[ 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.
“Go!” O’Malley took her by the elbow.
She ran to the corner of the hangar with her parachute banging at the backs of her legs and stopped to turn and see if he was behind her when she reached the corner. Christ, I didn’t take my parachute off.
O’Malley was on the fighter’s wing again. He was helping the pilot out of his Spitfire.
Her father and the pilot jumped down off the wing.
A string of bombs exploded with one deafening crump after another. Clods of earth and clouds of dust were thrown into the air.
A Dornier 17, with its glass nose and green-grey camouflage, was fifty feet off the ground and headed their way. She could see the gunner as he opened up. White-tailed tracer bullets reached out to them.
Some bullets whizzed overtop of the Spitfire. Others whined past her as they skipped off the concrete. One ricocheted past her nose.
Sharon dropped down to one knee and watched Patrick as he turned to run toward her.
She saw a startled look come over her father’s face.
O’Malley fell onto his knees and coughed up blood. He leaned forward. His head touched the ground. There were two holes in the back of his coveralls.
“Run, you daft bitch!” The pilot ran past Sharon.
O’Malley rolled onto his side.
This isn’t happening. Sharon jumped up and ran to her father.
The Dornier screamed overhead with its guns still firing. The ground heaved as a bomb exploded on the other side of the hangar. Sharon was knocked to the ground. She crawled forward on her hands and knees.
Another Dornier flew over the runway and dropped its bombs.
Sharon crawled next to her father and looked down. She smelled copper and iron. Her father’s blood was pooling on the concrete. Blood covered his chest and chin. His eyes stared past her.
She bent over to touch his forehead. He did not react.
His eyes remained open.
Sharon dropped the soccer ball and looked at the Spitfire. She looked down at O’Malley. He stared at infinity.
The anti-aircraft gun fired. Sharon felt the concussion against her ribs and looked to her right. The woman sitting at the trigger was pointing and screaming. Sharon looked up. One of the bombers was trailing smoke and fire. It lost altitude as it flew north and west.
Sharon raced to the Spitfire, climbed onto the wing, and eased herself into the cockpit.
She put on her Sutton harness.
Going through her preflight checks, she primed the engine.
“Clear!” The voice sounded like it came from someone else.
One of the aircraftsmen operated the starter balanced on an oversized pair of wheels.
Another bomb exploded.
She switched on. The shockwave from the bomb made the Spitfire rock from side to side. The propeller turned. The engine coughed black smoke. It hesitated, then caught, and she eased the throttle forward.
The aircraftsman disengaged the starter and rolled it away. He waved at her before running for cover.
Sharon applied rudder.
To her left, she saw a straight line without any bomb craters and enough room for her takeoff. She swung the nose around and lined up.
“Throttle!”
The Spitfire accelerated. She looked up.
The first wave of low-level bombers was gone.
She aimed for a stand of trees at the far side of the field. She pushed the stick forward. The tail lifted. She looked along either side of the nose, trying to spot any bomb craters.
The wheels skipped along the grass. She eased back on the stick, applied the brakes, and retracted the undercarriage.
Grief reached up with its hot hands and threatened to overwhelm her. It was difficult to breathe. She reached for the oxygen mask and put it on.
Sharon went through her checks: pitch, mixture, undercarriage, engine temperature, oxygen, gun sight. . . For Christ’s sake, turn on the gun sight. Shit! Where is it? She found the switch and turned it on.
Sharon caught a glint of sunlight on the Perspex. To her right, a pair of twin-engined Dornier bombers were rising and falling over the contours of the ground as they ran away from Biggin Hill and back to France.
“Get in close, short bursts, watch your tail.” She said it over and over again.
“Watch out for the Hun in the sun!” She held up two fingers in the middle of the sun’s glare and checked for predators.
She climbed to get above the Dorniers. To hide in the sun.
Two thousand feet above them, she looked up and checked the mirror, then the sky on either side. “Go!” She dove in a long split S turn to get on the tail of the trailing bomber.
She glanced to see her thumb on the trigger. Get close and use short bursts, just like Jock told you.
The controls were getting heavier as her speed increased.
The wings of the trailing Dornier filled the rings of the gun sight. She waited, then fired a short burst. She felt the recoil of eight machine guns. The Spitfire slowed.
