Blackbirds

by Garry Ryan

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Michael’s absolutely gaga over you. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  Sharon stopped pushing and swung Linda around so they could talk face to face.

  Linda leaned back and tried to focus on her friend.

  Sharon went to say something, then began to think about what it felt like when Michael was nearby.

  “You may be a hell of a pilot, but you’re a little thick when it comes to men.” Linda tried to put her hands on the wheels, but the brakes were on. “Where’s a mechanic when you need one?”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Oi, Canada!”

  Sharon turned around. She sat at the canteen at Duxford airfield, north of London. The airfield had been built on this flat stretch of farmland during World War I. Sharon’s most recent delivery, a brandnew Hurricane, was being fitted for combat inside a hangar where mechanics swarmed over it.

  A pilot was raising his coffee cup to her. She recognized him as one of the pilots she’d met at Biggin Hill. His accent was Scottish, his hair the colour of ginger, and he was a foot shorter than Sharon.

  She raised her own coffee in greeting. “How are you, Ginger?”

  He walked over to sit down across from her. “What’re you doin’ here, lassie?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” Sharon watched him warily.

  He leaned forward and offered his hand. “My real name is Jock.”

  “Sharon.” She shook his hand. He has remarkably gentle hands.

  “I was on patrol this mornin’. The engine started actin’ up. Puffin’ a wee bit of oily smoke. So here we are.”

  Sharon wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. “For me, it was a Hurricane delivery. Now I’m just waiting for a ride to the next one on my list.”

  “How many deliveries are they havin’ you do in a day?” Jock asked.

  “Depends. So far, I’ve had as many as six and as few as two.” Sharon saw Jock’s attention shift, and her eyes followed to a nearby barrage balloon. A couple climbed between the rear fins and up the spine of the grey three-finned balloon. Somewhere near the middle, the couple sat down, and the balloon began to rise. “What’s going on there?” Sharon turned to Jock.

  His face turned red. “Sightseein’, I believe.”

  “Have I embarrassed you?”

  Jock shook his head. “What’s your tally now? Last time I heard, you had three.”

  “Word travels fast around the airfields.” I don’t like where this is going. “What’s your tally?”

  “Four and a half. Why are you changing the subject? Just because you’re a bit of a legend among pilots does na mean your exploits are common knowledge to the general population.”

  Sharon watched the balloon rise. I wonder where Michael is. She caught a glimpse of white undergarments. “That couple is sightseeing, you say?”

  Jock said, “Once around the block.”

  “What?”

  “A not very polite turn of phrase.”

  “You mean he’s after a bit of crumpet?”

  “More or less. I mean, I’m not offerin’, just explainin’, understand. Wife would have my balls for bookends, you see, if I were to catch a ride on that balloon.” Jock’s face turned a shade redder.

  “Rather an interesting way to mate.”

  Jock’s face was glowing now.

  Sharon decided to change the subject. “How come everyone’s so interested in my tally?”

  Jock thought for a moment. “Suppose it’s because you’re a bit of a natural. Pilots watch how other pilots fly. When they see you land, it’s like you’re performin’ a bit of magic. Not everyone has the touch, understand. Me, I’m a good shot and a fair pilot. You’re a rare one. The aircraft is more like a bird than a machine when you’re flyin’ it.”

  It was Sharon’s turn to feel the heat of embarrassment on her face.

  “But are you a good shot?” Jock asked.

  “Shot a few gophers back home. And some clay pigeons.”

  “Gophers?”

  “Ground squirrels. Any advice for someone who’s never fired the guns in a fighter plane?”

  “Depends what you’re askin’.”

  “You’re a good shot. What does it take to shoot down a Nazi?”

  Jock looked past her. “Get in close.”

  “How close?”

  Jock looked directly at her. “Very close. Use short bursts. Remember, your bullets drop over distance, so just get within a hundred yards and blast away at the bastards. If you can, hit the cockpit. Then get out before someone gets you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t know why you want to know. Fightin’s nothing to do with you. You’re a woman.”

