As Me: A Story of Birds, People, The Second World War, and Reincarnation

 

 

©  2022   Jennifer Spangler.  All rights reserved.  

 

This story is dedicated to Walter, the pigeon who died on January 23, 2022 in my arms from injuries sustained during a hawk strike.  As he died, Walter tried to fly one last time, flapping his good wing and trying to flap his hurt wing with his shoulder muscles.  I miss you everyday, Walter. 

In 2019 I found two hurt birds.  The dove passed away because he couldn’t get veterinary care.  The pigeon died within minutes from his injuries.  This story is my daydream, my prayer, for what I wished could have happened for them.

 

Twenty-First Century

 

 

2019

 

 

Saturday, April 20, 2019   9:40a

 

     “You did well, son.  I’m proud of you.”  The little dove turned and looked at his father’s handsome brown face, set off by the elegant ring of tiny black feathers around his neck and his intelligent, shiny eyes.  Until now his father’s praise had always come with suggestions or   instructions.  It felt good to hear “you did well” all by itself.

     After months of cold weather, the desert breeze carrying the smell of springtime flowers ruffled their feathers.  Their feet felt warm as they and eight other doves gripped the branch of a flowering Palo Verde tree made hot by the sun.  The tree stood at the highest point of a ridge overlooking a valley filled with lawns, farmland, and interludes of desert.   Sixty miles away a little bit of snow still lay on the mountains at the edge of the valley.  

     This was L.D.’s first flight out of the city.  He had kept up easily even when the other doves had picked up the pace to test him.  “Next week your sister will make her first flight.  I want you to fly a little ahead of her and break the wind like I did for you.  Got it?”  L.D. nodded, proud that his father would trust him to protect his sister.  He couldn’t wait.  He wished his sister and his mother were here now in the peace of the tree and the breeze and the sky and the open space. 

 

Monday, April 22, 2019   2:45p

 

     Bill walked out of the gym and towards his car parked in the far west end corner of the parking lot.  After a day of dealing with talk show hosts, computers, and satellites, the long walk to and from the gym made for a calming break.  Bushes bursting with magenta flowers ringed the perimeter of the parking lot and the Beachwood trees were full of collar neck doves in all shades, grey, brown, white, cinnamon, dark brown like stained wood, and cream.

     For the past week, Bill had been seeing a new collar neck dove, golden brown and very small.  On three occasions, the little dove had stood in front of Bill’s car after Bill had started the engine and backed out of the space to leave the gym.  He wouldn’t move, he would stand there and look Bill in the eye.  After standing his ground for abut ten seconds, the little dove would spring up into the air and in less than a second, be perched in the tree about ten feet up.  How does he do it, wondered Bill.  All of the other doves, if they wanted to get up into that tree, would fly on a diagonal away from the tree and then bank a turn and fly to a branch.  Somehow, the little dove elevated straight up, seeming not to even flap his wings once.  He pivoted in the air so that he faced the tree and then just before grasping a branch with his feet, he would pivot again with a flourish of his tail.  It had happened enough now that today, when Bill backed out of the space and turned his car, he hoped to see the little dove standing there, blocking his way, until he popped up into the tree.

     Bill smiled.  Yup, there he was, this jumpin little dove, standing there on the pavement with swagger and then, faster than a flash of light, he was on a branch.  Like he always did after one of the little dove’s jumps, Bill said, “That’s one heck of a move, little dove,” said Bill.  He smiled at the little dove.  “That’s one heck of a move.”  Bill drove out of the parking lot towards home still smiling.

 

 

Twentieth Century

 

1943

 

 

Monday, April 19, 1943   9:45p

 

     Amidst the moonlit silhouettes of the other pigeons in the loft Blue sat in his cubby thinking about what lay ahead.  The pigeons were separated from their mates because tomorrow they would be loaded onto a van. After the drive to the railway station their crates would be shifted to a train.  At the end of the train ride they would be shifted to another van.  This van would take them to the Tempsford Airfield. There they would be stacked in their crates in the barn. 

     Agents who were departing on a mission would report to the barn where they would be issued a pigeon. The mission’s operation order identified the agent’s pigeon as their “personal pigeon.”  After landing the agent would wait until first light. Then he or she would send their personal pigeon back with a message saying they had landed safely, or, if it hadn’t been a safe landing, a message detailing injuries or mishaps. 

     From listening to the loft manager and military personnel who had visited the loft a week ago, some of the pigeons knew they were going to Cairo and the rest knew they would be dropped with agents on missions in France, Holland, and Belgium.  Blue knew he was being sent on service as a personal pigeon.  He wished his mission required more of him, yet typically young pigeons on their first missions had relatively easy tasks.  The loft manager selected older, more experienced pigeons for what were called “special tasks.”

      Blue’s mate, Linda, sat next to him, knowing her turn to fly might come while Blue was still out on service.  It couldn’t be helped.  The amount of time they could spend together until the war ended would depend on the needs of the services.  Tonight might be the last night they spent together.  But pigeons mate for life, so Linda and Blue knew they would wait patiently until peace came.  Then they would be together again to see their tiny yellow baby pigeons emerge from their eggs and grow up to be great fliers.

     For the thousands of years during which pigeons had been domesticated, the kind of life pigeons had depended on whether it was a time of war or a time of peace.  War meant being expected to breed and breed and breed, because so many pigeons were needed by the military. It also meant training on longer and longer flights, being transported in tiny containers with no room to turn around, and enduring long periods of confinement in those containers.  

     In peaceful times, conditions for pigeons varied greatly, depending on the country and the times.  War was always the same.  Breed, train, wait in small containers, and then fly, fly through whatever weapons people were using at that time: musket fire, arrows, artillery shells, bullets, rocks.  For thousands of years, regardless of the kind of ammunition people were firing into the air, pigeons flew through it.

     As Blue and the other pigeons sat or dozed in their cubbies, they knew that millions of pigeons had flown missions for thousands of years before them.  So this night didn’t feel like a first night.  It felt like the next night in a series of nights that had been going on for thousands of years.  Pigeons were going to war, like they always had.

     Blue thought of the millions of pigeons who had gone to war before him, the pigeons from Roman times, the French pigeons in the Franco-Prussian War, and the pigeons from the Great War.  He remembered the many stories he had heard about the pigeons used during countless smaller conflicts when they had been essential for communicating.  Blue thought about the unique dangers faced by the pigeons who had battled back at two very different non-human enemies, fire and the sea, by delivering messages from the front lines of forest fires in the 1800s in the American west, and by delivering messages from men on a downed ship or plane, men who knew the sea could kill them in seconds, hours, or days.

     As Blue retold the stories to himself, he remembered something one of the older pigeons had said. “The hardest part of your first mission is the trip out to the base.  You bump along in the van, then the train, and then in a van again.  It’s uncomfortable and stuffy and noisy, it all seems to be happening in some strange kind of void, and it all seems pointless because you don’t really know what’s happening.  But as soon as you are assigned to your agent, your paratrooper, or a signals officer for the army or the navy, you will know you are part of something, something important, and you will rise to the occasion.”  That was Blue’s last thought before he fell asleep.

 

Tuesday, April 20,1943   11:30p

 

     For the seemingly hundredth time, as Eric and Peter sat in the plane taking them to Argentan in France the plane hit a rough patch, shot up in the air and then dropped seemingly forever until finally leveling out.  Eric reached to his left for the towel on the bench and dry-heaved into it a few times.  When he was finished spitting, he wrapped the towel around his spit, put it back on the bench, and leaned back to rest his head on the wall of the plane.   Peter had never been on a mission with Eric, but he knew from the other agents that Eric always became sick on the plane and never ate the sandwiches or drank the coffee issued to each agent.  Eric would leave them on the plane for whichever crewmember found them.  He would always say, “That’s my legacy.  If this whole mission goes to bloody hell, at least one poor chap will have gotten a good meal out of it.”

     Both men had been born in London.  When they were babies, their fathers had been relocated to jobs in Paris.  Peter’s father worked for the Paris office of the Royal Bank of London.  Eric’s father managed the distribution center for a British company that designed and manufactured china tableware.  When they were both ten, their fathers had been sent back to work in London.  Having lost a city they loved and many good friends because of this move, both Peter and Eric were resigned to the possibility that life can take people and places away.    They attended the same grade school, where they became best friends before going on to Sherborn School.

     Both men tried to enlist but because they were bilingual, they were, separately, diverted to train with the secret service.  It wasn’t until their   Special Operations Executive training that they next met.  They and the other agents knew nothing of anything called SOE.  They were told they were working for “The Firm.”  Peter received extra training as a wireless operator.  Eric chose to specialize in demolitions.  He never liked blowing things up, but the challenge of shaping a charge and using the least possible amount of plastic to achieve the best result, made demolitions a good distraction from the danger of the job of being an agent.  

     Trying to cheer Eric up, Peter said jokingly, “How about a sandwich?  That’s just what you need right now, don’t you think?  A nice, delicious sandwich and some nice, hot coffee.  That’s the perfect thing for you right now.”