The tracer bullets fell in a gentle arc below the bomber’s tail.
She raised the nose and was dragged down into the seat as the G forces increased.
Another short burst.
The tracer bullets ripped into the fuselage and worked their way up into the cockpit. The bomber turned right. Bits of debris floated behind the Nazi.
Sharon pulled away, turned, and gained altitude. She looked down.
The first Dornier nosed into the ground. A mushroom of flame and black smoke rose into the sky. Sharon looked for the leading bomber.
There! It was turning beneath her, trying to hide in the blind spot under her belly.
She reversed her turn, rolled onto her back, and dove to get on the Dornier’s tail.
This time, tracer bullets reached out to her as the gunner behind the cockpit fired in defense. She wove right and left as she gained on the Dornier.
This time, she got in closer and attacked from one side.
Sharon aimed for where the fuselage met the graceful wings. She could see the yellow paint on the engine cowlings and the black crosses on the wingtips.
Her thumb pressed the trigger.
This time, she was expecting the recoil from the machine guns as the Spitfire slowed. The tracer bullets dove into the fuselage and into the glass cockpit. The enemy gunner stopped firing.
She touched the rudder. The bullets walked across the wing and hit the bomber’s engine. Black smoke and flame erupted.
“Too close!” Sharon leaned hard right on the stick, pulled out, and climbed. She held her breath until the g-forces eased.
She looked below. The second Dornier turned on its back, hit a stand of trees, and exploded.
Sharon checked the sky, turned, and climbed.
Above, a second wave of bombers approached Biggin Hill. She checked the sun for any fighters hiding above her.
The Spitfire climbed steadily until it was between the sun and the higher-level formation of twin-engined German bombers. She recognized the silhouettes of Junkers 88s. She weaved in and out, continually checking above and behind her Spitfire for enemy fighters.
She looked down at the formation. The Junkers 88 has guns in its belly, but not in its tail.
Sharon eased the stick forward and turned left to get into position behind the formation. She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Clear.”
She used the speed of the dive to catch up with the last bomber. These Junkers are fast. Remember, short bursts. There can’t be much ammunition left.
Sharon gained on the trailing bomber. She saw its black crosses and radial engines. She lightly tapped the rudder and pressed the button.
Her tracer bullets hit the bomber between the right engine and the cockpit. Debris flew back at her. She pulled right, then left.
As she passed the bomber, she saw flame licking back along the wing from a ruptured fuel tank. The bomber dropped out of formation. A body fell away, then another. One parachute blossomed.
She attacked the next bomber from the opposite side. Her first brief burst fell well behind the bomber. The Junkers turned away from her. She followed — aiming for the spot in the sky where the Junkers was headed — and fired.
It flew into the tracer. A shudder went through the aircraft.
Sharon fired another burst. The bomber filled her windscreen.
As she flew over the bomber’s right wing, Sharon glanced left and saw blood spattered inside the shattered cockpit. The crippled Junkers dove for the earth.
She pulled back on the stick. The weight of the g-forces induced a wave of nausea.
A flashback of her father coughing blood and his empty, staring eyes made her shudder with the realization that the same thing had just happened to the men in the bomber.
She gained altitude. “One more attack.” Sharon looked up into the sun.
A pair of wing tips appeared at the edges of the sun’s blinding core.
Here it comes! Her mind filled with a profound sense of clarity. Don’t dive. He’ll have you then. She turned and climbed to face the fighter diving down out of the sun.
In this head-on rush, the closing speed was over five hundred miles an hour.
She hunched down, pulled her shoulders in tight. Tracer bullets passed over the top of her canopy.
Sharon fired. The Spitfire slowed with the recoil. Her guns stopped firing. “Shit! I’m out of ammunition!”
The pale belly of the Messerschmitt flashed overhead. Its engine coughed smoke.
Sharon rolled her Spitfire onto its back. Dust and a clot of mud from the floor fell upward against the canopy. Her eyes watched the dirt as it bounced against the Perspex, then fell into her lap when she righted her aircraft to follow the Messerschmitt 109. It was half a mile ahead and trailing a white line of coolant and smoke.
