Blackbirds (13 page)

“What's your poison?” asked the barman with the massive arms. “Call me Robert.”

“She'll have what I'm having.” Linda raised a pint and winked at Sharon. “Come on, there's a spot right here.” She pulled out the empty chair next to her.

Linda went around the table. “Willy, Ginger, Pat, and Richard.” Each of the men nodded or smiled as he was introduced.

Willy wore a patch over his eye. He was the only one of them who had a full head of hair. It hung to the right, leaving a bald patch over his left ear. He pointed at his eyepatch. “Lost my glass one. If you find it, please hand it over.”

“Of course.”
The wig looks ridiculous
,
yet no one seems to notice
, Sharon thought.

Robert put a pint in front of her. “One of Linda's
ATA
friends, are you?”

“That's right.” Sharon nodded.

“We hear you've got three Jerries to your credit,” Ginger said.

Sharon looked at Linda, who was smiling behind her pint. “We do some chatting in the pub. I was telling the truth, so don't get all upset with me. It's just pilot talk.”

Sharon shook her head and reached for her drink. As she lifted the glass, she thought,
It got awfully quiet in here
.

She looked over her glass and saw four and a half pairs of eyes on her. She tipped the glass and heard something clink at the bottom.

Willy smiled.

Sharon began to drink.

“Bottoms up!” Willy said.

“Cheers!” Ginger said.

Intuition provided Sharon with the most likely answer to their odd behaviour. She continued to drink deeply, slowing as she reached the bottom of the glass and hesitating for effect. She put her glass down, then reached inside her mouth.

“Find something?” Willy asked.

Sharon pulled out a glass orb, reached across the table, and dropped it into Willy's glass. “Ever have a prairie oyster?”

Willy asked, “Prairie what?”

She reached over, lifted his eyepatch, and stared into his other good eye. She pulled the patch back and then let it snap back against Willy's forehead.

“Ouch!” Willy rubbed his head.

Laughter erupted in the pub.

Sharon leaned back in her chair. The laughter ebbed. “When calves are branded in the spring, the young bulls are castrated. The testicles are kept and cooked with butter and onions in a frying pan. Quite tasty, actually. They're called prairie oysters.”

Robert thumped Sharon on the back and put another pint in front of her. “Finally! Someone's got the best of Willy!”

Linda winked at Sharon.

Ginger pounded the table with a fingerless hand.

Pat threw his head back and laughed some more.

Richard reached over and pulled Willy's wig off. “Now you're entirely exposed!”

An hour later, after Linda had been poured into the wheelchair, Sharon pushed from behind, using the chair for support.

“What are your intentions as far as Michael's concerned?” Linda asked.

“What?”
Where did that come from? He's your brother, he's handsome,
and I don't know how I feel when I'm around him. Although I do
look forward to seeing him again.

“I'm the last person you should play coy with. I owe you my life — well, at least my legs. And you owe me the truth.”

“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.