  “If the rumours of invasion are true, no one in the Luftwaffe will be taking the time to check. Besides,” she winked, “I hear people like us — Canadians and Scots, that is — are cannon fodder for the Empire.”

  “The rumours are true. I blundered over France, Boulogne, to be exact, a fortnight ago. The flak was murderous, and yes, the port was filled with barges.” Jock’s eyes lost their focus as he relived the experience. “As far as being cannon fodder up there,” he pointed up with his index finger, “no one’s takin’ the time to check where you’re from.”

  “What were you doing over Boulogne?”

  “Chasing a Jerry flyin’ a Messerschmitt 109.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “You bet I did. That Nazi bastard killed a friend of mine.”

  CHAPTER 14

  [ FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 1940 ]

  Cannon shells pierced the fuel tank just ahead of the Spitfire’s cockpit.

  The fuel tank exploded into flame.

  The outside of the cockpit was surrounded with fire. Then the flames entered the cockpit itself. Sharon reached for the harness. Her gloves were on fire as her fingers tried to release the Sutton harness in front of her chest. The thumb and forefinger of her right hand finally pulled the leather thong. The harness fell away from her, freeing her from the seat.

  She reached for the canopy release. The canopy slid back. The fire roared when its tongues tasted fresh oxygen.

  Sharon rolled the aircraft onto its back and fell away from the crippled fighter. She looked down at her blackened hands and feet. The force of the wind was extinguishing some of the flames on her flight suit. Her stump fingers found the parachute release and she pulled. Agony filled her mind as countless nerve endings sent their screaming messages to her brain.

  After the shock of the parachute opening, she swung under the canopy and could smell burnt meat.

  An alarm rang.

  She looked down at green fields. Her Spitfire trailed smoke and fire. It hit the ground and exploded.

  The alarm rang again.

  Sharon looked at her hands. They were clenching the bedspread.

  She sat up. Her alarm rang. She reached over to turn it off. I still have fingers.

  In the fresh quiet, she saw particles of dust illuminated by a shaft of sunlight cutting the room in half.

  Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she wiped her face with the white sheet. As she closed her eyes, the image of her exploding Spitfire was etched on the inside of her eyelids. She swung her feet out of the bed to feel the coolness of the wooden floor.

  Less than an hour later, Mother handed her a chit and a box wrapped with brown paper.

  He watched her closely. “It’s a football. Never been used. It’s my nephew’s. He’s in North Africa. Every boy wants a football.” He held his hands out. “My nephew will be happy to know there’s a lad who will be able to give the ball a good workout.”

  Sharon smiled and handed the package back.

  Mother set it down next to him. “I’ll have it waiting for you when you get back.”

  “Mother, you’re a sweetheart.” She hugged him close and kissed his cheek. He smelled of pipe smoke and aftershave.

  “Get on with you. The air taxi is waiting.
” He waved her away.

  “That’s a nice blush. What brand of rouge do you use?” She put her hand to his cheek.

  “Go!” He smiled and waved her away.

  Early in the afternoon, she delivered a Hurricane to Tangmere. It was an airfield on the south coast of England, east of Portsmouth and Chichester. From ten miles away, she could see oily smoke rising above her destination. Her eyes scanned the sky, looking for other aircraft. There were none.

  After she dropped down to three hundred feet on finals, she could smell the smoke and cordite. She landed and dodged a bomb crater, then taxied to a hangar that wasn’t burning or damaged.

  She shut down, switched off, and climbed out of the Hurricane.

  “Little warm for that leather jacket and gloves, I expect,” someone said.

  Gives me some protection if there’s a fire. She stepped off the wing and looked around.

  An aircraftsman wearing a leather vest and rolled-up sleeves stood at the wing. He was wearing a tie, a shirt, and mud-spattered trousers that were spattered with mud. “We just had a spot of trouble with Jerry. Goering sent over a flock of bloody Stuka dive bombers that did some damage.”