     Using the back of his head as a fulcrum against the wall of the plane, Eric turned his head and said, “I’d rather have an ale in the largest glass ever invented.  Or just give me a horse bucket with a handle on it full of ale.”

     “I have to agree, “ relied Peter.  “Much better than a sandwich.”

     “Hey what do you think would happen,” said Eric, “if we met a German patrol and instead of shooting or running, we walked toward them with a bottle of ale in each of our hands, stretched out towards them?”

     “It makes no sense that I’m saying this but I feel like they might just sit down and have a drink with us,” answered Peter.

     “I know.  It’s not logical, but I feel the same.  Then we would shake hands and go our separate ways.  I guess I think that cause I’ve heard morale is low among the older German soldiers.  Sitting down with a couple of Brits might be their way of saying ‘Piss off’ to Herr Fuhrer.”

     “Yeah, it doesn’t make sense.  Still, I can see it happening.  Especially tonight.”

     “Why?” said Eric.

     “The 20^th is Hitler’s birthday.”

     “The thought of that sod being born is more than I can handle,” said Eric.

     “Agreed,” said Peter.

     Silence ensued until each of them decided that talking made the danger of the job ahead easier to bear.  Both started a sentence simultaneously.

     “You first,” said Peter.

     “I was wondering,” Eric said, “would you rather die knowing you were about to die, or would you rather not know?  For example, would you rather be shot face to face or be shot in the back, having no idea you were about to be shot?”

     “There’s a nice light-hearted topic of conversation,” said Peter.  Then he sensed Eric really needed a serious answer.  “I’d rather know.  I’d rather be able to have one last thought of my own choosing.  Like remembering swimming in the pond when I was small, or when my daughter was born, or my wife’s face on Christmas morning when our children are opening their presents.  I would want that.  Would you?”

     “Kind of,” said Eric, “but I worry that I would waste my last thought on being afraid or feeling sorry for myself or worst, angry that I was about to get killed.  I don’t think I would do as well as you at remembering something pleasant and special.  I would just be pissed off.  So I’d rather not know.”

     The plane began its descent.  Both men checked that they had remembered their cyanide pill, even though they had double-checked at the base.  After they landed each man would place it behind his ear and steel himself to take it if he was captured.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   2:10a

 

     Within 50 feet of the ground, a gust of wind blew Eric towards a tree.  One of the branches jammed itself in the small opening between the end of the strap where it attached to Eric’s pigeon container and his stomach.  The branch ripped the pigeon container off the strap and sent it fast on a diagonal towards the ground.  Even though he was supposed to be concentrating on his own landing, the thought of Blue inside the container hitting the ground or a rock and rolling in the container completely took his mind off his own safety.  As soon as his feet hit the ground, instead of absorbing the shock by bracing his knees or rolling onto the ground, he wobbled unsteadily as he unsnapped himself from his parachute and ran towards the container.  Blue’s left eye had been pushed out of its socket by the blow to his head but it was still attached t with delicate, thread thin pieces of tissue.  Blood ran out of the abrasion on the side of his head.  Peter walked over and looked at Blue.  “You’re going to have to leave him.”

     “I can’t,” said Eric.  He’s hurt.  He’s fallen.”

     Peter said, “After my grandfather was in the Great War, he would often tell the story of the man who had both legs blown apart by an artillery shell.   All my grandfather could do was lean him up against a stonewall, give him what morphine he had, and his pack of cigarettes.  He had to go on.  He never forgot that man.  But he had to leave him.  You’re going to have to leave the pigeon.  He’s no use to us like that.”

     Peter’s callousness stung Blue hard because Peter was right.  He was no use to them.    This was war.  If you couldn’t do your part, you didn’t matter.  In a rush, Blue thought of everything he was, besides just a pigeon brought along to carry a message.  An overwhelming sadness engulfed him.  “Please don’t leave me,” he said silently to Eric. 

     Eric looked at Blue.  Inexplicably he felt that if he brought Blue with him, he would be rewarded and escape the fate and fear Blue faced now.  If I save this pigeon, maybe I will be spared the same fate, the same fear.  Maybe I will escape death.  Something told him that what Blue was feeling now, he would soon be feeling.  That soon he too would be facing the frustratingly painful knowledge that the only outcome was death.

     Peter’s voice jabbed at him.  “Come on.  We need to hide these parachutes and get going.”

     Eric looked at Blue one more time.  His heart broke as he turned and walked towards his parachute.

     Blue felt the vibration of the steps of the men as they hid the parachutes and walked away, their steps receding into the woods.  In just a few minutes, however, a different pattern of steps began coming toward him, steps of two people running, then stopping, then running.  They were running with confidence, as if they had come that way many times before.  The wind gusted hard at times, which blew the trees in different directions, changing how the moon lit up the forest and the forest floor.  Still, these people knew the way and the changes in how the moon lit their way didn’t seem to matter.  Their playful, confident steps reminded Blue of the times when Frank, the loft manager, would bring his wireless into the loft and listen to an orchestra playing a symphony, with the rhythmic steps of the Peter and Eric being like drums fading out and the running and stopping of the two people being like flutes frolicking up and down a scale.

     Who was running?   As they came closer Blue could see that it was a boy and a girl running and then stopping to kiss and then running again.  He began saying to himself, please don’t step on me.  Please don’t step on me, but then he would wonder if he should flap his wings to get their attention.  Maybe these people will help me.  But maybe they will eat me.  I want to be found but I don’t want to be eaten.  Please don’t step on me.  Just don’t step on me.

     Incredibly, they ran right up to him and Blue found himself looking at a boy’s boot just a few inches away.    It was a boy and a girl, maybe 14 or 15 years old.  The boy took a blanket out of his haversack, spread it on the ground and pulled the laughing girl onto him.  From the way they had been looking at each other, Blue knew it could be a while before they might notice him.

     As the minutes dragged on, Blue became more and more numb from the chilly night air.  He could feel his eye lying on the side of his neck.  If only they had stood me up I could have walked away to hide somewhere and then at sunrise I could have tried to fly.  Even though Blue had to admit that he’d lost his sense of direction, if he could walk and fly he could at least stay away from predators.  Lying on his back, unable to turn, he was stuck, completely helpless.

      With a huge sigh of happiness, the girl rolled off the boy, turned on her side, and came face to face with Blue.

     “A pigeon! And you’re hurt.  You poor bird.  What happened to you?”

The girl sat up and gently stroked Blue’s wing.  “Don’t worry.  We aren’t going to eat you.”  She turned towards the boy and rubbed his arm.        “Jacques, Jacques.  There’s a pigeon.”

     The boy sat up.  “What?”

     “It’s a pigeon and he’s hurt.”

     Jacques took one quick look at Blue and then pulled on his pants and his boots.  “We have to get his eye back into the socket or it will dry out and he will lose it forever.  It’s going to be a miracle if we place it correctly but we have to try.”

     Jacques clutched his head with both hands, frowning and thinking.  ”We’ll have to try to use a page from your Candide.  The paper should be heavy enough to hold the eye until I drop it into the socket.”

     The girl quickly pulled a book from her bag and tore out a page.  She handed it to Jacques who tore two pieces from it.  “Shine my torch directly on his head.  I’m going to slide the paper under his eye and then pull it back a little.  Those threads of tissue might tell me how to place his eye.”

     The girl began whispering, “Please God, let this pigeon see again.  Pleae God, I pray to you to guide Jacques to help this pigeon.  Please God, please God.”

     The slight tension Jacques put on the tissue relieved some of the pain around his eye because now the paper was supporting his eye, not the frage strands of tissue.  In less than a second Blue felt two pieces of heavy paper covering his eye socket.  Jacques slowly pulled them apart and Blue’s eye gently dropped into the socket.

     “Now blink, pigeon, blink.”

     Blue had already begun blinking, his eyelid moving rapidly over and over again, moistening and cleaning the eyeball.  Yet he could tell the blinking was moving the eyeball ever so slightly.  Try to slow it down, slow it down, he told himself.

     As if reading his mind Jacques said, “Once your eye is moist again, your blinking will slow down, pigeon.  You will be alright.”

     “I can’t see him blinking,” said the girl.  “

     “Neither can I, Juliette.  Pigeons blink so fast we can’t see the eyelid.  I learned that from David’s father when one of his pigeons had an eye injury.  Well, now we have to hurry and take him to Marie’s.”

     Jacques stripped down to his cotton undershirt.  Taking that off he wrapped it around Blue.  The warmth from Jacques’ shirt gave Blue his first real hope that he might survive as he felt blood begin to flow.  Juliette wrapped a fuzzy peach colored sweater around him and then Jacques wrapped another sweater around him.

     “Will he fit snugly in your handbag all bundled up like that?”

     Juliette carefully placed Blue in the bag as Jacques held it open.

     While they walked through the moonlight, Jacques whispered to Blue,  “We’re going to Marie’s house.  She and her son know a lot about pigeons because her husband raced pigeons before the war.  When the Germans invaded Belgium, he let most of his pigeons go but for two pairs of pigeons he built a secret loft in the barn.  It’s behind a wall covered with tools hanging on it.  He cut a small slit in the outside wall of the barn for the pigeons to use as a door.  Then he painted black slits at intervals along the side of the barn to make the slits look they were just decorative.  When we get there I’m going to ask Marie if we can take her car to get Dr. Pierce to come look at you.  The gash in your head needs to be sewn.”

