Two Blackbirds (3 page)

She checked controls, instruments, and gauges before waving the wheel chocks away.

Within five minutes, she was off the ground and heading south to a new airfield at Newchurch.

She climbed to seven thousand feet, skirted the west side of London, then headed south and east to the coast. As she approached the English Channel and could see the French coast in the distance, she looked down at the emerald and olive green farm fields spread out below.

Sharon looked ahead at the coast of occupied France and remembered her nocturnal flight to pick up Michael. She looked behind the trailing edge of the wing to her right and spotted the airfield. Sharon reached for the throttle.

She took a last look around and saw an aircraft below, headed in the opposite direction. Her fighting instincts kicked in. She dipped her right wing to get a better look at it. It was the shape of a bullet with stubby wings and an engine on its back.

“Shit!” Sharon rolled the Tempest onto its back. For a moment, she hung by her harness. The webbing bit into her shoulders. She pulled back on the stick and felt the familiar, nauseating effects of the g-forces. As the plane went into a near-vertical dive, the wind screamed past the bubble canopy.

Sharon checked the airspeed indicator and found herself doing four hundred and fifty miles per hour. She leveled out, and the g-forces sucked her back down into the seat. Through a momentary haze from the sharp pullout, she saw the flying bomb ahead. She caught a whiff of the jet engine's kerosene exhaust trail when she closed within one hundred yards.

She throttled back so as not to overshoot the green and grey craft. Edgar's words came back to her: “It might be easy to upset the flying bomb by getting a wingtip under one of its wings and flipping it over.”

From the rear, she got a close look at the glowing engine mounted atop the green fuselage and tail fin.

She worked the throttle and rudder to move the Tempest alongside the flying bomb. The Tempest's left wingtip tucked itself under the right wing of the unmanned craft. Sharon used the stick to lift the Tempest's left wing.

There was a thump. The stick momentarily fought her control. She brought the Tempest around in a steep turn. She twisted her neck and looked to the right. The flying bomb was nose down. It hit a field near a road. She caught the flash of the explosion and saw debris launched into the air. The Tempest bucked as it was bumped by the resulting concussion.

Sharon looked to her right and saw the Newchurch runway.
Oh,
shit. They've seen what just happened. Now there will be questions. I'm
sick of their damned questions about women! Like, “How can the fairer
sex manage to fly combat aircraft?”

She throttled back, checked for other aircraft, entered the circuit, did her landing checks, dropped the gear and flaps, then landed. Sharon taxied over to one of the blister hangars; it looked like someone had set a large food can on its side, dug one half into the ground, and parked aircraft inside.

In the fresh quiet following shutdown, Sharon checked to make sure the switches were off, undid her harness, climbed out, and jumped down off the trailing edge of the wing.

She took off her flying helmet, adjusted her ponytail, and looked east. A pair of fire tenders was pouring water onto a cottage. “Oh no!”

“Don't you worry. That flying bomb didn't hurt anyone. No one's moved into that cottage yet.”

Sharon looked at the man behind the voice. He wore a uniform jacket. His hands were stuffed into his pockets. “Gerard.” He pulled his right hand out and offered it to Sharon.

She took the hand. “Sharon.”

“I didn't hear any cannon fire. What exactly did you do to make that doodlebug crash?” Gerard asked.

“Is that what those things are called?”
He's talking to you pilot to
pilot. It's okay. Just answer the question.

“That's what
I
call them. Well, how did you do it?”

“A friend told me that it had to have some kind of internal gyro to keep it flying straight and level. He said that if I flew alongside and used my wingtip to flip its wing —” She used her hands to illustrate the maneuver. “— it would cause the doodlebug to crash. This Tempest has no ammunition, so I decided to try it.”

“It certainly appears to have worked. I'll have to give it a try; after all, we've been moved down here to intercept those bastards before they can reach London.” Gerard looked at the
NAAFI
wagon parked across the field at the dispersal hut. “Mind if I give you a lift? I was planning to get a cuppa.” He moved toward a Jeep parked nearby.

“How did you manage to get one of these?” Sharon admired the Jeep as she set her parachute and helmet behind the seat.

“That's a long story,” Gerard said. “Some very nice Americans lent it to me. I'll bet you didn't know that these things tip over easily.”

There was a popping sound. The flare of a white Very light left a smoky trail in the sky. It reached the top of its arc, then began to fall down. A pair of Tempests started up. Gerard waited as the pair took off in a roar that made conversation difficult. The fighters headed west.

