by Garry Ryan
“You didn’t tell me this before,” Linda said.
His eyes adopted the thousand-yard stare. “About six Typhoons caught the Germans on the road. The soldiers scrambled off of the tanks and ran into the trees. The Typhoons worked in a figure eight so that while one Typhoon attacked, there was another one getting lined up to fire its rockets or its cannons. One of the rockets hit a tank. The tank started to burn and the crew tried to get out. One guy was on fire. He tumbled out and fell onto the ground. Another guy was halfway out of the turret when the flames boiled out around him. He fell back inside. I’ve been on strafing runs like that, but I was never close enough to see what happens to the people on the ground. Some of the soldiers were hit by cannonfire. What was left looked more like hamburger than men.”
Milton looked at Linda. Linda put her hand on his shoulder. Sharon recognized the expression on his face. Help him out and change the subject. “How did you get through the lines?”
Milton’s tone changed, became more of a monotone. “I waited until I saw the American tanks coming up the road. By that time, all of the German soldiers were long gone. The Americans just went around the burned-out tank. After that came the GIs and a few Jeeps. The road was empty. I wrapped the parachute around my shoulders like it was a scarf or something, walked down to the road, and started walking away from the carnage. I ended up at some kind of field kitchen. I put my arms up, this GI pointed his rifle at me and asked, ‘Who the hell are you?’ I told him, ‘I’m a fucking Canadian.’
“The guy looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He lowered his rifle and asked me if I was hungry.” Milton looked at the chips. “I don’t think I’ve stopped eating since.”
CHAPTER 32
[THURSDAY, JANUARY 18, 1945]
“We need to talk.” Sharon stared at the black phone in Mother’s office. She toyed with the cord as she spoke into the receiver.
“About what?” Michael asked.
“Face to face.” Sharon thought about what he might be doing at this moment. All he would ever say about his work was that he “read the mail.”
“I don’t see how at the moment. We’re short of people. We’re gathering information about another horrible mess on the continent.”
Sharon heard exasperation in his voice and something else she’d not heard before: rage. “What’s happened?”
“We can’t talk over the phone.”
Sharon said, “Exactly.”
“There’s a bloody war on!”
Sharon took a breath and forced an artificial calm into her voice. “Yes, there is a war on. Yes, we are husband and wife. Yes, we need to meet face to face. And yes, the war can do without us for an hour or two.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Michael hung up.
Sharon slammed the phone down. “Shit!”
Mother was writing on his chalkboard when she came out of the office. “There’s a meeting tomorrow afternoon at Haddenham. Commodore D’Erlanger and Commander Gower request your attendance.”
Sharon put the back of her right hand to her cheek and felt the heat there.
Mother put the chalk down and faced her. “I was thinking that the Storch needs a trip. It would also require that you leave early in the morning with a stop for breakfast at Bletchley Park.”
So you were listening in! Sharon stood on her toes, hugged Mother around the neck, and got a whiff of pipe tobacco. “Thank you.”
“This afternoon, I believe Colonel McBride owes you an apology. His MPs exceeded their authority.” Mother raised his eyebrows. “You may use my phone again if you like.”
Sharon thought for a moment, then raised her index finger. “Would you please phone the good colonel, make sure he’s in, and say that I’m on my way?”
“A strategic move?” Mother went into his office to make the call.
Sharon went to get a cup of coffee.
A few minutes later, Mother joined her and poured himself a tea. “Colonel McBride will be expecting you within the hour. He asked what your visit was about, and I told him I was not privy to that information.”
“Good.” Sharon took a sip of coffee, put the cup down, and reached for her Irvine jacket. “Thank you, Mother. I’m off.”
It took a little under an hour to drive to the American base. She parked in front of a pair of pale green Quonset huts. They always reminded Sharon of bean cans buried in the ground with doors and windows cut into one end. She got out of the MG, closed the door, and thought about what she would say to McBride.