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   6:40a

 

     After waiting out the night, Eric and Peter came out of the woods and onto the road.  While he was walking through the woods Eric just hadn’t been able to walk fast.  His legs felt heavy. And moving forward was like trying to walk through the water in a swimming pool.  “You’re still thinking about that pigeon aren’t you?” said Peter.

     “Yes.  He’s lying there alone just waiting to die.  I can’t leave him, Peter, I can’t.  If I go back for him, maybe we could get him to someone who can care for him. The resistance always wants pigeons. They might know a guy who can sew his eye back to where it’s supposed to be.  If he can fly, they can send him back to Britain with intelligence.”

     “That’s not a bad idea,” said Peter.  “Go ahead.  Get him.  I’ll be here.”

     Eric turned and ran.  Now that he was doing what he believed to be the right thing, his legs felt light.  He jumped over branches and dodged rocks as if he were fourteen again and training for rugby season by running through the woods next to his parent’s home.  As he ran closer to where Blue had been lying, he saw that Blue was gone.  Anger, regret, and despair poured through him.  I should have brought him. God damnit.  I should have brought him before.  Then he noticed the leaves near where he had left Blue were flattened in a square and there were two parts where the leaves were pressed down deeper into the ground, as if two people had been lying on a blanket.

     Two people.  What two people?  He stared at the ground frantically looking for more clues until he saw a tiny piece of peach colored wool.  That’s from a sweater, a woman’s sweater.  Was a German soldier lying with a French woman?  Was it a French man and a French woman?  Would they eat Blue or try to help him?  Which direction had they gone?     He walked around where the blanket had been, going a few yards in every direction.  There!  Damp leaves had been depressed into a barely discernible path.  He looked ahead and saw where a branch had been pushed side and tucked behind the branch of another small tree.  That’s where they went, he thought, as he pulled his compass out and took a bearing.  Those people had Blue.  He promised himself he would come back and make his way down the path.  Closing his eyes, he said softly, “Oh pigeon, I hope you are being helped.  I’m sorry I left you.  God I hope you are being helped.”  Eric turned and started jogging back through the woods.

      As he got close to where he had left Peter, Eric saw him sitting against a tree, dozing, with his revolved on his legs.  About ten yards away Eric whispered, “Peter.”  He knew Peter would wake up and aim his gun at him.  Peter did, but seeing it was Eric asked, “Where’s the pigeon?”

     “Someone took him.”

     “Bloody hell! Were there feathers left, as if he had been eaten?”

     “No.”  Eric told him about the mark on the leaves from the blanket and the slight path he had seen through the woods.  “We will need to find out where they took him.”

     “We’re screwed.  Now somebody knows a British agent landed with a pigeon.”

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   6:45a

 

     After Juliette and Jacques brought Blue to Marie’s house and then left to try to find the veterinarian, Dr. Pierce, Marie sat at the kitchen table and looked at Blue wrapped in a blanket inside a wooden window box.  He was looking worse and worse.  “What can I do for you, pigeon?”  Blue remembered injured pigeons being given water through glass tubes carefully inserted in their beaks.  If only she knew how thirsty I am.  I wish she could give me some water.

     Marie said, “I wonder if Paul’s glass tube and dropper are still in the barn.  He fed a pigeon using them years ago, after it’s beak was torn off in a an attack by a hawk.  I’ll be right back, pigeon.”

     In the barn, Marie held her torch up so she could see Paul’s workbench.  Paul’s pigeon things were still on the shelf above it.   A small velvet bag held the dropper and the tube.  She went back and carefully gave Blue some water by holding the tube in his beak, and dropping the water down the tube.  “We’re going upstairs now, British pigeon.  I may fall asleep in my bed but you will be right beside me.  If anyone comes, I will hide you.”

     In what seemed like a few minutes, Marie woke to hear David coming in from the pigeon loft.  Slowly she turned and lifted her head to check on Blue.  His eyes were closed but she could see he was alive by his breathing.  Thank God, thank god, Marie said to herself.

     “Mother, Dr. Pierce is coming,” David called from downstairs.

       Marie got out of her bed, put on her shoes and sweater and carried Blue to the kitchen.

     “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.  A cow almost died giving birth.  That’s where Jacques and Juliette found me.  How they figured out I might be at the Durand’s barn, I still don’t know.”

     Dr. Pierce looked at Blue.  “You might not feel well right now, British pigeon, but you are one lucky bird.  Not a lot of people would have had the guts to put your eye back in its socket.  The question is, will your body form new tissue to hold it in place.  In three days, if it’s going to happen we should see it, maybe sooner.  I’m sorry.  You must stay on your back to keep your eye in its socket until then.  If you are in any other position, gravity will work against the healing process.”

     “I don’t know how to say this without sounding rude,” said David.  “How can he poop?”

     “He should be able to and until he’s on a regular diet there won’t be much, however, this gorgeous bird who keeps himself fastidiously clean when he’s healthy, don’t you, British pigeon, will need constant care, including wiping and sanitizing that area in particular.  Marie, would you mind boiling a pint of water?  I want to sterilize some needles and sew up the gash under his eye.  Then I’ll need your help with cutting and sewing him an eye patch.  And before that water comes to a boil let’s put a little bit in this hot water bottle.  While he can’t move keeping him warm with a bottle or right next to you or David will be mandatory.”

      Blue couldn’t wait for the hot water bottle.  Now that he had been away from Marie, he felt his body returning to that terrifyingly cold state it had been in while he was stuck on the ground.  From listening to Frank talk to the pigeons about their injuries, he knew being sewn up by Dr. Pierce would be extraordinarily painful.  Blue remembered when Blackcross had broken his leg and torn the skin off his hip when a sniper shot him on the coast of France.  After Frank set his leg and sewed his hip, Blackcross didn’t say anything for several days.  Then, he became more social and after a couple of months described what it was like to have his hip sewn.         

     “Every puncture of the needle sent pain shooting into my brain and then my whole body felt blazing hot.  I kept telling myself, if you want your leg to work, you must get through this. What made it easier was Frank telling me how many stitches were left and warning me on a three count when the needle would go in.”

     Blackcross returned to duty.  He never showed any fear before any missions, remembered Blue.  He did his job like he had never been injured.

     Blue had so lost himself in remembering Blackcross that he didn’t hear Dr. Pierce telling him to be ready for the first stitch.  He saw the hand and the needle coming towards his eye and closed his eye, bracing himself for the pain. 

     “That’s one done, pigeon, six more to go.  I’m using the smallest needle I can.  Less painful and hopefully you will have less of a scar.  Ready? Here comes number two.”

     With Blackcross’s example to follow, Blue found he could stand the pain but seeing the needle and feeling it puncture the skin so close to the fragile area around his hurt eye almost made him start to cry.  If Dr. Pierce makes a mistake, I’m done.  Done.  I’ll never amount to anything.  I’ll be a one-eyed pigeon.  After this is over, if I make it, I will do everything I can never to be this helpless again.  I never want to depend on a person not making a mistake ever, ever again.

     Being held, being trapped became more unbearable every second.  If I ever fly again, I am going to love every second of it, every second of it.  And the thought of flying took Blue out of Dr. Pierce’s hand and into the sky, soaring, twisting on a sharp turn, exploding with speed, circling and flying figure eights with the other pigeons.

     “Last one, British.  Last one.”

     Dr. Pierce handed Blue to Marie who wrapped him in a soft wool sweater and held him close to her heart. Blue felt Marie’s heart beating almost as fast as his had been.  Now he didn’t mind being held.  Gratitude replaced his resentment and he fell asleep, telling himself, I will never be helpless again.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   10:55a

     Peter and Eric walked down the street in town trying to look French and feeling very unwashed, unslept, and as if they had lived ten lives the night before, putting them greatly out of sync with everyone else on the street, most of whom had probably slept through the night and woken up at a reasonable hour.

     “Stop trying to look French, said Peter to Eric.  “You know they trained us not to try too hard to look like anything.”

     “I’m not trying to look French,” replied Eric.

     “Yes you are.  I can see you.”

     “How can you see me?  You’re right next to me. You aren’t really even looking at me.”

     “I’m looking at you from the side.  That’s enough.  That’s enough to know you are trying too hard to look French.”

     “No it’s not.  It’s not enough to know if I’m trying to look French.  You’re the one who’s trying to look French, and failing miserably, I might add.”

     When they saw the bakery ahead, they stopped talking.  Across the street from the bakery, a small graveyard displayed tombstones and provided benches as a place where mourners could grieve.  On nice days, people didn’t seem to mind eating their lunch on the benches, among the tombstones.  As Eric made his way towards the bakery, Peter went across the street to watch the entrance to the bakery from one of the benches.

     After Eric closed the bakery’s front door, he sat down at one of the several empty tables in the back corner.  He sat there memorizing everything about the bakery and everyone in it.  Periodically, he turned to look at the door, to make it seem as if he was waiting for someone.