  Sharon unzipped her leather jacket and pulled off her helmet. She unwrapped the white silk scarf from around her neck and left the ends dangling. “Anybody hurt?”

  “At least a dozen killed. Some were civilians.” He looked at the burning hangars and the fire crews spraying water on blackened timber and collapsed roofs. “Fighting that fire’s a bloody waste of time. There’s nothing in there to save. Give us a hand to push the Hurricane into the hangar. Though I’m beginning to wonder if it’s safer outside than in.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Do you see anyone else?”

  “Where did everyone else go?” Sharon dropped her parachute and jacket on the grass.

  “My mates went over to that hangar just before the raid started.” He pointed at the wreck, where firemen were pouring water on the ashes.

  She closed her eyes and reached for a wing root.

  The aircraftsman took the tail. “You know how we’re always being told to keep at it? Stiff upper lip. Get on with the job because Hitler is knocking on the door. Well, I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do.”

  CHAPTER 15

  [ SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1940 ]

  Sharon hung up her f light suit and dropped off her parachute in the equipment shed at White Waltham. The inside smelled of dust, mould, and the captive heat of a summer sun.

  She shut off the lights and closed the door behind her. Outside, the moonless night wrapped itself around her like a wartime black-out curtain. She looked up. Now this looks like home. The stars were almost as bright as she remembered on the prairies.

  After about five minutes, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she began her walk to the cottage.

  Once she had the feel of the tarmac under her feet, she began to relax. Familiar landmarks passed as shadows to her right and left.

  The breeze carried the scent of tobacco.

  German paratrooper. She smiled at her fear. We’re all so paranoid about an invasion.

  She heard the crunch of a heavy boot on the tarmac. The musty stink of cigarettes mixed with body odour.

  She stopped. There was movement just ahead of her.

  Something sharp and metallic jabbed her between the breasts.

  “Step forward.” The voice was thickly accented. It wheezed and whistled when it inhaled.

  “How the hell can I do that with a bayonet jammed in my chest?”

  The pressure at her chest eased, but she could sense steel there, hovering inches away. She had a flashback of Uncle Marmaduke pushing up against her in the storage room. It ignited her.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “Who the hell are you? I’ve done six deliveries for the ATA today, and I’m knackered.” She shook her head. Who is this idiot who thinks he can jab me with a bayonet?

  “I’m LDV!” The voice was pitched higher this time.

  Sharon heard indignation and ignored it. “If you really are in the Home Guard, shouldn’t you be looking for Germans instead of me?”

  Silence for a moment. “If you really are ATA, why are you a woman? I’ve never heard of a woman being a pilot.”

  “Now you have!”

  “How do I know you’re not fifth column?” the home guard asked.

  “Because I’m a bloody Canadian, you fucking halfwit! Now, get the hell out of my way, and let me get home to get some sleep. I’ve got a full day ahead of me tomorrow.” Now you’ve done it — he’s going to run you through.

  Silence, then, “Pass. Only a Canadian would be that foul-mouthed.”

  “Asshole.” Sharon stepped to her left and walked forward. The hair stood up along the back of her neck. All the way home, she expected to hear a rifle shot.

  CHAPTER 16

  [ SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 1940 ]

  She looked for the man from the Home Guard the next morning when she walked back to White Waltham, but he had disappeared. The feeling of having to watch her back, however, remained.

  “There you are!” Mother waved a chit above his head. “Biggin Hill is waiting for you. You’ll arrive at the birthday party in style. I mean, who else will be flying to the party in a brand-new Spitfire?”

  “You’re a magician.” Sharon took the piece of paper.

  “Don’t forget this.” Mother handed her the package wrapped in brown paper.

  “The soccer ball! Thank you! I’m sure Sean will love it.” Sharon tucked the package under her arm.

