Two Blackbirds (4 page)
“I asked you a question.”
“I know, but it's difficult to see who I'm speaking to.” Sharon passed under the bomber's wing. She could smell the engine oil and feel the heat from the engines as she walked between the stationary propellers.
“Well?” The man stepped into the open. He was over six feet tall and weighed maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. His coveralls were clean and grey. His black hair was combed back. His brown eyes were red from crying and set on either side of a crooked nose.
“What's your name?” Sharon asked.
“Trevor. Now answer the question.” He put his fists on his hips.
“I wonder about the crew of the bomber this Lancaster is replacing.”
“They were my boys.” Trevor went to say more, but took a long, shuddering breath instead. “Last night's target was Wesseling. The ones who made it back said the night fighters were thick, and so was the flak.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Losses were nearly thirty percent. We lost six crews. That's seven boys in each Lancaster.” Trevor pulled a rag from his pocket and began to wipe at his hands.
Sharon could see that the man's hands were already clean. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Trevor looked at her. “I don't want a cup of coffee. I want this fucking war to be over.”
Sharon felt the familiar weariness from fighting, casualty lists, and the nagging feeling that nothing would ever be the same, even after the war ended.
It was ten after six
when Sharon touched down at White Waltham. She was at the controls of the Storch. Edgar was in the rear seat.
“Amazing,” Sharon said. The high-winged German aircraft landed at just under forty miles an hour and took less than seventy feet to roll to a stop.
It's better at this kind of flying than anything we have.
She looked over her shoulder. Edgar was opening up the canopy, leaning out and throwing up along the freshly painted outer skin. Ernie and Edgar had just put black and white invasion stripes on the fuselage and tail to cover the black crosses and swastika. The wings looked like a piano keyboard.
A Jeep was parked next to hangar as she taxied over, jazzed the throttle, swung the tail around, and shut down. She opened the forward canopy and backed out. Edgar followed.
“You're late, boy.” Sergeant Beck leaned against the grill of the Jeep and pointed with a lit cigarette. “That's some kinda paint job, boy!”
Sharon glared at the American
MP
. “His name is Edgar!”
Beck smiled back at her, leaned forward, and took a languid drag from his cigarette. “Time to get you back to the base. . . Edgar.”
Edgar said nothing as he climbed into the back of the Jeep.
Sharon saw Sergeant Beck turn to say something to Edgar. As the
MP
turned back around to start the engine â for just a fleeting moment â she saw something in Edgar's eyes. The same something she'd seen in the mirror above a Spitfire's cockpit minutes before she shot down five aircraft and killed their crews.
Edgar held on as Beck roared away.
“That's one asshole of a Yank,” Ernie said.
Sharon continued to shiver from the flashback to her own murderous impulses as she looked at the Ernie. “Now that you mention it, he does remind me of Uncle Marmaduke.”
“No idea who that is. Well, what do you think of the Storch?” Ernie asked.
“Climb in, and we'll see what you think after a hop.”
“Shouldn't I give it a wash first?” Ernie asked.
Sharon shook her head. “It's all on the outside. You'd think Edgar had never flown before.”
“He hasn't.”
“You're kidding.” Sharon turned to face Ernie.
“Nope. And when are we gonna talk about whether or not Edgar is staying?”
Sharon put her flying helmet on. “When we get back.”
Forty minutes later, they sat in the canteen having supper. It was ham, beans, and potatoes. Astonishingly, a slice of fresh bread was part of the meal.
Ernie watched as Sharon used bread to sop up the sauce from the beans. He asked, “How can you eat that?”
Sharon looked at him. Sauce dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She used a napkin to wipe it away. “I haven't eaten since breakfast.” She looked at his plate. He hadn't touched it. “You're not feeling well?”
Ernie frowned and reached for a glass of water. He hid a belch behind his hand.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done the roll and the loop.”
I thought
you had flown before.
“I thought we were going to talk about Edgar.” Ernie slowly sipped the water.