     The boy who had been behind the counter came over.  “Good morning.  May I get you something while you are waiting?”

     “Thank you.  A coffee with cream and a small boule.”

     “Of course.  Your ration book please?”

     Eric winced.  He should have had his book out and ready, like any regular French person would have done.  Instead it was buried somewhere in his briefcase.  This was a sloppy mistake.  His face flushed.

     Attempting to make an excuse for his mistake Eric said, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t expect you to come over to take my order.”

     The boy didn’t notice because the front door opened and an enormous German soldier came through it.  More than six and a half feet tall, burly, portly, muscular and with a huge head, his long legs got him to the counter in three steps.  The boy wheeled and went back behind the counter.

     “Good morning.  The usual, colonel?”

     “Yes.”

     The boy wrapped a two-foot baguette in paper and handed it and a small bag that had been on a high shelf behind the counter to the colonel.  Tucking the loaf under his arm, the German colonel opened the bag, tore a piece off the croissant inside, and looked into the bag as he put the piece of the croissant into his mouth.

     He nodded at the boy.  “I or someone will see you tomorrow.”

     In three fast, giant steps he was to the door and out.

     The boy came back over to Eric.

     Curious to see how the boy might react if he asked for a croissant, Eric said “May I change from a boule to a croissant please?”

     “My step-father only gets enough butter to make 12 croissants per day.  A line forms for them before we open at 5.  You could probably get one if you pay a lot to someone in line.”

     “I see.  The boule will be fine.”

     “It’s on the house.”  The boy smiled and looked Eric hard in the eye.  “You look tired.”

     The way the boy stared at him told Eric that the boy could easily have added, “After your long night of flying and then being dropped by parachute and then losing your pigeon.”

     Somehow, Eric had no doubt that this boy knew he was a British agent, and not just because he had fumbled with his ration book.  Was this boy working both ends?  Was his stepfather, the owner of this bakery, really collaborating with the Germans? Or was he just trying to make it look that way?

     Once out in the street, he took one route to the safe house where he and Peter would send the radio transmission. Peter took another.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   11:00a

 

     From behind his desk Benjamin Hollingswood felt someone’s presence in the door of his office.  He looked up. Oliver, one of the duty officers who helped Frank, the loft manager, was standing there. “A pigeon’s come back, sir.”

     Hollingswood nodded.  Oliver walked in and read the message.
     “Safe landing except for one pigeon hurt and left behind.  Expect scheduled transmission.”

“When did the pigeon arrive?”

“Just now, sir.”

“That’s good time.  Thank you, Oliver.”

     Over the past year the number of operations dropping agents onto the continent had increased such that Baker Street couldn’t manage all of them, therefore some of them were farmed out to Hollingswood to manage.  Although overseeing the code breaking and other work that took place at the park was a twenty four hour a day job and Hollingswood always felt swamped with work, he happily took on the challenge of managing the operations because it gave his brain something to chew on.  In moments of honesty he had acknowledge to himself that while he knew the work done at the park was profoundly significant and saved lives he found it a tedious grind of organizing, figuring out logistics, running interference between personalities, requisitioning supplies and constantly pleading with London to send him more people who could do the work of making sense of, categorizing and assigning levels of importance to the growing volume of intelligence which flowed into the park. 

     By contrast, Hollingswood found it fascinating to design and manage operations involving agents working undercover. The dangers inherent in an agent using wireless gave him a new appreciation for his experience as an agent during the Great War.  He had used pigeons to communicate therefore he had firsthand knowledge about the abilities and behavior of pigeons.  That knowledge enabled him to discern when the risk of using wireless should be taken and when using pigeons was the better choice.

     Hollingswood had taken a stand on agents using radio sets after the last two agents sent to Argentan were captured, tortured, and executed.  It was unclear why they were caught.  Had the signal been picked up by a van or had someone told the Gestapo or the local police?  Usually details dribbled out after a capture and if a van had been involved it was usually spotted by someone.  Nothing much had come to light about how the agents were captured. There had been no stories of a group of Gestapo in the neighborhood, no noise of banging on doors, or police hurrying through the neighborhood.  Because of this, Hollingswood made several recommendations in a letter to London about what Peter and Eric should do.

     “They can transmit once for 60 seconds.  After that, everything will be done by pigeon and communication from our end will go over the BBC or be packed into one or more of the containers dropped in country.  We have reports that the Germans are increasing the number of vans probably because members of the resistance have been transmitting too often and for too long at a time.  I will not be part of a plan which makes agents into sacrificial lambs by demanding that they communicate primarily by wireless.”

     SOE’s leadership in London had agreed for two reasons.  Agents could be interrogated. A pigeon couldn’t speak.  Moreover, pigeons had demonstrated that they were consistently reliable and fast.  The order sent back from London had been straightforward: communicate by pigeon to find the problem, get rid of it, and then put a wireless communication system in place

     Hollingswood’s father had raced pigeons. It had been Hollingswood’s job to clean the loft and mix the pigeon feed.  Ten years spent with pigeons had convinced him that pigeons understood perfectly well what people were saying.  He had never shared this conviction with anyone.  Instead, he treasured, and kept to himself, the memories of the countless times pigeons had shown him they understood what he was saying.  Having seen his father lavish praise on his pigeons when they made good time in a race, he would often go out to the loft and praise a pigeon who had brought back a message.  Hollingswood knew Frank thought he was a bit daft, but he didn’t care.

     Hollingswood had decided to run this operation using pigeons instead of wireless because too many agents had been executed after they were caught transmitting.  He had been so focused on the pain of losing agents all over France that when he planned the operation he never considered what it would be like if a pigeon were killed.  Hollingswood put his head in his hands.  He had just learned that for him, losing a pigeon was going to be just as painful as losing a man or a woman.

     Hollingswood walked out of his office and across the grounds to the pigeon loft.  “Hi Frank.  How are you?”

     “Doing fine, sir.  Do you want to see the pigeon who’s just got back?”

     Hollingswood smiled.  “You know I do, Frank.”

     They walked over to a cubby occupied with a red bar, cream-colored female pigeon.

     “You’re a beauty!” said Hollingswood. “And you’re such a good flier.”          Turning to Frank, he said, “How is everybody else doing?  How are the young birds coming along?”  Frank answered, “Pretty well.  It’s a good group.”  Frank and Hollingswood walked from perch to perch while Frank described each of the young pigeon’s idiosyncrasies and accomplishments.  “This here is Adam.  He starts at the back and is somehow always one of the first ten birds to get here.  Lucy won’t trap.  She flies into the driveway, perches on the roof over there and won’t come in until the other pigeons she likes come in.   This is Big Red.  He does his best when it’s overcast or raining a little.”

     “What about these two?  Why are they on the same perch?” 

     “I don’t know.  I don’t know what to make of these two hens at all. They won’t go outside and when it’s feeding time, they won’t eat.  They wait until everyone else has eaten and then they fly to the manger when just about all of the feed is gone.  The only reason I can figure why they’re afraid is that both of their fathers were eaten by the Germans.”

     “How do you know?  How would they know?”

     “Usually I don’t find out the contents of any of the messages the birds bring back.  A few weeks ago someone from the War Office was out here for a meeting.  He stopped by and told me that the two birds who were sent out on a mission as a group of four came back with messages saying the Germans had eaten the other two birds.  Those two birds were the fathers of the hens.  Since then these two hens are never apart.  Each one losing her father brought them together, apparently.  Regardless, they need to get out.  They need to put on weight.  I’m giving them two more days and then they may have to transition to living in the shed outside.”

     “I doubt I can make a difference but may I try? May I talk to them?”  Frank thought to himself, you always talk to the pigeons.   Why are you even asking me?  I don’t know if you’re completely daft or far more brilliant than the rest of us can comprehend.  To Frank, the pigeons were kit, like helmets, sub-machine guns, or hand grenades.  Even though they were also living things, they had to be ready for combat.  If the pigeons didn’t perform well, it would reflect badly on Frank.  He might be replaced.  He couldn’t have Hollingswood advocating for giving pigeons who weren’t training chance after chance.  But their fathers had been outstanding fliers and it was a shame their daughters were traumatized.  Why not let Hollingswood chat with them?

     “Of course,” said Frank.  “I was just about to go into my office and catch up on things anyway.”

     “Right,” said Hollingswood.

     After Frank left the loft Hollingswood stood in front of the hens.      “Your fathers would not want you to waste your lives away inside of this loft.  They would want you to live the life they couldn’t live.  You have a life to live, each of you.  Those Germans who ate your fathers win everyday you stay in this loft.  Everyday that you don’t go out, fly, train, build up your skills, and get stronger you are giving them more power than they deserve.  Do you understand?”

     The two hens looked at each other.  “I never thought of it that way,” said Diamond.  “I thought we had to give up our lives because our fathers didn’t get to live.”

     “Me too.  I didn’t think it would be right to enjoy what we can do.  The way to honor them seemed to be to grieve and do nothing else.  Only grieve, only grieve,” said Gemstone.  “It didn’t seem right to participate.”

