Two Blackbirds

by Garry Ryan

  Sharon was sipping a cup of coffee when Ernie arrived with a redhead named Etta who was taller than he and seemed to add a layer of polish to the man who was smartly dressed in his uniform.

  Michael stepped inside the front door. Sharon stood up, met him at the end of the table, and drew him close. He smelled of soap and wool. She held his hand as they sat down together.

  Edgar and Walter arrived next and stood cap in hand as they looked around the room. Sharon waved, and they sat down across the table.

  “Have any trouble finding the place?” Sharon asked.

  Edgar looked left and right. “Not really.”

  Walter smiled. “Edgar’s nervous because he leaves tomorrow and he’s never been to Italy before.”

  “I’ve heard that the Red Tails are making a substantial reputation for themselves,” Michael said.

  Edgar nodded.

  Sharon watched the expression on Linda’s face when Milton walked in. Linda’s eyes brightened and a smile came automatically. She really likes this guy.

  With Milton’s arrival, the conversation turned to flying, missing home, and more flying. The awkwardness of the conversations faded, laughter began to dominate, and the food arrived.

  So did half a dozen American soldiers, each with an airborne eagle on one shoulder and a red sash on the other. One of them had an arm in a sling. A couple of the others walked with pronounced limps. Another had yellow and purple bruising on one side of his face. He stopped when he saw the people at Linda’s table. He frowned before following his comrades and taking a seat at a table behind Walter and Edgar. There was a loud scraping of chairs and combat boots.

  Sharon looked at Michael and leaned in close to his ear. “Are those the paratroopers who were nearly wiped out by Monty’s Market Garden plan?” Michael gave her a warning glance and nodded.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sharon looked around the table. Linda and Milton sat shoulder to shoulder. Etta caressed the side of Ernie’s face, and he blushed. Walter told another funny story about Edgar as a little boy in Mississippi who was always getting into trouble from telling the truth. She felt Michael’s hand on her shoulder. Laughter erupted when Walter got to the punchline. Perfect. This is wonderful. It’s so nice to be able to say goodbye to someone when he’s alive to hear it. I haven’t felt happily normal like this in months.

  Five minutes later, she saw Edgar sit up straighter. She sensed the tension in the room and turned.

  Edwin Beck stood just inside the door. He took off his white MP helmet and sat down at a table near the door. Sharon looked at Walter, who had stopped laughing. The voices of the American paratroopers got louder as the alcohol began to work its dark magic. The soldier with the bruised face raised his glass and said, “Here’s to fuckin’ Monty’s plan. Piss poor planning: our guts, his gory glory!”

  The men raised their glasses and shouted a chorus. “To Fuckin’ Monty!”

  Sharon looked over at Beck, who was smiling.

  Michael glanced at his wife. “I need to get back to work early tomorrow morning.” He looked at Edgar. “It’s been a pleasure.” He reached across the table to shake hands.

  Walter glanced over at Beck. “Edgar has an early flight. We’d better be goin’.”

  Edgar pushed his chair back and inadvertently bumped into the soldier with the bruised face.

  “Watch it, boy!” the paratrooper said.

  Ernie turned to the paratrooper. “Back off!”

  The paratrooper with the arm in a sling smiled. “Save it for the Nazis, George.”

  Sharon stood up and looked at Edgar. “Let’s get some air.”

  She led the way outside as Milton, Michael, Walter, and Ernie reached into their pockets to pay the bill. Sharon, Linda, Edgar, and Etta stepped outside into the evening air, where the sun painted each brick, each leaf, a slightly richer hue.

  Edgar said, “Thank you for dinner.”

  The paratrooper with the bruised face shoved the door open. It smashed against the wall, rebounded, and hit him in the face. He reached up with his hand and wiped at a bloody nose.

  Sharon took Edgar’s elbow. “Let’s walk.”

  “Where I come from, you’d be called white trash!” the paratrooper said.

  Edgar released Sharon’s arm as he turned. The paratrooper balanced on drunken legs. He raised his fists. “Gonna teach you a lesson, blue gums!”