Sharon gradually closed the distance. If I get on his tail, he won’t be able to shoot at me. He can’t know that I’m out of ammunition.
The Messerschmitt 109 turned east.
Sharon turned with him. He continued the turn and headed inland.
Sharon found herself within a quarter mile and closing rapidly. His engine must be packing it in.
She throttled back and closed to within one hundred yards. His cockpit was at the centre of her ring site. She saw him looking back over his shoulder.
Sharon closed to seventy-five yards. Spatters of oil from the 109’s engine appeared on her windscreen.
The 109 turned right. She followed and closed. There was a whiff of the German’s exhaust mixed in with the stink of burning rubber and oil.
Something flew back from the Messerschmitt. Sharon watched his canopy float up and over her Spitfire.
A large piece of debris fell away from the enemy aircraft.
Wham!
The Spitfire began shuddering. The control stick hit her hard on the inside of her right knee. She grabbed it with both hands.
She looked ahead.
The 109 was gone.
She throttled back. The vibration eased.
Sharon looked for a place to land and saw Biggin Hill to the west. Columns of smoke rose up from the airfield.
Ease the throttle back some more. Go through your pre-landing checks.
She tapped the throttle back and set the flaps at one quarter. “There,” she said as the vibration became even less pronounced.
“Wheels down.” As her airspeed dropped further, Sharon felt the aircraft returning to her control.
“Throttle all the way back.” The vibration almost disappeared.
When she knew she was going to make the runway, she slid back the canopy. “Pick a line that won’t put you into a bomb crater.” Sharon pulled back on the stick and held the fighter off until it stalled at four or five inches off of the runway. The wheels kissed the ground. She rolled up to within fifty feet of her father’s hangar and shut down.
She released her harness and opened the door. Sharon looked to her left. Patrick’s body lay under a blanket on the concrete apron in front of the hangar. She climbed out onto the wing.
“What the hell have you been up to?”
Sharon looked in the direction of the voice. She spotted William. He had his hands on his hips. His face was streaked with dirt and tears.
Sharon shrugged and looked away from her father’s body.
William pushed back his brown hair. “What happened to your propeller, and who fired those guns?”
Sharon looked at the propeller. One blade was bent back by ten or fifteen degrees, and the spinner was gone. That explains the vibration.
“Well?” William asked. “Who fired the guns?”
Sharon looked at him. “I did.”
“Did you get one of the bastards?”
Sharon found herself looking at her hands. “Actually, more than one.”
William wasn’t looking at her. He pointed at the nose of her Spitfire. He walked closer.
Sharon stepped to the ground and walked around the wing. She could hear the engine ticking as it cooled.
William pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped it along the underside of the engine cowling.
“What is it?”
“What did you hit?” William asked.
“Two Dorniers and two Junkers. There was a 109 as well, but I didn’t see what happened to him. I got in behind him, but by then I was out of ammunition. A chunk of debris fell off of him, and I flew right into it.” Sharon caught the scent of something wafting around the aircraft. It smelled familiar. Her mouth filled with saliva.
William turned to look at her. “You shot down four?”
Sharon shrugged. “Yes. I did.”
“But what did you hit?” William opened the rag. It was stained with blood.
Sharon sagged. Oh my God. She looked under her Spitfire. Red drops were falling on the concrete.
“How close were you to his tail?”
His canopy came off, then something hit the propeller of my aircraft.
“It looks like a Jerry pilot went through your propeller.” He bent down to look under her wing. “There’s a piece of him stuck in the radiator.”
Sharon shook her head. The grief of her father’s death, the horror of what she’d done, all of it seemed to hit her like a blow to the chest. She found it difficult to breathe.
“Come over here.” William sat her down at the side of the hangar in one of two chairs leaning up against the grey brick wall. “Back in a tick.”
Sharon watched as a Bedford truck pulled up. Two men put her father’s body on a stretcher and slid it into the back of the truck. She could see at least two other stretchers there.
“Have a taste of this. Patrick kept it in his desk drawer.” William handed her a glass. He poured from the bottle.
“What is it?”
“Rum. The good stuff.” William stopped pouring and waited for her to drink.
“Aren’t you going to have some?” Sharon raised her glass.
