Two Blackbirds (11 page)
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.
“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 the 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!
“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 starter. “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.”
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.
The flames framed a pathway to escape. She began to walk along the corridor. The heat made it feel like her clothing was about to burst into flame.
Sharon looked up. Beck stood there with his sidearm aimed at her chest. She covered her eyes when she saw the muzzle flash.
“Sharon!”
She felt someone sitting next to her.
“Sharon!” Linda said.
“What?”
“You're having a nightmare. You woke me up! It's three o'clock in the bloody morning!”
“This came for you.”
Mother handed her a letter. “It came last evening, and I wasn't here when you returned.” He looked outside at the inky blackness of the early morning and smelled the threat of rain.
“Thank you.” The letter was from Sir Gerard d'Erlanger. Sharon flipped the envelope over and stuck a fingernail under the flap. She opened the letter, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat down at an empty table in an empty room.
DEAR FLIGHT CAPTAIN SHARON LACEY,
THIS IS IN RESPONSE TO YOUR LETTER OF OCTOBER 22ND, 1944.
REPEATED ATTEMPTS HAVE BEEN MADE BY THIS OFFICE TO GATHER
INFORMATION CONCERNING THE EVENTS SURROUNDING THE DEATH
OF UNITED STATES AIR FORCE AIRMAN EDGAR WASHINGTON. ENQUIRIES
HAVE BEEN MADE AT THE HIGHEST LEVELS, AND TO NO AVAIL.
THE RESPONSIBILITY FOR MAKING DECISIONS AS TO THE CONDUCT
OF SERGEANT EDWIN BECK LIES WITH THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE
UNITED STATES. THOSE REPRESENTATIVES HAVE STEADFASTLY VOICED
THE OPINION THAT THIS MATTER WILL BE DEALT WITH THROUGH UNITED
STATES MILITARY PROTOCOLS. THEIR OFFICIAL POSITION IS THAT AIRMAN
WASHINGTON WAS WARNED OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS ACTIONS AND
CHOSE TO DISREGARD SAID WARNING. AS A RESULT, NO ACTION WILL BE
TAKEN AGAINST SERGEANT BECK.
SINCE WE ARE AT WAR AND THE UNITED STATES IS AN ALLY TO GREAT
BRITAIN, BRITISH AUTHORITIES ARE RELUCTANT TO TAKE UNILATERAL
ACTION IN THIS MATTER.
SINCERELY YOURS,
SIR GERARD D'ERLANGER
Sharon inhaled to quell her anger, folded the letter, and slipped it back inside the envelope. She took her time finishing her coffee.
Mother watched her from behind the counter. The phone sat next to him. It was unusually silent even for this early in the morning.
Sharon got up, poured Mother a cup of tea, and walked over to his counter. “Here you go. Looks like we might not be doing much flying today.”
“Thank you.” Mother slid the cup a little closer to inhale the aroma.