  Another American came through the door. “George!”

  George took a swing at Edgar, missed, and fell to his knees. Beck stood in the doorway. He reached for his pistol. “I’ll shoot the next one who throws a punch.”

  Linda pointed at George. “He’s the only one throwing punches.”

  George got to his feet and swung. He hit Edgar on the side of the face. Edgar reacted with a backhanded slap that sent George backwards into the other paratrooper.

  There was an explosion. Sharon caught the stink of gunpowder and blood. Edgar reached up to his chest. Beck kept his pistol aimed at Edgar as he fell to the ground.

  The paratrooper with the arm in a sling shouted, “Medic!”

  Sharon watched Edgar roll onto his back. She dropped to her knees beside him. His eyes stared at her. A paratrooper knelt across from her and put his hand to Edgar’s neck. She heard Michael say, “Put the gun away!”

  The paratrooper kneeling across from her said, “No pulse.”

  For the next hour, Sharon watched the comings and goings with detachment.

  The paratroopers gathered together and made coffee runs to sober up George, who vomited into the hedge at ten-minute intervals.

  A squad of MPs arrived and began to talk with Beck.

  Ernie and Walter wept openly and unashamedly. Etta did what she could to comfort them.

  A military truck arrived, and two soldiers stepped out, put Edgar’s body on a stretcher, slid it into the back of the truck, closed the tailgate, and drove away.

  She felt Michael’s arm around her shoulder, but only heard the occasional word that he said.

  Linda sat at an outside table next to Milton. She leaned forward with her hands on her knees, and he rubbed her back.

  A drab green Buick drove up. There was a single white star on the door. The driver climbed out and opened the rear door. A colonel stepped out. His hair was cut short. He placed a peaked cap on his head. He marched to the gathering of MPs. “What happened?” he asked.

  “There was a fight,” the senior MP replied. “Beck told them to stop or he would shoot. The coloured soldier didn’t stop. Beck fired.”

  “That’s it?”

  The MPs nodded.

  “Carry on.” The colonel turned and returned to the staff car.

  Sharon felt her rage detonate. “You!” She pointed at the colonel and ran to intercept him.

  The colonel stopped, turned, and glared.

  Sharon closed the gap to less than three feet. She read his nametag: WILSON. “Colonel Wilson! Edgar Washington was unarmed. He was shot and killed in cold blood. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Wilson looked down his nose at her.

  “Flight Captain Lacey.” Sharon stepped closer so that there was only a foot between them.

  Colonel Wilson smiled at her. “Well, Flight Captain Lacey, this is what I’m gonna do. There’s a war on. It’s not gonna stop because some coloured boy got himself shot!” He turned his back to her and climbed into the Buick. The driver closed the door, and Sharon watched them drive away.

  CHAPTER 15

  [SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1944]

  “Any news?” Ernie sat with his arms across his chest. A cup of coffee steamed on the table in front of him. He leaned back in a chair in a corner of the White Waltham dispersal hut.

  Sharon sat down across from him with her coffee and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “Some.”

  Ernie looked at the black under his fingernails and hid them under the table. Then he leaned forward, causing the front legs of his chair to hit the floor. He lifted t
he coffee cup to his lips, sipped, put the cup down, then hid his hand under the table.

  “Michael’s been working on it from his end, and I should hear from him later today. I’ve made a series of phone calls. I have to check with Mother to see if there were any other replies while I was away doing that delivery.” She lifted the folded triangles of wax paper and flipped the sandwich over.

  “Other replies?” Ernie took his left hand up from under the table for another sip.

  “So far I’ve been told that the Americans are our allies, and since it involves their personnel, it’s their issue to deal with.” Sharon looked at the sandwich and wondered where her appetite had gone.

  “There a Lacey here? I’ve got a replacement for you!” The American voice boomed off the walls, causing every head in the room to turn. An MP stood at the door. As he moved inside, Walter Coleman followed behind.

  Sharon stood up. “I’m Lacey.”

  The MP held out an envelope. “Colonel Wilson has sent you a replacement.”