“To Patrick.” William lifted the bottle to his lips and drank.
Sharon tipped the glass back. She could feel the rum run its hot course down into her stomach. The warmth feels better, she thought as her eyes watered.
“Christ, that was close. I didn’t notice ’til just now.” William used the bottle to point at Sharon’s Spitfire.
Sharon looked at the fuselage behind the cockpit. A neat row of holes were punched in and around the roundel, starting just behind the wing root and working their way up to the tail.
William looked at her. “You weren’t joking, were you? You shot down four bombers and a 109.”
Sharon shrugged. “Yes. It happened.”
William shook his head and took another swig from the bottle.
“You there!”
William and Sharon turned.
An officer stood with his hands on his hips and braid up his sleeves. “We haven’t got bloody time for a drink! The bastards are sure to be back. We’ve got to be prepared! Where the hell is O’Malley?”
Sharon pointed in the general direction of the departed truck. “They just took him away.”
“Where the hell did he go? We have Spitfires and Hurricanes to refuel and rearm!”
William said, “He was killed, sir. Jerry machine-gunned him. You’re standing in his blood. We were givin’ Patrick a toast.”
The officer looked down, frowned, and stepped to his left. “And who is this?” He pointed at Sharon.
William said, “A pilot. In fact, an ace. And she’s O’Malley’s daughter.”
“What kind of rot is that?” the officer said.
Sharon stood up with her feet shoulder-width apart.
William pointed at her Spitfire. “She just landed. Shot down four bombers and, if I’m not mistaken, that’s blood on the belly of the Spit. The fifth one was a 109 pilot who bailed out and hit her propeller.”
“You mean to tell me that girl just shot down five of the bastards?” The officer shook his head in disbelief.
Sharon looked to her right and saw the brown paper wrapping on the soccer ball. She walked over and picked it up.
“Where are you going?” the officer asked.
She looked at William. “To a birthday party in Leaves Green.”
“Haven’t you heard? One of the Jerry bombers crashed into the village. Who knows what you’ll find. It’s a bloody shambles there, too.” The officer pointed to the north to emphasize his point.
“Right over there.” The fire warden wore a helmet, a faded, khaki-coloured World War I army uniform, and a grey moustache. He pointed to half of a row of four houses. The furthest half of the two-storey, side-by-side homes stood straight and white in the sun. The nearest half was rubble. The twin-finned aft section of a Dornier bomber lay to one side in the back garden. Its swastikas were still visible on the fins.
“Which home was Patrick O’Malley’s?” Sharon asked.
The fire warden lifted his helmet. “The one on this end what got hit by the bastards.” He walked away.
Sharon looked at the pile of wood, brick, and shattered glass. The front door of the nearest home hung open like a drunken guest leaning on the doorstep.
A woman stepped out of the bakery with a bag. She was wearing a flowered dress and her grey hair was tied back. She saw Sharon and walked over. “How are you, love?”
Sharon looked at the soccer ball tucked under her arm. “Late for a birthday party.” She tried to smile.
“That was the only lucky thing about what happened. The plane crashed about an hour before Sean’s party was to start. All the children ’round here were invited.” The woman shifted her bag to the other arm.
“Has anyone seen Sean?”
“His mother, Hazel, was just outside the front door when the bomber crashed. She was thrown out into the street. They took her body away. Sean was inside. I don’t know how Patrick will take the news.”
“He’s dead.”
The woman put her free hand to her chest just below her throat. “The whole family is gone, then?”
Sharon looked at the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret.”
“Was Sean’s body found?”
“What’s your name, then?”
“Sharon.” She looked down at her flight suit and realized for the first time how out of place she must appear.
“Patrick’s Sharon?”
“That’s right.”
“Sean was so looking forward to meeting you. He talked of nothing else this past week.”
Sharon handed the soccer ball to Margaret. “Will you hang onto this for me?”
Margaret took the ball. “What are you going to do?”
“I think my father would like to be buried with his son and his wife.” Sharon walked closer to the rubble. She turned to Margaret. “Where was the kitchen?”
Margaret moved closer, put the packages down on the sidewalk, and walked past Sharon. “This way.”
Sharon followed.
“Why the kitchen?”
