The loudspeaker hummed. Every head rose, as though the airmen were a herd of grazing cows looking up at a gunshot. Even Ratty went silent.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the WAAF.
My fork trembled in my hand, rapping on the tabletop. Poor, stupid Buzz must have thought that I was trying to beat a drumroll because he started his own, with his fingers thrumming on the table edge. He grinned like the idiot that he was.
The WAAF cleared her throat. She tapped on the microphone, and it sounded to me like a door latch turning. Then her angelic voice warbled through the speaker. “You are on for tonight.”
Ratty held up his thumbs. Buzz finished his drumroll with a flourish, with a cymbal tap on his drinking glass. Already Lofty was shoving himself back from the table. He had his pipe in his hand, and he popped it in his mouth as he stood up. “Well, chaps,” he said. “I’ll take a squint at the list. See if we’re flying.”
It was exactly the same as the day before, down to the very same words. I had a strange feeling that it was the day before, that I was living it all over again. I dropped my fork, but my hand still trembled. I put it up to my forehead, and then down to my knees, where it bounced and jittered on my trousers.
“You don’t think they’d send us twice, do you?” I asked. “Not twice in a row.”
“You frightened?” asked Buzz. He was leering.
“No.” I wouldn’t admit to that. “I had something to do. I was supposed to go and see . . .” I let my voice fade away.
“Who?” asked Ratty. “Not a bird, you mean?”
I thought he was making fun of me because of the pigeons, but it was worse than that. Birds, to the British, were girls.
Buzz laughed like a chuckling horse. “Look at him blush! It’s true; the kid’s got a bird.”
They went away howling, but jealous as well, with a bit of spite in their jokes and their stares. I doubted that either of them had ever held a girl hand in hand. As much as they boasted about the things they had done, it was all talk, and everybody knew it. It was just a lot of flak.
I didn’t even bother to go and see the pigeoneer. I just sat in the sunshine and stared at the hills. They were yellow humps with sick little clusters of trees, like the backs of mangy dogs. In Canada, they would have been covered with pines, but I wouldn’t have even seen them for the forest all around me. I could have walked for miles and never seen the sky.
I got homesick sitting there—for a home that I’d hated. I wished I had never left it, that I had never heard of the air force. I tried to take myself back, willing my body and soul over the thousands of miles to the forests and the tumbling waters of Kakabeka Falls. Like Donny had done that day in the Hambleton Hills, I walked through the town, and I saw the people as clearly as if I really were there. But they didn’t see me. I was like a ghost strolling along.
Then all that vanished, and I was looking not at the hills but at the bombers ranged across the field. I thought of climbing into Buster and flying through the searchlights, watching the shells come floating up, seeing the bright flashes of bombers exploding. The more I thought about it, the more I dreaded the coming night.
Over to my left a baseball game was starting. To my right was a group of laughing fliers. Straight ahead, Donny Lee went by, with all his crew packed into the little Morris. They looked like seven dolls stuffed into a child’s toy. And in the middle of all this I trembled by myself.
I wasn’t a whiz at math, but I knew the odds, and they had never seemed so dismal. If I was going to fly every night, and if every night about five percent of the bombers bought the farm, then I had no chance at all. If I lived as long as twenty-one ops, I was breaking all the laws of averages, all the rules of numbers. It was impossible, mathematically, that I would ever get home to Canada. Within a few months or a few nights—maybe this very night—I was bound to get the chop. I had always been sure it would happen to some other guy, but now I knew it was going to be me.
Then Lofty came ambling up, and the whole crew was at his heels. They were carrying parachutes, all laughing at some joke that Ratty must have told. He had a wicked grin on his face as he hurried along between Buzz and Pop. Lofty puffed through his pipe.
“ ’Allo, ’allo,” he said in his English way. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Are we on the list?” I asked.
“Roger that,” he said. “Get your chute, old chap. We’re going to take the crate for a spin. Make sure it’s all tickety-boo.”
“When?” I asked.