“It appears that I'll have to drop you at the
NAAFI
van. Something's up. I need to check in.” Gerard started the Jeep.

Later, while she sipped coffee and waited for a ride in the air taxi, Sharon reached into her pocket and pulled out Honeysuckle's letter.

JUNE 7, 1944

DEAR LINDA AND SHARON,

THE DAYS HAVE BEEN GLORIOUS HERE. EVERYTHING IS ALIVE, RIPE, AND
GROWING AT AN INCREDIBLE PACE. THAT INCLUDES SEAN, OF COURSE, WHO
CONTINUES TO READ THE NEWSPAPER AND LISTEN TO THE RADIO FOR ANY
NEWS OF HIS BIG SISTER, AUNT, AND UNCLE. AS ALWAYS, THE HEROES HE HEARS
ABOUT ARE NOT THE THREE OF YOU. BY THE WAY, HIS HEALTHY APPETITE
HAS RESULTED IN HIS GROWING TALLER AND MY PUTTING ON A FEW EXTRA
POUNDS. I DON'T KNOW WHY I THINK I HAVE TO KEEP UP WITH HIM.

AT LEAST NOW WE KNOW WHY WE'VE HEARD AND SEEN SO LITTLE FROM
MICHAEL AND HARRY. THE INVASION IS ON, AND THE PAIR OF THEM MUST
BE IN THE THICK OF THE PLANNING. I HOPE THIS DREARY OLD WAR WILL BE
OVER BY CHRISTMAS.

I HEAR THAT CORNELIA IS WELL AND HAS BEEN SEEN OUT AND ABOUT.

IT WOULD BE GOOD IF BOTH OF YOU COULD MAKE A TRIP NORTH THIS MONTH
OR NEXT. SEAN HAS BEGUN TO SPEND TOO MUCH TIME ALONE. OF COURSE,
HE HELPS OUT WITH THE FARM, AND HE IS ALWAYS PLEASANT WITH ME.
THE REASON FOR HIS RETICENCE, I BELIEVE, IS THE APPROACHING FOURTH
ANNIVERSARY OF HIS PARENTS' DEATHS. I CANNOT PUT MY CONCERN INTO
WORDS EXACTLY, BUT I FEAR HE IS MORE TROUBLED BY THE APPROACH OF
THIS AUGUST EIGHTEENTH THAN ANY OF THE OTHERS.

AS ALWAYS, WE SEND OUR LOVE TO YOU.

SINCERELY,
HONEYSUCKLE

“How was the trip to Newcastle?”
Mother asked as Sharon entered the dusty dispersal hut at White Waltham. A fresh haircut made him look younger and less harried than he'd appeared during the delivery mayhem leading up to the invasion. He'd even had the barber trim the grey eyebrows that had grown into a thicket above his eyes. (Mother's real name was Mr. Green. His nickname was in recognition of the motherly concern he displayed for the pilots under his care.)

“Fine. You look younger, Mother.” Sharon looked around the room to see that they were alone. “Everyone's off on deliveries, I see.”

“Care to fill in the details about the flight to Newcastle? You see, I have a friend who works there now.” Mother crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall. “Communications have vastly improved since the beginning of the war.”

“Only one friend? You have connections all over this island. And it appears you already know what happened, so why don't you tell me what you've heard?” Sharon set her parachute on a table and sat down.

“Apparently, you put on an aerial demonstration. The lesson was how to down a flying bomb without firing a shot.” Mother scratched his cheek, discovered a spot he'd missed after this morning's shave, and frowned.

“Unfortunately, it was also a lesson on how to destroy an uninhabited cottage.” Sharon looked out the open door. She could see the hangar from here. “I wonder how Edgar and Ernie are getting along?”

“A cottage? It's quite an accomplishment to hit anything other than an open field in Newchurch. It must be the only location in the British Isles with fewer people per square mile than Canada.” Mother looked sideways at Sharon.

“Really?” she smiled.

Mother nodded. “Really.”

“How difficult would it be for Linda and me to get a delivery to Leeds before the end of the week? I think it's time the two of us went home for forty-eight hours.” Sharon looked out the door again in case Ernie was throwing something or someone out of — or worse, through — the hangar door.