     Hollingswood said, “Tomorrow when it’s time to be basketed for training, I want you to go.  Your fathers were great fliers.  You will be too.  You owe it to them to live your lives.  You can honor them by serving Britain.  Will you do it?”

     “I want to,” said Gemstone.  “Do you?”

     “Yes,” said Diamond.

     “Even though I am not sure of what you are thinking, I’ll take that as a yes.  Seven o’clock tomorrow morning.  That’s when you begin to prove that you are going to be outstanding fliers, just like your fathers.”

     Hollingswood walked out of the loft and back to his office.  God I hope they do it.  Two beautiful birds shouldn’t be afraid to go out and fly.”

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   11:50a

 

     From across the street Peter watched as Eric knocked on the door of the Pointreau’s house.  The couple had a radio set they allowed the pianists, as the radio operators were called, to use to transmit to London.  They were a fairly well off couple, retired, with a son who had fled to North Africa to fight with the Free French Army.  A few minutes after Eric went in, Peter would knock and they would be shown upstairs to the room where Monsieur Pointreau would have the radio set ready on the table.

     “Hello, good to see you,” said Monsieur Pointreau, as he let Peter into the entryway.  The two agents proceeded up the stairs and into the radio room.

     “I will bring you some tea in a few moments.  The water should be at the boil by now,” said Monsieur Pointreau.  “Thank you,” replied Eric.  Both agents looked at the B Mark II Transceiver and were dismayed to see that that nothing had been connected.  Inexplicably, the antenna and ground wires were knotted in several places making them too short to be useable.  The headphones were missing an earpiece and the wires were tied in knots.  And where was the power source?  There wasn’t a battery and the set hadn’t been placed near a wall outlet.   The whole set looked as if someone had deliberately blown dust off a dustpan onto every knob, dial, and plug.

     “Well, I’ll start untangling,” said Peter.  “Will you have a look around for an outlet?  Even if we get this thing set up, all this dust might be a dealbreaker.” 

     After finding an outlet on the opposite wall behind a heavy wooden bookcase full of books, Eric returned to the table and as he picked up the ground wire to untangle it Monsieur Pointreau came through the door with a huge teapot and cups on a tray.  Already on guard because the radio set hadn’t been prepared properly, Eric’s suspicion that something wasn’t right was confirmed by the sight of Monsieur Pointreau, a thin, frail, elderly man, carrying the tray with just his left hand underneath the middle of the tray.  If the teapot had been full of water, it would have been far too heavy for Monsieur Pointreau to manage with one hand.      Eric leapt toward Monsieur Pointreau but simultaneously Monsieur Pointreau raised a revolver with his right hand and shot Peter in the back of his head.  Peter’s head fell forward on the table as Eric brought Monsieur Pointreau to the floor.  Eric grabbed the knife from its holster around his ankle and slit Monsieur Pointreau’s throat.  Like a strobe light, a dazzlingly bright image of a boy in a small boat on a blue lake in summer lit up Eric’s mind.  Enraged that Peter had not had the chance to have his one last thought Eric stabbed Monsieur Pointreau in his femoral artery and dragged his knife all the way down to Monsieur Pointreau’s knee.  Monsieur Pointreau was already dead so that cut didn’t matter but Eric wanted anyone who cared about Monsieur Pointreau to hurt and anyone who heard about his death to know if they tried to kill a British agent, it wouldn’t end well for them.

     In one continuous motion Eric pulled Peter’s identity papers out of Peter’s pocket, removed his watch, and picked up his briefcase.  Eric knew from his training that a porch covering a patio was just a few feet below the room’s window. So, in seconds, he opened the window and jumped onto the roof and then onto the ground.

      After jogging down the alley and taking the left turn onto the sidewalk, Eric slowed to a casual walk.  Walking the designated route, he wondered if he should go to this other safe house.  What was safe now?  He had been briefed to trust Monsieur Pointreau.  What had gone wrong? Who was Pointreau?  Who was he really working for? Who else was on Pointreau’s side, working to stymie the efforts of British agents?     Eric concluded that he should try the next safe house and be ready for anything.  Ruefully, he shook his head at the absurdity of the situation and the absurdity of spying itself.  Here I am, relying on signals, code phrases, and what ever else as a way to know whom to trust with my life?  Ridiculous.  I’m ready for anything all the time.  How am I going to be more ready?

     A car pulled up next to him.

     “Get in,” said the driver.

     Eric kept walking.

     “I know what happened to your partner.  Get in.”

     Eric stopped.  “Who are you?”

     “I’m Marceau Dupont.  My photo should have been in your operation order.”

     Eric remembered the photo of a man with short-cropped brown hair and a chubby face.  This man’s face was gaunt and dominated by thick black hair and a thick mustache.

     Noticing Eric’s confusion Marceau said, “I’ve lost weight since that photo was taken and I change my hair color periodically.  I know you’re here to deal with the baker.  I can’t help you if you don’t get in.”

     Eric grabbed the door handle and let himself into the car.

     They drove for a few blocks.  “What did you see at the bakery?”

     “I’ll tell you that after you tell me what happened in that house.  Why is my partner dead?”

     “The other two agents who dropped here to watch the baker tried to transmit from that house.  Monsieur Pointreau swore the Gestapo came and arrested them, but none of our lookouts and no one in the neighborhood heard or saw any Gestapo, police or a van.  Still, the many things Monsieur Pointreau has done for the resistance led everybody to believe what he said.”

     “What do you think?” asked Eric.

     “One of two things or maybe a little of both. Maybe Pointreau was pretending to help the resistance and then giving information to the Gestapo.  He may have alerted the Gestapo before the agents arrived at his house.  Or he had someone take them and execute them. It’s so hard to know who anybody is anymore.”

     “If the Gestapo knew about the radio set they probably told him he had to use it as bait,” said Eric.

     “Yes, if they were actually there.  When the Gestapo does anything, we know.  We never heard anything about a Gestapo or police raid that day. Those two agents were killed and found face down in a ditch by the side of a road several miles from here.  Their hands were bound behind their backs and from the way they were in the ditch, it looked as if they had been told to kneel before they were shot in the back of their heads.”

     “How do you know all this?”

     “When they were gone for too long after going to Pointreau’s house, I sent someone out to drive around and stop at various places where news gets told.  He didn’t hear anything but on a whim drove out to a few remote areas outside of town.  He saw a crowd of police and people by the side of the road and got out to have a look.  That’s when he saw the bodies of the agents in the ditch.  If I had to say what happened I would say Pointreau had them killed, but I honestly don’t know.  We think we know everything the Gestapo does.  We try our best to know everything they do. Do we, really?”

     “They aren’t known for their subtlety or for being discreet, therefore I think it’s pretty likely you know ninety-nine percent of what they do.  Where are we going?” said Eric.

     “To the safe house that shelters agents and pigeons.  No firearms or explosives.  Don’t plan on storing any of those at this house when they come from drops.  Marie is very strict.  Besides figuring out what to do with the baker, why are you here?”

     “I am supposed to scout Falaise, Metz, and Fort Driant.  If there’s an invasion, going through Falaise might be a path to crossing the Rhine.  The brass figure the fort must be taken to prevent hordes of Germans flooding out of it and making a flank attack as the Allied forces go past.  I am also supposed to communicate only with pigeons because of agents being killed here when using the wireless, or trying to use it.  A few months ago an agent in Brussels started a secret pigeon service.  The only way he communicated out of Brussels was by pigeon.  The pigeons did well enough that the hope is we can do the same thing here until a more secure way is found to transmit.”

     “How many pigeons will be dropped?”

     “Three drops per moon period with two to four pigeons in each drop.  The pigeons are to be sent back in pairs,” said Eric.  “They fly better.”

     “This reliance exclusively on pigeons seems kind of demented, if you ask me,” said Marceau.

     “Yes, it does a bit to me too.  Except the man in charge took it really hard when in 1941, so many agents were captured and tortured.  Then some were executed and some were sent to concentration camps.  He hasn’t gotten over it.  My sense is he just wants a few months to get things set up properly.  In the early going, 1940 and 1941, things were very helter-skelter, lots of enthusiasm and bravery but not much detail oriented attention to security.  I was on a few of those missions.  We did too much improvising and had too little experience.”

     “Well, nobody had a dress rehearsal for this shit.  I had guys who were so angry and humiliated about how the Germans took France that they risked their lives because they were desperate to prove themselves and to fire back as best they could at the Boche.  Some of them lived.  Most of them died.  I can empathize with your top man because what I’ve seen has changed the way we try to do things.  We try to be more pragmatic and realistic.  On that note, I must tell you, the walls of Fort Driant are six, eight or ten feet thick, depending on who you ask.  Fort Driant contains a network of tunnels.  I don’t see how anyone cam take it, no matter what kind of intelligence you can pick up.”

     “I know.  It seems like a fool’s errand.  Still, it would be good to know how many soldiers are actually on duty and how much firepower they have.  For all we know, the Germans have ten men in their with rifles and not much else, because they are thinking we will make the assumption that it’s impossible to take Driant.”