“Right now. So shake a leg.” Lofty clapped his hands. “Chop, chop.”
It was a bad thing to say, but he didn’t even know it. He looked at me with his new kind of smile that showed his teeth but didn’t glitter in his eyes.
I ran to the parachute hut and all the way back, only to find that the six of them had gone ahead without me. I raced across the field shouting, “Wait up! Wait up!” I felt awfully sorry for myself as I panted up among them, and immediately worse when I saw Bert trudging toward us all.
Buzz pointed and laughed. “Here comes old featherhead.”
Even Pop chuckled. “That crazy old bird,” he said.
Bert bobbed up and down as he walked, as though there were springs on his shoes. He had his pigeon riding on his shoulder.
“That’s the dirtiest guy I ever saw,” said Buzz.
“Look at his shoes,” said Lofty. Of course he always noticed people’s shoes. “I say, they’ve got to be fifteens.”
They crushed the grass as Bert started running. I was tempted to join in with the others and laugh and mock the man. I was tempted, too, to tell them there was nothing wrong with Bert. But I only kept walking, and turned my head away to study the farthest bomber, hoping that—somehow—Bert wouldn’t see me.
It didn’t work. “ ’Allo!” he shouted. “ ’Allo, there, sir!”
“Who’s he talking to?” asked Lofty.
“It’s off, sir,” shouted Bert. “Sir, it’s off!”
“Eh? What’s off?” said Lofty. “Is he nuts?”
“Sir!” Bert’s arms were pumping, his head up high. The pigeon bounced on his shoulder like a little jockey, stretching its wings as Bert’s whole body rose and fell.
“Jeez, I can smell him from here,” said Ratty.
So could I. The odor of birds, like sour vinegar, was in his clothes and his boots and his hair.
“Who the hell does he want?” asked Lofty.
I tossed up my hands. “Me,” I said. “He wants me, okay?” They all gawked as I stopped walking.
Ratty made the connection. “That’s your bird?” he said.
I nodded.
“A real bird? No lie?”
“I was supposed to take them flying,” I said. “All of them.” Stupid Buzz—he still didn’t understand—asked me, “Huh? Take ’em flying? In Buster, you mean?”
“Wheezy jeezy!” Ratty howled.
I said, “No, not in Buster. We were going to take the pigeons out and let them fly home.”
Buzz didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, but I didn’t explain any more. The rest of the crew kept going as I turned away to meet old Bert. He came thumping up beside me, and little Percy stood at attention on his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have come out here,” I said.
“No bother, sir.” He was red and winded. “I wanted to tell you that it’s off. The flight, sir.”
Percy warbled and cooed on his shoulder. “Why, ’e likes you, sir,” said Bert. “I told ’im I was going to see you. ’Appy? Oh, ’e wanted to come.”
I looked at the pigeon. Its head was turned away, but its eye seemed to look right at me.
“Oh, ’e wants a tickle, sir,” said Bert. “Give ’im a little tickle, sir.”
I felt stupid, but I did it. I reached up and touched the pigeon’s neck the way Bert had done. I thought it would feel as soft as a kitten, but it was rough and sort of starchy.
“There. Look at ’im glo
at, sir,” said Bert, almost gloating himself. But sure enough, the pigeon did seem happy. It made its warbling sound again as the muscles pulsed in its neck. I took my hand away and wiped my finger, secretly, on the back of my trousers.
“We’ll fly them tomorrow instead,” said Bert. Then he added, “So long as you can, sir, of course.”
“You mean if I make it home tonight?” I said.
He smiled. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it ’ome, sir. I meant if you don’t ’ave something better to do. But if you’d rather be somewhere else . . .”
“No, I’d like to fly them,” I said.
“Then tomorrow it is.” He waved his huge hand, then went off in his awkward run toward the pigeon loft. Half a mile he’d come, and half a mile he had to go, but he didn’t seem to mind.
I sprinted to catch up with the others. I got to Buster just as they did, as Sergeant Piper came around from the tail. Lofty asked him, “What’s the news, old boy?”