“If there was a cake, and Hazel went outside, well, he probably went for a taste of the icing. I know that’s what I would have done.”
Margaret lifted her skirt to her knees and stepped over a pile of debris. “Right about there, I should think.” She pointed.
“Thank you.” Sharon unzipped the top of her flight suit, pulled her arms out, and tied the flight suit arms around her waist. Then she loosened her tie and pulled it off. Sticking it in a pocket, she said, “No time like the present.”
Sharon bent and took a brick in each hand, tossing them into what had once been a back garden. One of the bricks bounced and banged up against the Dornier’s fuselage. It made a satisfying thunk.
“Fucking Nazis!” She picked up a brick, aimed at the swastika on the tail, and fired. The brick flew overtop of the tail. “Goddamned cancer!” She picked up another brick and threw it. It missed to the right and swished though a bush. “Shitty war!” Sharon picked up a third brick.
“Does it help?”
Sharon turned.
“Nigel Brown.” He held out his right hand. His left was tucked in the pocket of his grey work pants. His tan work shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. He was over six feet tall. He had a five o’clock shadow and a round face.
Sharon stepped down off the pile and felt the calluses on his hand as she shook it. “Sharon Lacey.”
Nigel looked at the wreckage and kicked at a brick with his work-boot. He rubbed a hand over his bristles. “You were saying?”
Sharon shrugged. “Nothing useful.”
“You’re a pilot, I see,” Nigel said.
“Yes.” What does he want?
“Patrick told me you were coming today. Your father and I were neighbours.” Nigel surveyed the wreckage.
“Where’s your house?” Sharon looked over to the houses still standing.
“Next-door neighbours.”
“Oh.” Sharon looked at the rubble. “Did you live alone?”
“Margaret’s my wife. She wasn’t home at the time. I was at work.” Nigel shook his head. “Fucking war.”
“Yes.” Sharon turned, bent at the waist, and picked up a piece of wood. She tossed it into the backyard. It made a clunk as it hit the swastika on the tail of the Dornier. “Fuckers!”
Nigel moved to her right and grunted as he picked up a section of roof. “Give us a hand.”
Sharon grabbed the opposite corner, and they dragged the weight into the backyard.
“Margaret says you think Sean was in the kitchen.” Nigel wiped his hands across the front of his pants.
Sharon nodded. “It was his birthday. When I was eleven, if my mother went outside, I’d be in the kitchen getting a taste of cake.” She closed her eyes with a memory of her mother handing her a bowl with the remains of the icing. She licked her lips and smiled.
Nigel chuckled. “If memory serves, that would be my objective as well.”
Sharon felt sweat trickling down her back as she bent to pick up more debris. “Why are you here?”
“Margaret and I have no children of our own. Sean and I were friends. When he wanted to chat, he would often come over to our home.”
Sharon hefted a clump of four bricks still held together with mortar. She heaved the load, then looked over her shoulder to see it whiz past Nigel. “Sorry.”
“Why are you here?” Nigel asked.
“Sean’s birthday!” She bent back to grab another brick. Don’t be angry with him. He’s trying to help.
“No, why are you in England? You sound American.”
“Canadian. My mother died. I came to meet my father and my mother’s family. So far, it hasn’t worked out very well.” Sharon threw more bricks on the pile in the backyard. At this rate, we might find Sean in a week. She stretched her back and looked at the sky, where vapour trails etched the course of another air battle. Every so often, she could hear the chatter of machine guns.
An hour later, she stood and closed her eyes as a swell of dizziness washed over her.
“Margaret has organized some tea for us.” Nigel put his hand on her shoulder.
Sharon nodded and went to sit on the curb next to the front step — all that remained of her father’s house. She saw a puddle of dried blood in the middle of the road. Must be Hazel’s. This was followed by a flashback of blood pooling under the nose of her Spitfire. And next to that, on the concrete, her father’s blood.
She looked up and saw that a dozen people now worked on the rubble. “I didn’t realize so many people came to help.”
“What’s that?” Margaret carried a basket and was followed by two other women. “My sisters, Maxine and Geraldine.”
Sharon nodded at the pair of women, who smiled at her. They both wore dresses. “Thank you.”