     “I doubt that.  My guess is they have quite a few 88s and God knows what else.   In any case, scouting Falaise will be rough.  What will you tell the German patrols when they stop you?”

     “I am a geologist.”

     Marceau shook his head.  “That’s crazy.  You will be arrested immediately.  You’re better off taking a picnic and friends tagging along.  We will need to work on that.”

     Eric replied, “My papers say geologist.  I spent a hell of a long time learning all of the rocks and geological history of the area.  I’m a geologist.  That’s the way it is.”

     “I still say you are going to need more of a reason to be roaming around in that area.  Like you said, it’s a way to the Rhine.  The Germans will be very paranoid about people hiking around.”

     “I get your point,” said Eric.

     “Maybe we should get you a dinosaur bone.  You can show the patrols the bone and tell them you are looking for the rest of the bones for that dinosaur.”

     “I think you might be confusing geologist with paleontologist,” Eric said gently.

     Marceau threw his head back and laughed.  “You’re right.  I am.”

     Neither of them could know that in little more than a year, the Falaise Gap would become known as the Valley of Death because of the enormous number of casualties experienced by both sides.  They couldn’t imagine that the destruction of the German 7^th Army would be so fast and so brutal that some American soldiers would actually feel sympathy and shout, “Go! Go!” as the Germans tried to escape the endless firepower raining down on them.  Neither man could know that the peaceful, green valley they were both picturing in their mind’s eyes would be covered with what looked like a cloud of smoke after the battle.  But it wouldn’t be smoke.  It would be a giant cloud of flies feasting on the corpses of thousands of men.

     Marceau had driven down a dirt road for a bout a half a mile.  He stopped and raised his arm out of his window.

     “What are you doing?”

     “That’s my signal to anyone who might see the car that I am not a German officer.  Marie and her son were raided a lot in the summer and fall of 1940, when they still had food growing and animals the Germans could steal.  Now they don’t have anything, therefore the raids happen less frequently.  I believe some Germans were here a few days ago.  Under normal circumstances they probably wouldn’t be back for a month or so.  Because of Peter, they may search every house and every farm.  You will have a place to hide in the floor in the closet upstairs.”

     “Where are the pigeons kept?”

     “In a secret loft Marie’s husband, Paul, built when the Germans invaded Poland.  He gradually let all of the pigeons go free to live in the wild, knowing they would be safer.  He had some kind of system using a shed.  I never really understood it. He did keep his favorite pair and they’ve been trained to make themselves scarce when a patrol shows up.  You’ll see.”

     A two-story house with a front porch came into view.  A small boy with brown hair ran out into the driveway and waited for them to pull up.  After Marceau and Eric emerged from the car, the boy took a few rapid steps and seemingly in less than two seconds landed in front of Eric, stuck out his hand and with a big smile said, “Hello.”

     Eric, taken aback by the boy’s speed and by the boy’s choice to use English, was further disarmed by the boy’s obvious intelligence and poise.  Eric paused for a moment and then replied, “Hello, I’m Eric.”

     “Forgive me,” said Marceau.  “Eric, this is David, Marie’s son. His English has become really quite good since he and his mother began housing agents a few years ago.”

     “Glad to hear it, but if I practice English with you, will you help me to keep my French up?”

     David nodded, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.  Something about the sweater was vaguely familiar to Eric.  Its wool was a color something between tan and grey and it had a black ring of wool around its neck.  Eric remembered seeing that combination of colors before, but where?

     The sound of the front door opening and closing caused Eric to look at the porch.  Marie stood there, waving and smiling.  “Welcome!  Please come in.”

     After Marceau introduced them, Marie said, ”Have you lost a pigeon?”

     A rush hope flooded Eric’s body.  Eric would remember everything about that moment for the rest of his life:  Marie’s smiling face, her pretty French accent, the scent of spring flowers on the breeze, the warmth of the sun, and the words that suddenly made it possible that Blue might be alive.

     “Yes.”

     “He’s in the kitchen,” said David.  They went in and there was Blue lying on his back supported by folded sheets and towels to keep him from moving and wearing a little eye patch, the strap of which lay just below the ugly gash on his head.  “Will he be alright?  Will he be able to see out of that eye?  Will he be able to fly?”

     “He must lie absolutely still for three days,” said Marie.  “We have been feeding him carefully through a glass tube so he doesn’t need to move his face and beak to pick up food. He will be able to fly.  The question is, will his eyes work together or will he just use one eye?”

     Blue could sense, even though he couldn’t see properly at all out of his injured eye, that Dr. Pierce had gotten lucky and placed Blue’s eye back in the socket where it was supposed to be.  But his head was swollen, his eyeball still felt like if he turned his head too far it would fall out, and part of his body being numb, especially his wing, gave him no confidence that he would see and fly as he could before.  He wished he could remember a pigeon from his loft who had recovered from a similar injury, but there wasn’t one.

     “When I was twenty-two,” said Eric, “I was riding my bicycle in the city.  A car came up close behind me and the driver blew its horn.  I would have stayed in my space near the sidewalk, except for the horn.  It startled me and I instinctively turned toward the sidewalk.  My front tire hit the curb and I flipped over the handlebars and landed on my head.  When I came to, I felt the entire upper left quarter of my face had the skin torn off it.  My eye didn’t wasn’t pushed completely out of the socket like Blue’s but it was shoved out of place in a terrifying way.  My eyes did not work together for several months and it took two years for me to be completely normal again.  I didn’t think it would ever happen.  Please don’t lose hope, Blue.  If Dr. Pierce says you are going to be able to fly, you will, Blue, you will.  It takes patience to recuperate.  You can do it.”

     “That was nice,” said David.  “My father taught me that pigeons understand what we are saying to them.  I’m sure your story made him feel better.”

     David is right, thought Blue.  I do feel better.  The tension and fear about his future dropped away. Blue fell asleep for the first time since the accident.

     “I’m going to bring him to the loft.  I will be a nervous wreck if he stays in here, worrying that a German patrol may come,” said Marie.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   3:30p

 

     Since Marie had put him in the loft in the secret part of the barn, Marie had woken Blue up every time she came to change his water bottle and give him a bit of warm water and corn.  Now, in the middle of the afternoon, he woke up for the first time of his own accord.  His eye throbbed horribly and within a few seconds after waking, the horror and the disappointment of the night before flooded his thoughts and wave after wave of guilt, shame and anger tore through him.  Why did things turn out this way? 

     After a few minutes he couldn’t stand it anymore.  I can’t stay in this state of mind.  I can’t live like this, he thought.  Again, he called upon his memories of injured pigeons returning to his loft. Blue said to himself, stop this.  You can’t get through these days if you don’t calm down.  You could be in the woods, dead.  You’re not.  You’re being looked after by people who love pigeons.  Be patient.

     After regaining his composure, Blue began to sense, as best he could, a little bit about his surroundings.  Marie had put him in a box with sides that were high enough to prevent him from seeing yet he could sense that to his left, the wall had several small windows.  From time to time, a draft of cool air, carrying the scent of a flower Blue didn’t recognize, blew across the loft, maybe about ten feet away from his feet. 

     After a few minutes he heard the sound of a pigeon landing on wood.  His heart began to beat faster.  Even though the accident wasn’t his fault, he still felt ashamed of being hurt.  Would this pigeon criticize him?  Would this pigeon believe his story?  Would this pigeon feel like it had to protect its loft and peck him? When he was up and about would this pigeon and its mate let him eat and drink in their loft?

     Blue heard the sound of wings flapping and felt the breeze from a pigeon’s wings.  He tensed up, steeling himself for sharp pecks.  The next few seconds would decide his fate.  

     A female blue check pigeon with a hurt left foot landed on the edge of the box.  Remarkably, she balanced on the edge of the box adeptly, even though the toes of her left foot were curled into a little fist.  She used this little fist to lean on and that pushed the right side of her body up.  She looked at Blue with a face so beautiful and so kind he knew he would be welcomed.

     “What happened to you?  How are you doing?” she said.

     “A branch ripped the container off the strap around the agent.   The container hit a rock or a tree, I’m not sure which, and the blow cut my head and pushed my eye out.  Is it alright for me to be in your loft?”

     “Of course.  I’m Beatrix and sometime soon you will meet Al, my mate.  His right leg is injured.  He does everything on one leg.  It breaks my heart.  I can at least use my hurt leg to support myself at times.  He does it all on just one leg all the time.  What is your name?”

     “Blue.  How did you get hurt?”

     “Before the war we raced almost every weekend.  One Friday Paul and David drove us for the whole day.  We were then put in a small loft with far too many pigeons.  Some pigeons had to stand on the floor.  There weren’t enough perches.  Paul and David were angry but there wasn’t much they could do if they wanted to keep us and the other four pigeons in the race the next day.  In the evening the owner and a couple of his friends came out to see us.  They went back to the house without closing the loft door.  After sunset a whole pack of foxes came in.  There were foxes everywhere and pigeons flying all over the little loft crashing into each other trying to get away from the foxes.  Some pigeons made it out the door.  A fox jumped at me and used his paw to puncture my back.   The same thing happened to Al.  We thought we might be alright until after a while each leg started to feel really cold.”

