. You’re under arrest.”