“Where’s Paddy O’Malley? Down at the pub while all of you do the digging?” The voice came from behind the sisters.
Sharon turned in the direction of the voice.
A man and a woman stood arm in arm. He wore a new green army uniform and she a blue dress. “Is he stuck in a bog somewhere?”
Sharon stood.
Margaret set down her basket and stood next to Sharon. “He’s dead. Killed during today’s raid on Biggin Hill.”
The woman in the blue dress pulled at the soldier’s arm, but he stood his ground. “Won’t get any sympathy from me. Bloody RAF left us at the mercy of the Luftwaffe at Dunkirk!”
Maxine took Sharon’s hand. “Every town has one. Goes to the pub in the afternoon and in the evening comes out looking for a fight. Sit down and have summat to eat.”
“Time for tea.” Geraldine lifted a red-checked tablecloth out of the basket.
Maxine and Margaret spread the cloth on the sidewalk and set out plates of sandwiches.
The soldier said, “Leave the Irish bastard to rot!”
Rage blossomed in Sharon. Leave it alone.
“The bastards were cannon fodder in the last war. Let the Irish do the same in this one!” The soldier made a fist and shook it at the women.
Sharon shook off Maxine’s grip and covered half the distance to the soldier before anyone had time to react.
The soldier’s girlfriend turned when she heard Sharon’s approach. “Peter!”
The soldier turned. He stumbled back when he spotted Sharon.
“Asshole!” Sharon cocked her right arm and kicked with her left leg.
Her fist caught Peter on the nose. Her left foot caught him square in the belly. Peter hit the ground. She found herself sitting on his chest, her fists mechanically driving blows into Peter’s face. “You son of a bitch!” She smelled the alcohol on him. It was fuel for her rage.
Someone grabbed her around the neck and shoulders and pulled her back. She kicked at the soldier and missed.
Nigel said, “That wanker’s hardly worth it. But it was fun to watch. You’re a tiger, Sharon. Patrick would be proud of you.” He dragged her back. “We don’t have time or energy for this. Look at your hands. How are you going to get Sean out if you waste all of your anger and strength on the likes of Peter here?”
Sharon looked down at her fists. The knuckles were smeared with blood. She hung her head.
“Bitch broke my nose!” Peter stood up, supported by his girlfriend. “I’m gettin’ the constable!” He pulled away from his girlfriend’s hand and marched down the road. His ankle turned and he fell sideways into the gutter.
Margaret took Sharon by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” They walked over to the bakery. The owner greeted them at the door.
“We need to get this one cleaned up,” Margaret said.
“Sink’s at the back.” The baker pointed with a white finger. “Makin’ a fresh batch of bread for you.”
“Thanks,” Sharon said.
They found the sink. Margaret turned on the taps. Sharon winced as the water hit her raw knuckles. “Ooh. Everyone is being so nice, and I get into a fight.”
“Actually, there’s not much you can do wrong in this village.”
“What?” Sharon looked at Margaret.
“Word from Biggin Hill is you shot down five Huns today. Two more people from the village were killed at Biggin Hill today. Add those to Hazel and Sean, and we’ve got a funeral for sixteen tomorrow at the chapel. People around here are happy to hear that someone is hitting back against the Nazis.” Margaret looked for a towel.
“Still, beating up one of the local soldiers is hardly the best way of showing my gratitude.” Sharon shook the water off her hands and took the offered towel. “Thanks.”
“Peter was a bully as a child, and he’s a bully of a man. He survived Dunkirk and can’t understand why the town didn’t welcome him as a hero. Sits down at the pub and expects everyone there will buy him drinks. Fact is, most of us still can’t stomach him.” Margaret crossed her arms. “Now, let’s get some food into you before you fall over.”
Sharon ate two sandwiches and, when she found there was coffee, drank three cups.
Maxine handed her another sandwich. “Try my cucumbers. Grew them in the back garden. A very good crop, if I do say so.”
“Thanks.” Sharon unwrapped the waxed paper and took a bite. There was a sweet taste of ripe vegetable mixed with salt, encased in fresh bread. “Very good.” She swallowed and took another bite.
“When did you eat last?” Maxine tucked her hands between her knees into the folds of her blue dress.