     “How did it end?  Did the foxes just go away?” asked Blue.

     “The dogs in the pen started barking right away yet the owner of the loft took seemingly forever to come out.  He had been drinking and could barely walk.  All he did was close the door and latch it, even though dead pigeons were lying on the floor.”

     “How could someone do that?” said Blue.

     “I don’t know.  Then something like a miracle happened.  Maybe two hours later, David and Paul opened the door.  They put the six of us in our travelling cages and took us back to the inn where they were staying.  We heard Paul thanking David for telling him he had been worried about us.  I guess David kept saying ‘I know something is wrong, I just know it.’  Paul told him not to worry over and over again.  Finally David said he would walk the five miles to the loft to check on us, even though it was night.  Paul wouldn’t let him because David was only six then.  That’s how they ended up driving over and getting us.  We went home the next day.  Paul never spoke to that loft owner again.”

     Blue heard the sound of cars on the driveway.  “Who is that?”

     “Don’t worry. It’s not Germans.  Their vehicles make a lot more noise.  It’s Marceau and Richarde.  They’re probably here for a meeting with Marie and Eric.  You’ll be able to recognize whose car is whose after you’ve been here a bit.  I’m going to fly out and make sure that’s what is happening.”

     Marie and Eric went to the front door.  Marceau stepped forward and after kissing Marie on the cheek said to Eric, “This is Emile and this is Richarde, Emile’s uncle.  They work with us.”

     “Eric, when we have meetings we always go up to David’s room,” said Marie.  “We can get a long view of the road coming in and see a vehicle before we can hear it down here.”

      Once they were in David’s room, a brown dove flew up and sat on the bedroom windowsill with her feet tucked beneath her.  David said to Eric, “That’s the dove who likes Emile.  She always comes around when he is here.”

     “You’re a lucky man, “ said Eric to Emile.  “She’s very beautiful.”

     Emile smiled and for a second the heavy load Eric sensed he was carrying seemed to go away.  “See, dove.  Everyone agrees you are beautiful.”

     “We’re all lucky this dove reminds us to take time to enjoy beauty amidst the chaos and horror we try to manage everyday,” said Marceau.  He turned to face Emile.  “I’m sorry this involves your father.  I appreciate very much that you are willing to be here but I can’t say enough how sorry I am about the nature of this meeting.”

     Emile turned and looked at the dove for a second and then said, “I want to be here.  He disgusts me and he’s not my real father.”

     “Where is your father?” said Eric.

     A few seconds passed.  “He died, in Lille, near Dunkirk, at the end May three years ago.   May 31.  He was in the IV Corps.  My mother and I never saw his body.  They buried him before we could see him or have a funeral.”

     Eric stared at Emile completely at a loss for words.  Eric had been just as terrified and shocked as everyone else at the thought of the British army being pushed into the sea by the Germans.  He had shared the frustration and dismay felt by his neighbors at the speed with which the Germans took France.  How could it have happened?  Had the French fought hard enough?  How had the army of the world’s greatest empire been forced to retreat to the coast of France?  How was it possible that events had forced England to consider surrendering to Germany? And after that series of unbelievable events, then came another.  The British army, while under attack from the Luftwaffe, got away in a spontaneously assembled collection of boats piloted by civilians.  Now, after having gone from a state of despair and terror to knowing he had witnessed a miracle in the form of the evacuation from Dunkirk, here he was in the presence of the son of a man who had given his life to save the British army.  All Eric could bring himself to do was look Emile in the eye with a respect that almost brought tears to his eyes.

     Finally Marceau said, “The blood of a very brave man runs through your veins, Emile.  You must always remember that.  In England and maybe America too, the five divisions of the IV and V Corps are remembered as heroes.  The same can be said about the French in the group of reinforcements who held the line while the bridges along the Yser River were blown up.  Your father helped save the British army from utter destruction.”

     “David’s father died there too.  On June 2, two days after my father.  He sent a letter to David before he died.  That is how we knew about my father.”

     Neither Eric nor Marceau could speak.  They knew that a case could be made that they owed their lives to the fathers of these two boys.  Marie stood, thinking of her husband, telling herself not to cry.  She had learned that giving into crying only made things worse.  It could knock her to the ground, from where she feared she might not get up.

     Emile took a small piece of bread out of his pocket and crumbled it into bits for the dove.  After taking a look at everybody, the brown dove began eating.

     “She loves you, said David.

     “Only because I feed her,”

     “No.  It’s more than that.  I know because when she’s finished eating she always sits with you for a while.”

     Thankful for how the dove had broken the paralyzing sadness that had descended on the group, Marceau decided it was time to plow on.

     “We’re here to help Eric come up with a plan for Francois, the baker who we suspect is collaborating with the Germans.   Again, Emile, I apologize for speaking this way because he is your stepfather.  The problem is we can’t kill him or the Germans may retaliate against the whole town.  God knows how many people might be brought before the firing squad.  We can’t fake his death because they probably have eyes on him all the time.”

     “It’s not just he Germans who would be angry, said Marie.  “People love him because he charges the same prices as he did before the war.  He and his wife, Brigitte, are rich enough that they can afford to pay wartime prices for ingredients and still charge pre-war prices.  I can’t imagine people supporting the resistance if they believe a member of the resistance murdered him.  It would need to be seen as something the Germans did.”

     Marceau said, “You’re right and the best con is the one where the person, or in this case, persons, don’t ever know they’ve been conned.  It will need to seem to everyone as if he set the Germans up and then they punished him.  Or that he stopped giving them information and so they tortured and then executed him.”

     Marie replied, “But the other problem is that a lot of people don’t believe, because of the low prices he charges, that he would pass information to the Germans.  They just can’t conceive of him being a collaborator. It’s not believable that someone could be capable of such contradictory behavior.  He has a good cover.”

     “Well, what about this?  Richarde, can you tell him he needs to give the Germans something which isn’t real, to provide a distraction?”

     “What do you mean?” said Richarde.

     “London wants the bridge bombed by the RAF so that Hitler can’t use the bridge to move troops through this town for the Russian campaign.  I want you to tell him that the resistance will be setting bombs along track beyond the bridge for about a mile and then blowing the track.  Francois will pass that on to the Germans.  What will really happen is the RAF will drop their bombs while the Germans are occupied with trying to catch members of the resistance along that mile and a half of track.  Hopefully then the Germans will believe that Francois set them up, by giving them bad information.  Things will take their course.  Your mother can continue to run the bakery then can’t she Emile?”

     “Yes.”

     “I don’t give my brother information, “ said Richarde.  “Someone from the resistance does.  He’s going to smell a rat.  The only way it might work is if Francois believes that because we are brothers, I would never set that kind of trap for him.  Sorry, but he’s a cynical bastard.  He would accuse me of lying to him even if I wasn’t. If I tell him about a specific operation the resistance is planning he will see through that instantly.  I can already hear him telling me I’m full of shit and a traitor to him and on and on.”

     “You know how things go between you and your brother better than I do, obviously.  Still, I wish you would give it a try.  Our biggest problem is the leak in the resistance.  It could take a long time to find that person.  Right now we know, with certainty, that your brother is passing that information to the Germans in a croissant in a bag.  Eric saw him.  It was just luck that Francois needed to go to the dentist on the morning Eric would be in the bakery.  If Emile hadn’t been there, the colonel probably wouldn’t have felt like he needed to break open the croissant and see the message inside, in whatever kind of container it’s in.”

     “It could be in a lipstick holder, “ said Marie.  “That could be rolled into a croissant and baked.”

     “I don’t understand why the ink isn’t melting in the heat. Could it be film?  Would that hold up in an oven?  Anyway, it could take forever to find the leaker,” said Marceau.  “We know with certainty now that Francois is part of the chain that flows the information to the Germans.  We must at least stop him.  Then who will the leaker give information to?  Just tell your brother that the resistance is recruiting you.  Tell him that someone approached you and asked if you would be a lookout while charges were set along the track.  Ask him if he wants to be a lookout too.  Just sound like you are making a friendly, innocent effort to include him in something for his country.“

     “Tell him I’m recruiting him, like you’re recruiting me?” said Richarde with some hostility.

     Marceau sat down in a chair, realizing he had taken for granted that Richarde would want to help.

     “You have a choice.”

     “No, said Richarde, ”I really don’t.  What you’re telling me is if I can’t manipulate my brother into doing something that will cause the Germans to stop trusting him, then London may give the go ahead to you and your members of the resistance to blow up the bakery.”

     “Yes.  That is what I’m saying, however, it’s not a given that the Germans will torture and then execute your brother if they believe he’s giving them unreliable intelligence.  After the RAF bombing he can tell them his source can’t be trusted anymore.”