The sergeant told us how much fuel we would carry, and what sort of bombs, then scratched his head and told us, “It’s Germany for certain. Happy Valley, that’s my guess. That’s what I think.”
I wished I hadn’t hurried. I didn’t want to know any sooner than I had to just where the target was.
High on Buster’s side, a new bomb—the forty-sixth— had been painted below the cockpit. Small and white, it was the start of a new column, a fresh stick of bombs beginning to fall. There was a patch over the little hole that flak had punched in the wing.
We climbed aboard and started the engines. It was only a test flight, I told myself, to calm my nerves. I was glad that Lofty was the careful sort who always took a test flight. The kite smelled of the kerosene that the erks had used to wash it down, and I hoped it was the oily smell that made my stomach churn. But that sick feeling stayed with me through the flight and after it, through all the hours of the day. It grew worse with the waiting.
In the sergeants’ mess, the wireless set spilled out the news of our raid, and the damage we had done to Düsseldorf. A British announcer counted the lost bombers against the Germans killed like scores in a football match, then cleared his throat and said that President Roosevelt was urging the Italian people to rise up against Mussolini. He said Russia was celebrating a bombing raid against the Germans.
But I had nothing to celebrate as I worried through the afternoon. Three times I joined the crowd lining up to use the latrine, and my fear only grew. It was almost too much to bear when I sat down in the briefing hut, squashed between Buzz and Will. I closed my eyes when the curtain shivered and started to open, hoping that Sergeant Piper was wrong, wishing for a target that was closer and safer than Happy Valley.
I heard the curtain rattle on its rail. A deep groan rose from the airmen, from all of them at once. I looked up, and I saw the red ribbons on the map twisting down to Bochum, right to the heart of the Ruhr, to the cluster of cities where the flak would be strongest. It was the black cave where the night fighters lived. My fear came suddenly, like an icy hand squeezing at my bones.
A thin whistling started beside me. I leaned forward and saw that Lofty—next to Will—had taken out his pipe. He crossed his long legs, tugged at his trousers, and winked at me.
I didn’t know how he could be so calm, how everyone could except me. They looked at the map with blank stares, as though they were only watching another boring lecture about security or lice. No one seemed the least bit worried.
The intelligence officer got up and tapped at the flak with his pointer, the sound as steady as a clock. Drippy, the met officer, showed us the weather map and told us that it would be cloudy over Germany. We would go in above the overcast, and I was relieved to think that we’d be hidden from the searchlights. But all along the benches, the airmen coughed and sniffed and scuffled their shoes, as though they were disappointed that they wouldn’t be seeing the target.
Lofty leapt to his feet when the briefing ended. He got us into a little huddle in the middle of the room. He put his right arm on my shoulders, his left on Simon’s, and he told us—with his pipe in his mouth—“Cheer up, chaps; it won’t be so bad.”
He must have been talking to me. No one else seemed sad or glum.
“So long as we all keep awake and do our jobs, there’s no worries tonight.” He looked at each of us, eye to eye, then tightened his arms and drew us into a smaller circle. “No mistakes, okay? If one of us messes up, all of us get the chop.”
We looked sadder when he finished than we had before he started. Simon was the first to break away from the circle. Then Ratty followed him, and Pop wandered off, and I didn’t mind being left alone. I wanted to talk to Donny Lee, to tell him that I’d changed my mind.
CHAPTER 9
DONNY LEE WAS SITTING on his bed, with a collection of little things spread across the blanket. He was picking them up one by one, holding them for a moment in both his hands, then setting them back on the gray wool. He had a wallet, a pocketknife, a photograph or two. He had them arranged in a row.
He looked at me as I walked down the aisle between the beds. “Hi, Kid,” he said.
I thought he was sorting out the things he could take on the op. We weren’t allowed to carry wallets or train tickets, or anything else that might show where we came from. We weren’t allowed to take a single thing that a German spy could take from us and use to blend himself into England.
Donny picked up his knife. “You want this?” he asked.