Sharon covered her mouth. “This morning.”
“It’s nearly eight o’clock,” Maxine said.
Sharon looked at the wrecked building and aircraft. “A lot has happened since this morning.”
“Sean was such a friendly boy. If I close my eyes, I can see him and his parents walking down the street. They were a happy family. Sean always looked up to his father.” The evening sun highlighted Maxine’s red hair.
Sharon nodded. “I would have liked to have met him.”
Maxine said, “He had hair your colour, and blue eyes. So much energy. That boy was going morning, noon, and night. Made his teachers earn their pay.”
Sharon looked at the sun as it touched the tops of the trees. The breeze had moved on and left behind still evening air. “I’d better get back to work. Thank you for the sandwiches.”
“Happy to do it.”
Four hours later, Sharon stopped and looked around her. She saw only Nigel bending to pull at a broken beam. They worked by the light of three lanterns spaced in a triangle around the rubble. They’d gotten used to working in half-light and deep shadow.
“Why don’t you go and get some rest?” Sharon’s body ached and the skin on her fingers felt like it had been peeled off.
“I’ll quit when you do.” He pulled a beam free and dragged it over to the pile in the backyard. Nigel disappeared into the darkness.
She heard the beam thump as it landed on the pile. “I can’t stop until I find him.”
He walked back into the light of the lanterns. “Let’s break for a cup of tea, then we’ll get back to it.” Nigel stepped over a twisted bed frame.
Sharon walked over to the curb and sat down. Every muscle and bone aches. She looked at her hands. She felt the blister bubbles on her palms.
Nigel sat down next to her, then reached for the flask and two cups Margaret had left for them. He handed her a cup and poured.
“Thank you.” Sharon took a sip. The tea was too strong and too sweet. Still, it tasted delicious in her parched mouth.
Nigel poured himself a cup and drank. “How’s yours?”
“Delicious.”
“Mine’s bloody awful.”
Sharon heard someone tapping on a stone. “Who else is here?”
Nigel turned around. “Ow.” He moved his head in a circle to work out the kink in his neck. “Just the two of us.”
“Then what’s that sound?” She turned to Nigel. “Are you making that sound?”
“Not me.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Sharon got up. “Quick, before it stops!” Fear clamped its jaws around her heart and squeezed the breath out of her lungs. Her head spun. She had to concentrate to breathe. They walked side by side toward the corner of the partially exposed foundation.
Nigel pointed. “There, I think. You know, you may have been right. That’s where they had the kitchen table. It was next to the window. The table was a massive thing. It’s possible, if Sean got under it, that he could still be alive.”
Sharon pulled a stone away from the side of the pile.
“Careful now.” Nigel put a hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “We don’t want to bring the whole mess down on top of him or us. First, we have to move the lanterns.”
Sharon went to get one of them. The lamp hissed as she handed it to Nigel. He took it and found a spot to maximize visibility.
She left and returned with the next two.
“That should do it.” Nigel pulled tentatively at a bed frame, then dragged it away. “We work together from now on. Each move must be well thought out.” He handed the metal frame to her and she set it in the yard.
Every half hour or so, they switched positions. One would stand at the edge of the pile and hand the debris to the other, who would carry it away.
They worked and waited to see if the tapping would start up again.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
“There it is again.” Sharon held her hand up.
“We have to let him know we’re here.” Nigel picked up a small shovel and tapped it against a stone jammed low on the pile.
The tapping from inside came back faster, louder.
Sharon cupped her hands around her mouth. “Sean! It’s Sharon! We’re here. Nigel and I are here!” She felt something building in her. He’s alive! We need to get him out now!
The tapping stopped for a minute, then picked up again.
Nigel said, “We have to take some tea now.”
“What?” Sharon looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“We’re both exhausted. Just a short rest. We’re at risk of hurting the boy or worse if we make a mistake now. Our minds have to be as clear as possible.”
Sharon looked at the wall of rubble rising above them. One piece taken from the wrong place at the wrong time would bring the entire mess down on top of them. “All right.”
They drank and ate quietly, listening in case the tapping started up again. After ten minutes, Nigel nodded to her and they stood.
This time, they worked with fingertips, brushing around bricks, pulling each one out slowly, waiting for a shift in rubble warning them of a cave-in.