She opened the door and went inside the building on the left. A sergeant sat behind a desk. He wore a khaki-coloured uniform and a perfectly knotted tie, and had matching perfect teeth and a well-fed, round face. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Flight Captain Lacey to see Colonel McBride.” Sharon took off her Irvine jacket to reveal the blue of her uniform jacket.
The sergeant stood and opened a door to his left. “He’s expecting you.”
Sharon walked through the door. The sergeant closed it behind her.
Colonel McBride stood. His grey hair was cut shorter than she remembered. The brick wall behind him was decorated with paintings of a knight on a white horse and a damsel having her hand kissed by an admirer. “What can I do for you?”
Sharon was startled by his aggressive tone. She was even more unprepared for what he did next.
He handed her a pad of lined yellow paper and a pencil. Then he held up another pad on which he’d written: THE SERGEANT IS LISTENING. MY PREDECESSOR MADE A POINT OF SURROUNDING HIMSELF WITH BIGOTS. McBride flipped to the second page. BACK HOME, MEN LIKE HIM WOULD HANG A NEGRO FOR ENTERTAINMENT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT. McBride frowned. “Well? Get to the point!”
Sharon thought, Play along. “What were your MPs doing at White Waltham yesterday?”
“Their jobs! One of my men was killed! They were there to investigate his death!” McBride turned his palms up to indicate she should raise the volume. He was a conductor in front of a one-person orchestra. “Well? Speak up!”
“You fuckin’ Yanks murder one of my men and do nothing. His killer dies in an accident, and you get your Yankee knickers in a knot!” Sharon raised her eyebrows.
McBride nodded and mouthed the word ‘better.’ “My MPs have every right to question your mechanic!”
Sharon wrote on her pad and held it up. WHAT DO WE DO NEXT? “Like hell they do!”
“You get out of the way of justice!” McBride wrote on his pad.
“The hell I will!” Sharon waited.
McBride held up his notepad. YOU NEED TO TRANSFER SHANE. “I will do whatever the hell I please! You can’t protect him forever!”
Sharon wrote as she spoke. “Just watch me!” She held up her paper. YOU NEED TO HAVE WALTER TRANSFERRED TO THE 332ND.
McBride nodded. “Get the hell out!”
“This isn’t over!” Sharon turned, dropped the yellow pad on McBride’s desk, winked at him, and made sure to slam the door on her way out. She didn’t need to fake the glare she aimed at the desk sergeant.
CHAPTER 33
[FRIDAY, JANUARY 19, 1945]
Sharon eased the single-engined Storch over a stand of trees and dropped down onto a pasture running alongside Bletchley Park. From the air, it was a collection of peaked roofs, brick and stone buildings, and manicured grounds. It was west and north of London, a quiet patch in war-ravaged Europe.
The Storch thumped over the uneven ground and stopped. Sharon checked the gauges, shut down the engine, then turned off the switches. She took off her helmet, opened the side door, and stared along the black barrel of a Sten gun.
“Hands up!” The commando behind the machine gun lifted the weapon for effect.
Sharon did as she was told. Christ, you’ve landed beside a top-secret installation in a Nazi plane. What the hell were you expecting?
“Get out!” The commando wore a green beret, cold green eyes, a black moustache, a pair of ammunition pouches, and sergeant stripes.
Sharon
climbed out and stood there with her hands up. Just keep your mouth shut! Her stomach heaved. She belched.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I came to see my husband, Michael Townsend.” Shit! Why can’t you keep your mouth shut?
The commando lowered his weapon and smiled to reveal crooked teeth. “Well, why didn’t you say that? Michael said his wifey might drop in some day. Just never said when. And he never said you’d be flying a Nazi crate like this one.” He nodded at the Storch, turned, and waved for her to follow. “They used one of those to rescue Mussolini. Didn’t work out so well for him in the long run.”
Sharon promptly threw up on the grass.
The commando turned back, patted her on the back, and held her ponytail. “Havin’ a gun shoved in your face will do that.”