  “Wally?” Sharon waited for Walter to meet her gaze. “You okay with this?”

  Walter nodded, then looked sideways at the MP.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Sharon reached out and took the envelope. “Join us for coffee, Wally?” She walked over, fetched a cup of coffee, and turned. “Are you hungry, Wally?” She ignored the stone faces of the MP and Lady Ginette.

  And for the first time in months, Sharon felt clarity. From now on, I’m going to run this place the way it needs to be run. I don’t care if there’s a war on. You bigoted bastards can go to hell!

  CHAPTER 16

  [SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1944]

  “Priority delivery.” Mother handed Sharon the chit. “617 Squadron. They need another of those modified Lancasters.”

  Sharon looked at the piece of paper. “Lossiemouth?”

  “Almost as far north in Scotland as you can go.” Mother smiled. “Think of it as a small vacation.”

  Sharon looked at the empty dispersal hut. “Everyone is off on a trip?”

  “One of our busy days.” Mother smiled at his little joke. Every day had become a busy day.

  Half an hour later, Sharon found herself in the back seat of an elegant, lumbering de Havilland Rapide. The biplane always reminded her of a dragonfly. She sat and watched the walled fields and gentle hills amble by beneath as they flew north and west to the Avro Factory at Chadderton. Its massive rectangle of attached buildings was visible from at least twenty miles out.

  Thirty minutes later, Sharon was hefting her gear through the back door of the Lancaster as she maneuvered her way along the obstacle course leading to the cockpit. A mechanic followed her inside and waited while she got herself settled in the pilot’s seat.

  “I expect you’ll find this one is lighter than the others you’ve flown. The mid-upper turret has been removed, and so has some of the armour.” He handed her the paperwork, she signed off, and he made his way out the back. She began her preflight checks. After finishing, she looked up through the canopy that was a greenhouse of Perspex. It allowed the sunshine to warm this autumn day.

  She looked out her side of the canopy and slid open the side window when she spotted the mechanic near the nose of the Lancaster. She said, “Clear!” then began the process of starting each of the four massive Merlin engines.

  Within ten minutes, she was headed north again, this time to the west coast of Scotland.

  Sharon felt herself easing into the familiar routine of checking the sky for other aircraft with momentary glances at the instruments to ensure that all was well with the Lancaster.

  When Glasgow was on her left and the North Sea on her right, a routine check of her gauges revealed a potential problem: the starboard engine on the inside was running hot. She looked right and saw the upper wing behind the engine was slick with a sheen of oil.

  She checked the engine’s oil pressure gauge. It was lower than the pressure on the other three engines. I’m about an hour from Inverness. Do I land at Glasgow or carry on?

  She took another glance at the gauges for the starboard engine. The temperature gauge nudged into the red. The oil pressure continued its gradual drop that promised to end at zero.

  Sharon took a long, slow breath to calm her nerves and began to shut down the engine before it could overheat and catch fire. She feathered the prop and stopped the oil-starved engine.

  By the time she had dealt with the emergency, Glasgow was out of sight and behind her. The Lancaster seemed quite content flying on three engines, and she kept a close eye on the gauges for the remaining engines. If I lose another one, I’m definitely going to have to find a place set down right away.

  Her eyes continued to sweep the horizon and check the gauges, sweep the horizon and check the gauges, sweep the horizon and check the gauges for the next forty-five minutes. She spotted the familiar tongue of land sticking out into the North Sea. Then she recognized the lopsided cross of RAF Lossiemouth’s runways. This baby is running just fine; no need to get on the radio. Jerry will be listening in. She throttled back and began her pre-landing checklist.

  She dropped the first stage of flaps, adjusted the controls and began to sweat as the Lancaster made her earn her pay for the second time that day. Sharon checked the circuit for other aircraft, saw none, and decided the best option at this point was to use a long, straight approach. She lowered the landing gear. The radio crackled in her ears: “Lancaster on long finals. Are you declaring an emergency?”

  The controller must have spotted the feathered prop. She flicked the send switch. “Negative.”

  She concentrated on the landing. You really don’t want the excitement of doing a touch-and-go on three engines.

