Blackbirds (26 page)
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
. Y
our 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.
“What happened to you?”
“Let's get you out of there first and worry about explanations afterward.” He opened the canopy and helped her release her harness. In his haste to get her out, his hand brushed against her breast.
“Oi, I hardly know you.” Sharon began to giggle. “After a little slap and tickle, are we?”
“You must be going into shock. Come on! Stand up. I'll help you get down.” Michael steadied her with his hands. He guided her right foot outside the cockpit and down to where the wing strut and undercarriage met. When she went to step on the concrete apron, her right leg shook. He grabbed her under the armpits and set her on the ground.
My knees feel a little weak
. She looked down at her thigh and the bloody stain there.
“Let's get you to the infirmary,” Michael said.
Sharon stood up and shrugged him off. She limped toward the tower. “First things first. I need to pee.”
Sharon winced when the doctor tugged the syringe
out of her thigh.
“Give that a minute or two, then we'll stitch you up.” The doctor wore a white lab coat. He had very few hairs on his head, except those growing out of his nose, ears, and eyebrows.
“Were you in the last war, Doctor?” Michael stood near the door with his arms crossed over the front of a jacket stained with his blood.
A redheaded nurse of about twenty-five handed him a square of white gauze. “Hold this on the wound, and I'll get you cleaned up.”
The doctor said, “I spent three years in the Great War.”
Sharon looked at the doctor's weary eyes.
I think I'd prefer it if the
nurse stitched me up
.
“Don't worry, young man. I'll take good care of your girlfriend,” the doctor said.
Michael blushed.
I kinda like the sound of that
, Sharon thought.
The doctor washed his hands, dried them, then picked out a suture. “Ladies first.” He began to work on stitching Sharon's thigh.
The nurse asked, “How did you get the nick on the head?”
Michael said, “Sharon was avoiding a Messerschmitt. It attacked, and she turned us upside down. I was holding on for dear life, but not well enough to stop my head from banging against the frame of the cockpit.”
“What happened to the Messerschmitt?” The nurse held Michael's hand against the wound on his forehead with one hand and efficiently wiped the blood away from his face with the other.
Hey, get your hands off of him!
Sharon thought.
Michael looked at Sharon. “She flew him right into the ground. He blew up.”
Sharon felt a tug at her thigh. The lips of the wound were coming together.
“Should only take ten or eleven stitches,” the doctor said. “In case you're wondering.”
“That's all?” Sharon asked.
“I could do more, if you like. It looks like a piece of shrapnel ripped open your leg and the flight suit.” The doctor smiled. “The cut is long, but not too deep, fortunately.”
“No, it just seemed. . .” Sharon said.
“When you can't see how badly you're hurt, your mind can play tricks. By the looks of your clothes, you've been soaked in sweat.” The doctor straightened up. “You're done. Now it's time to repair your boyfriend.”
Sharon looked at Michael. “You need to phone Honey suckle.”
Michael frowned.
“Who's Honeysuckle?” the nurse asked.
“My mother,” Michael said.
“She's been very worried,” Sharon said.
“By all means, you must phone,” the doctor said. “There's one in the room just down the hallway.”
Michael shook his head.
“What the hell are we playing at, then?” Sharon asked.
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
“Perhaps we should leave and let you two sort things out,” the nurse said.
“Do what you like!” Sharon kept her focus on Michael. “Are we together or are we not?”
“We haven't really discussed that,” Michael said.
“We are discussing it now. So what is it? Are we or aren't we?” Sharon swung her feet onto the floor.
“We are. It's just that there are other people's lives at stake. There are rules I'm supposed to follow. People who I need to report to.”
“If I followed the rules, we wouldn't be here having this conversation. You'd still be in France.”
“You don't know what I know about the war. You don't know what information I have to pass on to my superiors.”
“Of course I don't, but you can still make a phone call to your mother to let her know you're safe.”
Michael looked exasperated. “Yes.”
Sharon limped to the door. “I'll make the call while you get stitched up.”
As she walked into the hallway, she heard the doctor say, “She's a bit of a handful.”
Michael said, “She's that, all right.”
“I hope you're not going to let her get away from you,” the doctor said.
“No. Definitely not.”
“Good man,” the doctor said.
Sharon smiled as she made her way down the hallway to the phone.
She sat down in the chair behind the desk and began to dial. Her hand was shaking. It took three tries. Finally, the phone was ringing at the other end.
“Hello?”
“Honeysuckle? It's me, Sharon.” Fatigue was a cup of warm milk filling her up.
“Are you all right?”
“I'm fine. Michael is here. He's fine as well.” Sharon closed her eyes.
“You sound tired,” Honeysuckle said.
“I am. I just wanted you to know that we're okay.” Sharon hung up.
After Michael was tended to, he found her there, snoring with her head cradled on her elbow, dead to the world.
[ JANUARY 1941 ]
“I've noticed that other people will talk
about the fact that you're an ace. Yet I've never heard you mention it.” Mother sat across from Sharon inside the White Waltham dispersal hut.