Sharon straightened up, spat, and wiped her sleeve across her mouth. This baby isn’t even born, and it’s already causing trouble. “Thank you.” She followed the commando to a building that looked like a random collection of bricks, stones, windows, and a silver-green cupola stuck on for added confusion. The metal on the soles of the commando’s boots tapped the stone floor as he led her into the front entrance. “The missus is here to see Michael Townsend,” he announced. He turned, took Sharon’s hand, shook it, and marched out.
The woman at the desk wore a dark grey military jacket and skirt. She stood. “Follow me.” The woman’s bobbed auburn hair bounced as she went up the stairs to an office. She knocked.
“Come in!” Michael said.
The door opened and Sharon stood face to face with her husband. There were strands of grey in his strawberry blonde hair and dark smudges under his blue eyes. “Sharon?”
There was the sound of retreating footsteps as the woman in grey went back to her station.
“I’m on my way to Haddenham and stopped by to say hello.” Sharon felt his arms around her waist as he drew her close and kissed her.
Michael backed away and pulled her inside an office with one solid wall of windows that filled the room with morning light. He shut the door. “Are you feeling all right?”
Sharon put her hand to her mouth. My breath smells of vomit! “Sorry about that.”
“I must apologize for being so short on the phone. I can understand why you’d want to divorce me. We’ve hardly spent any time together since getting married.” Michael stood in the middle of the room.
He looks like a whipped dog. “Divorced? What are you talking about?” Sharon felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You said we had to meet face-to-face. It sounded like an ultimatum.”
Sharon saw the tears in his eyes. The poor guy’s miserable. Just tell him. “I’m pregnant.”
Michael frowned, looked to his right, appeared to be doing mental math, and leaned back against his desk. He stared at her with an open mouth. “That’s why?”
“Why?” Sharon turned her head to the side. God, it’s hot in here. She unzipped her Irvine jacket.
“Why we needed to meet. Why we couldn’t talk over the phone.” His chin fell to his chest. “This is totally unexpected.”
“In a good way or a bad way?” Sharon felt a sudden apprehension. “In the best possible way!” He pushed himself forward and threw his arms into the air. “There have been reports coming in. Horrible things. Things I can’t believe even in war. Camps. Exterminations. The numbers are unbelievable. I knew we were fighting a ruthless enemy in the Nazis, but this is worse than even I could have imagined. We’d had inklings of course, but now — now we have the proof.” He picked up a folder of photographs, looked at Sharon, and put the photographs back on his desk. “These made me feel there was no hope because the numbers are. . . the numbers are obscene.” He looked at Sharon, leaned back, and pushed his right hand though his hair. “You must think I’m mad.”
Sharon smiled. “Now that you mention it. . .”
Michael reached for his cigarettes.
Sharon shook her head. “Can we go outside? I get queasy in the mornings, and cigarettes make me nauseous.”
Michael nodded.
Sharon moved in close and hugged him. “What do you do here?”
Michael tucked his chin next to her neck. “You know that’s a secret.”
“I know.” She inhaled the scent of him. It was a mixture of tobacco, hair oil, and his special scent.
He put his lips close to her ear. “We read Hitler’s mail.”
Sharon tried to absorb what he’d just revealed to her. How? “Can we go outside?”
Michael grabbed his jacket and followed her down the stairs. The woman at the front desk nodded at them as they passed. Michael and Sharon entered the passageway with the arched ceiling that led outside. They crossed the driveway and walked onto an expanse of grass dotted with trimmed evergreens.
Sharon looked out toward the Storch and caught a glimpse of the commando who was tucked behind a tree and almost invisible. She pointed. “Who’s that?”
Michael followed her gaze. “Donald. He’s been here for a few months. Fought in North Africa, Italy, and Normandy. Tough as nails. Soft as a baby’s hair.”
“He met me when I landed,” Sharon said.
“Donald doesn’t miss much of what happens around here.”
Sharon tucked her arm into Michael’s elbow. “Neither do you.”
“It looks like the Nazis are almost spent. They’ve all but lost the Battle of the Bulge. The losses on both sides were massive. We can replace our casualties; Hitler cannot. The Russians are closing in from the east, and we’re ready to push into Germany from the west. This war could be over by the summer. Just in time for the baby.” Michael looked east, as if he could hear the distant pounding of the guns and the clatter of tracked vehicles.