Okay, I get it, you want to change the subject. You're tough and you're
not going to admit a weak stomach in front of a woman.
“What do you think? Is he going to be a good mechanic?”
“I only have to show him once, and he remembers how to do something just the way I've taught him. He's smart, way too smart for this job. He keeps telling me how each part could be designed better, and I keep telling him we don't have time to design, we only have time to fix. It's like he sees how it should be built and then starts redesigning things in his head.” Ernie pointed his index finger at his temple.
“So you're saying you don't want to work with him anymore?”
“No. You're not listening. I'm saying he's so smart, he should be designing aircraft instead of fixing them.” Ernie looked at a point somewhere in the distance.
“So you want to keep working with him?”
“Of course. He's found ways to reorganize the shop and do repairs that I never would have thought of. And almost every time he comes up with an idea, it works.” Ernie looked at his plate, picked up a piece of ham, and gingerly placed it in his mouth.
Edgar stepped out of the back of the Jeep,
tucked his fists against the small of his spine, leaned back, and stretched. The morning sun illuminated his face.
Beck popped the clutch and the Jeep's rear wheels spit gravel over the toes of Edgar's boots.
Sharon watched the
MP
race for the end of the road. The Jeep skidded as Beck slammed on the brakes and slid sideways around the corner. “One of these times, he's gonna hit that wall. Would you like a coffee?” She held a cup out with her left hand while sipping from the one in her right.
“I thought we were supposed to get our own damned coffee.” Edgar smiled and looked at the cup as if expecting some kind of trap.
Sharon gestured with the cup. “This may never happen again, so I'd take advantage of it.”
Edgar took the cup, took a sip, and closed his eyes. “Thank you.”
“I need to ask you if you want to keep working here.”
Edgar opened his eyes and studied Sharon. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I said I would talk to you and see if you would agree to keep working here. It's been more than a week, and here we are.” Sharon watched Edgar. “Are you happy here?”
“Except for the driver and Ernie's profanity, yes, I am.” Edgar took another sip of coffee.
“His swearing offends you?” Sharon asked.
“He uses the Lord's name in vain.”
“He does. That's for sure. He also speaks highly of you.”
“He does?”
Sharon nodded. “He does.”
“You're asking me if I want to stay?”
“That's right.”
Maybe I'm missing the point. Maybe he's not used to
being asked.
“Yes, I would like to stay.” Edgar nodded.
“Glad to have you, then.”
Edgar's smile lit up the morning.
The deuce and a half
had white stars painted on its olive green doors and hood, and a canvas cover over its rear deck. The two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled up next to the hangar door.
Sharon watched from the rear seat of the Storch while Linda went through the preflight checks.
The driver stepped down from the truck. “Where's my high yellow friend?”
Ernie leaned back and peered out from the guts of an engine he'd pulled from an Anson. “Who the hell you lookin' for?”
“My high yellow friend.” The driver removed his cap. He was about five foot ten, weighed maybe one hundred and forty pounds, and had close-cut, tightly curled black hair.
“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Ernie asked.
“Cream in your coffee.” The driver pointed at his chest. “I'm black coffee. Edgar is high yellow.”
“Edgar? Why the hell didn't you say so?” Ernie pointed to the back of the hangar.
Edgar hauled a jack stand from the rear of the building. He looked up. “Walter?”
“Of course it's me! Be quick now! We gotta unload this, and I gotta get back to the base, or people'll start askin' questions.” Walter smiled as Edgar dropped the jack stand with a clang and ran over to the truck.
Edgar said, “Come on, Ernie!”
The three men began to unload boxes from the back of the truck.
“What the hell is this stuff?” Ernie asked.
“Keep your voice down. It's new tools.” Edgar looked in Sharon's direction before grabbing one end of the largest box and sliding it partway off the truck.
Ernie grabbed the other end. They hefted the load into the hangar. Both made hasty glances in Sharon's direction. She waved.