  The Lancaster touched down on its main gear. Sharon kept the tail up, then lowered it gently and was relieved that the tail wheel hadn’t decided it was time to wobble. A wobbling tail wheel was a decidedly unpleasant experience in a Lancaster. It made the ship shudder from stem to stern.

  Using the outboard engines and brakes, she taxied to the largest hangar and shut down. After she finished her checks, she raised her head to see that the Lancaster was surrounded by a quartet of vehicles.

  When she opened the rear door, a hand was waiting to help her exit the aircraft. A man in uniform with short dark hair and a long slender face stood next to a Jeep and waved her over. As she approached the man, she heard a voice say, “That’s not Lady Gannet!”

  Sharon took a closer look at the man next to the Jeep. He’s a Wing Commander. What is going on here?

  The man held out his hand. “Willy Tate.”

  She hoisted her parachute and bag to her left shoulder and took his hand. “Sharon Lacey.”

  “The controller spotted the dead engine and thought it best to send out the crash crew.” He released her hand and walked over nearer to the starboard wing. “It appears that you have an oil leak.”

  “The pressure was dropping and the temperature rose. So I shut it down. What’s all the fuss about?”

  Tate watched as the crash vehicles started up and left. A man in blue coveralls walked out of the hangar and looked at Tate, who said, “The starboard inner has an oil leak. Is it possible for this one to be ready for tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see what we can do, sir.”

  Tate turned to Sharon. “Can I give you a lift to the NAFFI wagon?”

  Sharon nodded. “I’d still like to know what all the fuss was about. I didn’t declare an emergency.”

  Tate talked as they walked to the Jeep. “Six months ago, and before my time, an ATA pilot had a problem with her fuel cocks. One of her engines shut down due to fuel starvation. It turned out that she’d inadvertently shut off the fuel to one of the engines.”

  Sharon put her parachute and bag in the back of the Jeep.

  “She landed safely and she stopped over there.” Tate pointed to the end of the runway.

  Sharon climbed into the Jeep.

  Tate sat behind the wheel and hit the start
er. “The pilot was in such a state that she had to be carried off the Anson, put on a stretcher, and taken in an ambulance to the infirmary. A series of dramatic events ensued which were, apparently, quite spectacular.”

  Sharon held on as he shifted up through the gears.

  “After she left, the Group Commander received a number of calls from well-placed individuals voicing their concern that we hadn’t taken the pilot’s plight seriously enough. And after that, we were instructed to make sure that nothing like that ever happened again.” Tate turned onto a road running between two hangars. “So, when the controller heard a woman’s voice and saw that she piloted a Lancaster with one of its engines out, he called for the crash crew just to be on the safe side.”

  “Lady Gannet?” Sharon asked.

  “Yes, that’s her nickname. Apparently, she was quite big-breasted and sounded remarkably like a squawking bird, so she’s become notorious hereabouts.” Tate turned left, pulled up in at the NAAFI wagon, and stopped.

  “Lady Gannet? Lady Ginette Elam?” Sharon climbed out of the Jeep.

  “So I’ve been told.” Tate turned the engine off and followed Sharon to the grey truck with its open side hatch and rear doors. Two pilots turned and saluted Tate. He returned their greetings.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Sharon said.

  “A distinct pleasure for me. My fiancée is a WAAF. You’re a bit of a legend with them. They say you’re an ace.” Tate put a hand on the side of the NAFFI truck. “What do you take in your coffee?”

  Sharon smiled. “Cream and sugar, please.”

  CHAPTER 17

  [SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1944]

  Sharon looked at the backs of her hands. They’re black from the fire! She turned them over and saw that the palms were pink.

  Her nose filled with the stink of burning hair, gasoline, and flesh. She stepped over the body of a German pilot who stared up at her with dead eyes. He’s only eighteen or nineteen. There were more bodies to step over. All but one wore a flight helmet. Most wore tan flight suits. A few wore black leather jackets. One face had the top of its skull blown off. The eyes were gone, but the nose and the mouth remained. Sharon stepped over another body, then looked ahead.