“I sometimes can’t remember what it was like before there was war.” Sharon looked up at the sky as a pair of Mosquitoes flew at ten thousand feet.
Michael nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
“About what?” Sharon faced him.
“Maybe we should move to Canada after this is all over.”
There was a copy of the American newspaper Stars and Stripes sitting on the oak table surrounded by four chairs. The room was inside a small outbuilding at the edge of the Haddenham Airfield. The woman who ushered Sharon into the austere room asked, “Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please.” Sharon unfolded one of the newspapers.
Beneath the masthead on the newspaper was a headline: “Bringing Our Boys Home: An Allied Effort.” Beneath the headline was a photo of Linda, Walter, Sharon, Rollins, and two nurses. Sharon smiled when she saw that Walter was identified as Edgar Washington.
The door opened and Gerard d’Erlanger entered the room. A moment later, Pauline Gower arrived. Gerard had dark hair, a handsome face, and a businesslike approach. Pauline wore slacks, had her hands in her pockets, and kept her hair cut short. She smiled with her trademark gap-toothed grin.
Sharon nodded and stood at attention. “Good afternoon.”
“You’re looking well, Sharon.” Pauline shook hands with her.
Gerard shook hands then sat down at the head of the table. “Glad you were able to meet with us today.”
Pauline sat down between Sharon and Gerard.
Gerard pointed at the newspaper in front of him. “You and your crew did yeoman service and provided the ATA with some much-needed publicity. The role played by our pilots is often forgotten.”
Pauline tuned to Sharon. “There have been a number of laudatory comments made through channels about the article, and a personal thank you was relayed from General Eisenhower. Apparently, Eleanor Roosevelt was also very impressed by your accomplishment.”
“I had a very good crew. Linda Townsend and I shared the flying duties. She also charmed the reporters in America. Walter Coleman was indispensible. He was able to procure medicine that saved at least one life.” Sharon felt herself beginning to sweat u
nder the uniform jacket.
“I’m glad you mentioned Airman Coleman. We’ve had a concern expressed about the involvement of Coleman and Shane in the death of an American sergeant.” d’Erlanger checked his notebook. “Name of Beck.”
“Beck murdered one of my men.” Sharon felt her anger rising. Keep your mind clear and your voice calm!
Pauline touched Sharon’s sleeve. “Yes, I remember that you made persistent attempts to have Beck charged with the killing of Washington.”
Sharon nodded. “Edgar Washington was unarmed and was murdered in front of me.”
“A regrettable incident,” d’Erlanger said.
“Very.” Sharon heard the sarcasm in her voice and felt Pauline’s fist punch her knee under the table.
D’Erlanger frowned. “As you can well imagine, maintaining cooperation between the various Allied groups has been a bit of a challenge at times. I would hate to see anything happen that might spoil the goodwill created by your flight to America.”
Say it now! “I would recommend that Ernie Shane be promoted and returned to Canada as an instructor. He is a talented mechanic who has managed to safely maintain a variety of aircraft and improve the safety record at White Waltham.”
Pauline Gower seemed to tense up, but kept her eyes on d’Erlanger.
D’Erlanger frowned and looked out the window. “A very wise move, I think. Remove Shane from the scene. How about this Coleman?” D’Erlanger pointed at the photograph. “Or Washington. Which is it?”
“Coleman. I’ve been assured that he will be transferred to the 332nd in Italy,” Sharon said.
“I’m not familiar with that group.” d’Erlanger studied Sharon.
“A fighter group called the Red Tails who operate out of Ramitelli Airfield.” Sharon maintained eye contact with her superior.
“I see. Both will be removed from the scene. A suitably diplomatic solution to a touchy problem, I should think.” D’Erlanger stood up. “A very satisfactory meeting.” He left the room.
Pauline turned to face her. Sharon thought, How come he left so quickly? “Another matter requires his attention,” Pauline said.