We could
sure use a better set of tools. Ernie is always asking, I'm always filling
out requisitions and it never happens. So Edgar delivers.
Walter climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine.
“Clear!” Linda said. The Storch's propeller turned and the engine caught.
The flight was uneventful until they were less than an hour from their destination â Townsend Farm in the northwest of Britain. Sharon was flying this leg of the trip and sat in the front seat. Linda tapped her on the shoulder. Sharon turned to see that Linda was gesturing to their right.
A Spitfire flew past, followed by his wingman. Both aircraft waggled their wings and turned to the left.
Sharon instinctively reached for the throttle.
If I slow down, they
won't be able to fly alongside us; they'll fall out of the sky first.
She eased off the throttle and dropped some flap. The Storch was quite happy flying at forty miles per hour â probably thirty miles per hour slower than the stalling speed of the Spitfires. “Keep your eyes open and let me know if they're making another pass!”
“You think they'll shoot?” Linda asked.
Crazier things have happened.
Sharon shoulder checked, then turned right, keeping an eye on the fighters as they swung around. She leveled out and approached the fighters head on. Before they came in range, she turned again, then shoved the nose of the aircraft toward the ground.
The Storch was incredibly maneuverable at low speed. The faster fighters could not follow it in a turn. The lead Spitfire fired a short burst. The tracers from the cannon shells went high and wide.
The Spitfire pilots tried two more passes. Each time, Sharon kept her flying speed low and turned inside of them.
If you have to, you can
drop down to one hundred feet
. Then she thought,
No. One of them
will make a mistake, stall, and crash
.
Just keep your cool. No need to
get anyone killed.
The Spitfires made another pass. This time, the wingman dropped his flaps and undercarriage, flew alongside, and pointed at them to follow. For an instant, Sharon saw a look of surprise on the pilot's face.
We
can't do this all day.
Sharon opened the throttle, lifted the flaps, and was just able to keep up with the Spitfire, which was flying just above its stalling speed as it led the way to Barton Airfield near Manchester.
She said to Linda, “Keep an eye on the other Spit in case this is a trick.”
The other Spitfire circled overhead just to be certain Sharon did as she was directed.
Sharon followed the slow-flying Spitfire as it passed over a line of railway tracks. When she saw Barton Airfield, Sharon pointed the Storch's nose at the hangar, throttled back, dropped the flaps, and landed just in front of it.
The Spitfires landed one after the other and taxied near to the Storch. Sharon and Linda climbed out of the plane, stood beside it, and waited.
Linda pointed at the lead aircraft. There were holes in the yellow patches of tape covering its machine guns. Its pilot climbed out, jumped off the wing, and took off his parachute and helmet before walking toward them. Behind him, the second pilot ran to catch up.
The first pilot stopped in front them and put his hands on his hips. “What the hell do the two of you think you're doing?” He was a little over five feet, weighed maybe one hundred and thirty pounds, and wore his brown hair slicked back. His accent was Canadian.
“An authorized evaluation of a captured aircraft. Did you happen to notice the way the entire aircraft is painted with white and black stripes?”
Just give him a chance to cool down.
The second pilot was almost there.
Linda said, “What makes you think you were justified in shooting at us? Couldn't you see that we're unarmed and painted in invasion colours? In fact â” She pointed at the Spitfires. “â you have the same black and white stripes on the wings of your aircraft.”
The first pilot said, “I don't have to justify myself to you!”
You shouldn't have used such a patronizing tone with Linda
.
Sure enough, Linda took a step forward, cocked her arm, and punched him in the nose. The injured pilot staggered back with his hands cupped over his face. He bent at the waist. The blood dripped through his fingers. He looked up at Linda with a combination of shock and rage.
The second pilot was breathless when he arrived. He pulled off his flying helmet to reveal curly black hair plastered to his scalp. He wiped his forehead with the inside of his elbow and studied Linda with his dark brown eyes.