The tapping started, slowed, and stopped.
Sharon looked at her fingernails. They were worn down to the quick.
They worked in the mouth of an opening just above the foundation. She and Nigel took turns holding the lantern as they tunneled toward where they hoped to find Sean.
Sharon touched a round, vertical piece of oak. “Can you bring the light a little closer?”
“What have you got?” Nigel eased the lantern in so they could see the exposed table leg. “Looks promising. Work slowly now. We don’t know how much room he’s got.”
Sharon tapped a stone on the table leg.
There was tapping from the other side.
She put her hand on the oak leg. She could feel the tapping being telegraphed onto the blisters on her palm. The pain focused her. “Sean?”
The words from the other side were too muffled to be understood.
Sharon lay on her belly, digging away on either side of the table leg. The dust got into her nostrils and she sneezed. There was the scent of earth and wood. There’s some other smell there, too. Urine! Did I wet myself?
Dirt and debris fell away under her fingertips.
Sharon sneezed in the cloud of dust particles illuminated by the lantern’s glare.
“Bless you.” The child’s voice was clear.
“Sean?” Sharon asked.
“Who are you?”
“Sharon.”
Sean asked, “Where’s my father and mother?”
“Sean?” Nigel had his hand on Sharon’s boot.
“Nigel?” Sean asked.
“Sharon and I are going to get you out. How much room have you got in there?” Nigel asked.
“I can move my arms and legs,” Sean said.
Sharon reached through the opening. “Can you touch my hand?”
At first, she felt a brushing, light as a sparrow’s wings, then a child’s hands gripped hers. She said, “Okay, let go of me. We’re going to move some more of this shit away and make the opening big enough.”
“Let me have a go,” Nigel said.
“I’ve got five more minutes in me.” Sharon felt the grit in her hair and blinked away the dust on her eyelashes. She reached out with her right hand and pulled at the edges of the opening. She pulled the debris back down along her ribs and hip, then pushed it along her thigh to her knees. Sharon felt Nigel’s fingers against her shins and ankles as he pulled the rubble away.
When her fingers brushed the bottom edge of the tabletop, she said, “Nigel, can you hand me the torch?”
She felt the flashlight tap her right knee. Sharon took it and maneuvered it up next to her face. She pressed the button.
A pair of blue eyes and a face the colour of dust stared back at her. His eyes were caked with dirt. She could smell him, too.
“We’ll have you out soon,” Sharon said.
Sean shook his head. “No.”
“What?”
“I’m not coming out.” Sean set his jaw in the sharp light of the flashlight.
Sharon took a deep breath. We don’t have time for this. Then she caught the strong stink of urine. “No one cares that you peed your pants. All we want is to get you safely out of here.”
Sean looked back at her. There were tears in his eyes. “My parents. They’re dead, aren’t they? That’s why you wouldn’t answer me.”
Sharon nodded. “I was with Patrick when he died.”
“What happened?”
“A bomber strafed us. He was killed in front of me.”
Sean began to sob.
Sharon used the flashlight to guide her hands. She moved debris and dirt around her body and passed it back to Nigel.
She touched Sean’s hand.
He looked up.
“Hold onto my wrist. We’re going to try to pull you out now.” Sharon looked back at Nigel, whose face was at her feet. “Can you pull me out when I tell you to?”
Nigel nodded. “Give the word.”
Sharon took Sean by the wrists. “Okay.”
Nigel grunted as he pulled.
Just concentrate on hanging on to Sean.
She felt her shoulder muscles straining. Hold on!
Sean began to slide toward her.
Her right hipbone scraped over the corner of a protruding brick.
Sean pulled through the opening.
Hold on!
Dirt choked her. Then a gasp of fresh air. A brick caught her under the chin.
“You’re out!” Nigel said.
She released Sean, sat up, and used her sleeve to wipe the dirt and snot from her nose and mouth.
Sean was on his hands and knees.
Nigel held out his hand to the boy. “Come on, Sean. Let’s get some food in you and get you cleaned up.”
Sharon stood up and looked at the horizon. The sky was turning from black to orange.
“Are you coming?” Sean stood waiting for Sharon. She followed.