“Shouldn't be a problem. And don't be worrying yourself about those two misfits. Haven't seen or heard anything from Ernie or Edgar at all today.” Mother nodded in the direction of the hangar.

“Well, I need to thank one of those misfits. Edgar was the one who told me how to send that flying bomb diving into the ground. It worked like a charm.” Sharon stood up and walked out the door of the dispersal hut. She made her way to the hangar and waited just outside of the open door.

“Shit!” Ernie said.

“I only said that if the design of this oleo leg was modified by six degrees, the entire assembly would become much more durable and easier to maintain,” Edgar said.

“I know this damned British engineering is abominable. Every mechanic who works on this shit knows that! We just don't have the time or the equipment to do the modifications!”

Sharon stepped inside the hangar and saw the two men working on one of the wheel struts of an Anson. The aircraft had grown a little long in the tooth after four years of hauling pilots from the far corners of the island and back again. “Just stopped by to see how you're both doing.”

“All right.” Ernie sounded surprised.

“Edgar?” Sharon asked.

He looked over his shoulder. “Okay.”

“I wanted to let you know that your tactic for upsetting a flying bomb's gyros worked perfectly.”

Edgar nodded and looked at her thoughtfully. “I'm surprised you had the opportunity to test the theory so quickly.”

“You never know what you'll need to know from one moment to the next in this war,” she said.

CHAPTER 3

[THURSDAY, JUNE 22, 1944]

“Where did this contraption come from?”
Sharon looked at the broad wings, greenhouse glass cockpit, wing struts, and tiny wheels of the captured German aircraft. “It looks like a stork with black crosses on it.”

“Very close. It's actually called a Storch. Apparently, it was captured just a few days into the invasion, along with fifteen others.” Mother pointed at the hastily painted black and white invasion stripes on the wings. “It was supposed to go to some Army colonel. Instead, it was sent here for evaluation. Robert did us a favour.”

“Robert?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Why here?” Sharon asked.

Mother shook his head and offered the phrase that explained away any inexplicable event that might occur at times like these: “There's a war on.”

Ernie lifted the cowling and peered inside. “Air-cooled
V
8. Plenty of power for a machine this size.”

Edgar ran his fingers along the trailing edge of the wing. “Looks like it could land or take off almost anywhere.”

Mother scratched his chin and winked at her. “I was thinking that it might require an extended cross country flight to West Yorkshire — say, Ilkley. I would suggest that Linda fly with you so that we'll get more than one opinion as to its capabilities.”

“A little bit of work needs to be done first.” Ernie ticked off the tasks on his fingers. “We have to do a complete check to make sure she's airworthy. And we'll need a test flight.” He winked at Edgar. “I think we'll both need a ride to make sure it's safe. Of course, some painting will need to be done.” He pointed at the black crosses on the wings. “Especially there.” He jerked a thumb at the swastika on the tail.

Edgar nodded. “Most definitely.”

Sharon looked at each of them. “Will this evening be too early for the two of you to come along for test flights?”

“Before six?” Edgar asked.

“Edgar's ride comes at six,” Ernie said.

“Okay. Before six it is.” Sharon walked back to the dispersal hut with Mother. “Do you have a delivery for me?”

“A Lancaster is waiting for you at Woodford.” Mother handed her a chit.

“All the way up north to Manchester. Close to home,” Sharon said.

“Remember, you need to be back before six,” Mother said.

“Where does the Lanc go?” Sharon asked.

Fours hours later, Sharon had four twelve-hundred-horsepower Merlin engines in her hands. She looked to port over the green-and-brown camouflaged expanse of its wing. The Lancaster was a bit of a pussycat when it wasn't loaded down with bombs, crew, and fuel. Sharon throttled back the four engines to join the circuit at the
RAF
airfield at Woodhill Spa near the east coast, north of London. She made her pre-landing checks, lowered the undercarriage, and settled the heavy bomber onto the runway.

She used throttle and idiosyncratic brakes to guide the bomber close to the apron out front of one of the massive hangars, with its green doors and white roof. The brakes moaned when she applied and locked them. It took a few minutes to shut down all four engines and work her way through the post-flight checklist. She exited through the rear door where the camouflaged top of the fuselage met the black underside of the aircraft.

“You ever wonder what happens after you deliver one of these machines?”

Sharon saw the silhouette of an unknown person inside the subdued half-light of the hangar. She hitched her parachute harness over her shoulder and walked toward the voice.