  “I had an unusual conversation with a member of the Home Guard this morning. A Major Pike, retired. Claims he had a run in with a foul mouthed Canadian girl last night. He seemed to think there weren’t any women in the ATA. That it might have been a spy. I put him straight that, yes, we do have some very fine women pilots.” Mother hesitated.

  “Major Pike, was it? Very good name for him. Poked me in the chest with his bayonet.” Sharon pointed to the spot between her breasts.

  “So that’s what set you off. He didn’t tell me that.”

  Sharon crossed her arms.

  Mother leaned on the counter. “He struck me as a popinjay. A real Colonel Blimp. Put a uniform on him, and he struts around like a member of the palace guard. Still, try not to offend the old sod. He does have a rifle, and, judging by the thickness of his glasses, poor eyesight.”

  Sharon frowned. What the hell is a popinjay?

  “A windbag,” Mother said.

  “You and Linda have a very annoying habit of reading my mind.” Sharon hefted her gear and Sean’s present.

  “It’s your face. Whatever you’re thinking is written on it. Try looking inscrutable.” Mother struck a pose.

  Sharon chuckled as she walked toward the duty Anson. She turned her face to the sun. I’m really looking forward to this.

  It was cloudy and near midday when she saw Biggin Hill from about fifteen miles out. This time, she’d kept her altitude at one thousand feet and her eyes alert for other aircraft.

  Three minutes later, the Spitfire’s wheels kissed the runway. She worked the rudder to guide the aircraft in the direction of her father’s hangar. When the tail dropped and she was at taxi speed, Sharon wove back and forth so that she could see around the fighter’s Merlin engine.

  She shut down and switched off on the concrete to one side of a Belfast hangar. Its massive wooden doors were open, and a Spitfire was being wheeled out under the arched roof.

  An aircraftsman climbed onto the wing and grabbed the edge of Sharon’s open cockpit. “Switches off?”

  “Yes.” Sharon released her Sutton harness and opened the side door.

  Three aircraftsmen appeared and guided her Spitfire into the hangar.

  The tires squealed on the polished concrete floor. They swung its nose around so it faced out. On each wing, the panels were opened to access the machine gun compartments.
>
  Sharon climbed out and retrieved Sean’s gift.

  “Hello there. Sean will be happy to finally meet you.”

  Sharon turned around to stand face to face with Patrick O’Malley. “Hello, Dad.”

  O’Malley smiled. “The party is in two hours. I have a few things to do before we trot up to Leaves Green. It looks to be another busy day.”

  “Leaves Green?” Sharon held the soccer ball out in front of her.

  “We live just up the road.” O’Malley pointed northwest. “A ten-minute walk.”

  Sharon handed O’Malley the ball. “I hope he likes to play football. We call it soccer back home.”

  “The boy is mad about his sports. Doesn’t stop runnin’ from the time he gets up in the mornin’ ’til it gets dark.”

  A man stuck his head out of the back office door. “Scramble!”

  O’Malley and Sharon automatically looked east and scanned the sky.

  The air-raid siren wailed.

  A pilot was running for the Spitfire parked on the concrete apron.

  O’Malley ran to the aircraft. He stopped, turned, and pointed.

  “There’s a slit trench around the side. Get in it!” The pilot stepped onto the wing, lifted himself up, and settled into the cockpit.

  O’Malley was there to help strap the pilot in.

  The pilot asked, “The machine guns are synchronized to one hundred yards?”

  “Just as you requested,” O’Malley said.

  Sharon watched as Spitfires and Hurricanes began to start up and take off in ones and twos.

  “Clear!” the pilot said.

  O’Malley stepped off the wing and ran down alongside the fuselage.

  The propeller turned.

  He’s flooded the engine, Sharon thought as the stink of raw fuel filled the air.

  The propeller stopped.

  The hum of approaching aircraft made Sharon look east. Anti aircraft guns began to open up.

  Sharon looked to her right. A woman who might have weighed a hundred pounds was sitting on a metal seat at the rear of one of the guns. She wore fatigues and a helmet. She pressed a pedal. The gun erupted.