“For keeps?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I couldn’t believe it. He had owned that knife for years and years. I had watched him slice the blade through the bark of a pine tree, carving his initials inside a heart.
“Don’t you want it?” I said.
“Don’t need it,” he told me.
“Well, thanks, Donny. Thanks a million.” I took the knife and opened the blade. It was sharp and shiny.
“Anything else you fancy?” he asked.
His hands moved across the bed, palms up, the way a storekeeper would show off things on display.
“Why? What are you doing?” I said.
“Moving out.”
“Where to?”
He smiled sadly. “I don’t know, Kid; not for sure. But I won’t be coming back.”
“Don’t say that, Donny.”
“It’s true,” he said. “I can feel it, Kid. As soon as I woke up, I knew it. I’ll get the chop tonight.”
“It was just a dream,” I said. “I heard you shout. You were only dreaming.”
“I was dying.” He panted a little laugh. “You want my wallet?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want anything.” I threw the knife back, and it bounced across his blanket. “I don’t even want to talk about this.”
“Hey, it’s okay, Kid,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
His calmness upset me. If he knew he was doomed, he should have been more scared than I was. He should have been trembling or crying or something.
“Don’t go tonight,” I said. “Just say you won’t go.”
“Come on, Kid.” He started gathering his things, putting them all in one little pile. “If I don’t go, I’m a coward. They’ll mark me down as LMF and—”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Lack of moral fiber.”
It sounded silly the way he said it, as though his body—or his soul—could tatter and unravel. “So what?” I said. “Who cares?”
“You did,” he said. “I told you I could get you out, and you told me no.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said.
He laughed. “Don’t bind me, Kid.”
“It’s true,” I said. “I’m scared now, Donny. I’m really scared.”
He didn’t understand. He thought I was scared for him, and not for myself. He got his little pile together, then stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t be frightened,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve seen so many guys come and
go. So many, Kid. I think they’re waiting for me somewhere: for all of us. It’s like they’ll meet a train or something, and I’ll be on this one and maybe you’ll be on the next. In the end, we’ll all be together, I think.” He leaned toward me. “Kid, I’ve seen them.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Them. They come back.”
He touched his teeth, ticking his fingernails across them. He took one more look at his bed, at his wallet and his pictures. “Let’s go,” he said. “You can watch the fun.”
He led me from the hut, outside and along the path. He looked down at the ground and up at the windows, here and there at everything we passed, as though he knew he was seeing it for the last time. At the sergeants’ mess, his fingers caressed the door handle before he went inside.
The room wasn’t full, but there was still quite a crowd sitting around in the old wicker chairs or standing at the bar. Lofty was there, his pipe in his mouth, reading the front page of a newspaper. Buzz was frowning at his tattered crossword, and Ratty—at the bar—was playing shove-ha’penny with himself, dashing back and forth to catch his coin as it teetered at the edges. Donny went straight to the piano. He stepped onto the bench, up to the keys with an unmusical jangle, and up again to the piano’s top.
In most places he would have drawn some attention. In almost any place at all it would have seemed unusual for a fellow to climb onto a piano that was propped up with a bomb. But the sergeants’ mess was pretty wild, and no one even looked.
Sunlight from the window shone on his bright red hair. He did a little soft-shoe in the center of the piano, but no one looked at that. Then he pulled his car keys from his trouser pocket and held them up above his head. Still nobody looked.
“Who wants the bus?” he asked.
“Donny, don’t!” I said. He could give away his knife, but I hadn’t dreamed that he would ever give away the Morris. “Please, Donny.”
He stared down at me—straight down from the piano. “I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t worry, Kid.” He shook the keys, and the sunlight sparkled on them.
“Who wants the bus?” he said again, louder than before.
All over the room, the sergeants looked up. They put their papers down, their magazines and drinking glasses. I saw Lofty watching, and Buzz and Ratty, and maybe twenty others altogether. There wasn’t one of them who hadn’t fancied that sleek black Morris. But none of them said a word, as though they couldn’t believe that anyone would give away that treasure.
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