     “Marceau, that makes no sense.  First you say we must find a way to get rid of my brother and now you’re saying maybe the Germans won’t be that hard on him if he gives faulty information.  You aren’t being decisive about what you want to achieve. You said we must get rid of my brother, or stop him from giving information and now it sounds like you’re saying the Germans might let him live.  They might give him a second chance.  You’re being almost incoherent Marceau.  Any way at all, I still don’t like it, and I don’t like the idea of the RAF bombing anything anywhere near our town.  They’ve missed their targets and killed innocent people enough that I don’t want to be part of anything which sets in motion a bombing by them.”

     “I understand,” said Marceau.  “All I can say is they’ve gotten better.  Are they perfect?  No.  But the bombing will be done during a moon period and they will have the exact coordinates of the track and the bridge.  That’s the best we can do.  And you’re right.  I need to be clear that the goal here is to get Francois out of a position where he can sabotage the resistance by giving information to the Germans.  This is more difficult than I expected. As much as I hate what Francois is doing, I’m finding out that it’s hard for me to orchestrate a man’s death.  Yet if he’s not stopped what happens?  Are you with us?”

     “I’m with you as long as you can guarantee that Emile and Brigitte don’t get hurt in any way.  I want you to plant stories with people so that everybody in this town is absolutely convinced that Brigitte and Emile are not collaborators.  And you must make sure Brigitte has everything she needs to continue to run the bakery as Francois is doing now.  People are starving.  If the bakery goes away, you may find it very difficult to “recruit” people in the future.”

     Richarde said the word recruit with sarcasm and anger.  He felt cornered and used.  Marceau waited, hoping Richarde would see his silence as a sign of respect.  It didn’t work.  Richarde wasn’t going to be charmed by manners. 

     “Well?” said Richarde, as if hoping for a confrontation.

     “We will protect Emile and Brigitte in every way..  If there’s any sign of trouble we can fly them out.  When will you talk to Francois?  What will you say?”

     “In a few days.  I’ll let you know when it’s done.”  Richarde had no intention of telling Marceau the truth about what he said to his brother.  He had no idea what he was going to say.  He just knew he wouldn’t be telling Marceau the truth about it.

     Exasperated with Richarde’s obvious rudeness yet realizing there was nothing to do except ignore it, Marceau said, “Thank you.  We need you very much.  Finding the leak in the resistance might never happen, simply because Francois has so many customers into the shop.  It could be anyone.”

     “When is the next drop?  What’s in it?” said Richarde.

     “Firearms, ammo, explosives and either two or four pigeons,” said Eric.  “The plane should be in between midnight and three tomorrow morning.  Marceau, you already have a reception committee for that, correct?”

     “Yes.  I assumed you would skip a night and then do the next drop.”

     “Please remember.  No guns here, no ammunition here, no explosives.  Agents and pigeons are all I can do,” said Marie.

     Marceau smiled.  “I remember, Marie, and I can never thank you enough.  It’s been impossible to find another safe place with space for pigeons.  You are the only one.  Thank you.  I guess that’s it, everybody.”

     All of the adults filed out the door.

     “Are you coming?” Marie said from the doorway to the boys.

     “We’re going to sit with the dove for a while,” said David.

     Eric glanced at the dove.  She looked so peaceful.

     “May I sit with the dove with you?” asked Eric.

     “Please do,” said David.  “Yes, please,” said Emile.  Both boys looked so happy that Eric thought to himself, I must have said the right thing.

     “That would be lovely,” said Marie, looking just as happy as the boys.  “Eric, when you’re ready, this is a good time to get some sleep in your bed, as opposed to the hole in the floor of the closet.  We can all keep an eye out.  At night it will be your choice whether you want to sleep in your bed or in the hole.  I let people make up their own minds.”

     “Thank you,” said Eric.

     “And David, please don’t forget you need to feed the pigeon in twenty minutes.”

     David held up his forearm and turned it to show Marie his watch.       “You can depend on me, Mother.”

     Marie smiled.  That was the sentence, the code, which David used to show that he was there for her no matter what, now that his father, her husband, was gone.  “Thank you.  I’ll start simmering the water and the corn for you.”

     As the three of them sat with the dove, not speaking, Eric took inventory of what he had learned.  Marceau had a huge heart and a generous spirit.  He truly wanted to help his country.  But he didn’t have the temperament to do the violent and destructive things a member of the resistance would be expected to do.  And he didn’t have the kind of mind that easily came up with deceptive, convoluted plans.

     Richarde was far more loyal to his brother, Francois, than Marceau knew and even though Richarde had expressed that loyalty clearly today, Marceau still hadn’t caught on.  Marceau’s plan depended heavily on Richarde completely selling out Francois.  That’s not happening, concluded Eric.  I don’t know what Richarde will do, but he’s not giving up his brother to the Germans.

     Emile and David are brilliant.  I can count on them.  As soon as he had that thought, Eric doubled back on himself.  They’re children.  You can’t involve them in any of this.  It’s too dangerous.  And just as rapidly, he doubled back again.  If they aren’t included, they are going to be terribly hurt.  The best way to keep them with you is to treat them like adults and have them help you anyway they can.

     Marie had shown a thorough understanding of the contradiction Francois presented.  He is a Nazi collaborator who is preventing the people in his town from going hungry.  Of all of them, Marie seemed to be the one most likely to create a plan that stopped Francois from passing information to the Nazis and allowed the bakery to keep people fed.  She’s smart, thought Eric, really smart.  Eric had never been in the presence of a woman who was both smart and pretty.  Are you up to it, old chap?

     Having no answer whatsoever to that question, Eric turned his thoughts to the boys and the dove.  As the boys sat in the two chairs in front of the window, the dove sat facing them.  Her beauty and serenity provided a calming respite from the meeting.  After a few minutes, David said, “Is your uncle, well, your step-uncle, is he going to do it?”

     “He’ll do it,” said Emile.

     “How do you know?” asked David.

     “He doesn’t like being bossed around by Marceau.  That’s why he was arguing.  Richarde told me about how he lets agents stay at his house and how he lets weapons be stored in the house or the sheds.  I always know when something is happening because he shows up at our house and hangs around until my mother asks him to stay for dinner, and then the night.  She tells him he needs family time.”

     Gosh, observed Eric.  Here’s a completely different perspective on Richarde.

     “Does your mother know what he does?”

     “I doubt it.  She just likes him. They get on well together.  I think if something ever happened to my step-father, they might get married.”

     “Why does he tell you about the weapons and the agents?  That seems strange, that he would talk so openly.”

     “He says talking to me calms him down.  He’s very afraid and that’s why he always stays with us.  He won’t stay at his house if anyone or anything is there.  And he won’t transport.  Never ever ever.  Last fall he asked me did I want to make some money helping him stack and cover several cords of wood he had gotten a deal on.  While we were working, Marceau stopped by and ended up yelling at him because he kept refusing to transport.  Marceau kept yelling, “You have such a big truck.  You have such a big truck.”

     “Does your step-father unload on you too?” asked Eric.

     “No.  When he has me fill in for him at the bakery he only says give this order to so and so when they come in.  The order is always in a box or a bag and it’s always heavier than it should be.  The first time I passed a bag to someone, I picked it up like it was a muffin and I almost dropped it because it was so heavy.  My step-father thinks I am too stupid to figure anything out, even when a muffin in a bag weighs as much as a newspaper.”

     The two boys had been looking straight ahead but now David turned towards Emile.  “You’re in an awful position.”

     Emile’s face trembled as if he might start to cry.  “I know.”

     Hoping to cheer Emile up David said, “Come on.  It’s time to feed the pigeon.”

     “Could I come along in a bit?  I want to sit with the dove longer.”

     David nodded.

     After David and Eric stood up the dove shifted her sitting position so that she was directly opposite Emile.

     Emile looked at the dove’s bright, intelligent eyes and peaceful face. “You are so beautiful.”

     As the dove looked back at him, holding his gaze, Emile felt sure she knew exactly what he was going through.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   4:30p

 

     As he drove down the dirt road away from David and Marie’s house, Richarde decided he would stop off at his jewelry store to clean some of the jewelry brought in by customers.  He was too agitated to go home and he had learned over the years that sometimes doing something routine and mindless helped him to have ideas and to solve problems.        When he arrived at his store, he sat down in his very old and very comfortable wooden chair.  He loved this chair with its old pillow because it tipped backwards and had wheels that allowed him to zoom back and forth in front of his workbench.  He dumped a watch with tiny diamonds around its face underneath his work light and began to ponder how he could he keep the people in the town and the British happy and simultaneously keep his brother safe.

     He mulled over possible outcomes. If Francois stopped giving the colonel intelligence, the Germans would find a reason to arrest Francois.  If Francois gave the colonel fake intelligence to divert their attention from the stretch of track the British wanted the RAF to bomb, the Germans would conclude he wasn’t loyal to them and Francois would be arrested.  Arrest meant torture and then death.  If the RAF succeeded in bombing the track, how many people in the town might the Gestapo execute?  Eight?  Twenty?  Two hundred?  If the resistance took matters into their own hands and damaged or destroyed the bakery with a bomb, the hungry and exhausted people in the town might never support the resistance, especially if anyone was hurt or killed by the explosion.

     Richarde let out a sigh of frustration.  If only people had reason to believe that an invasion was coming then they might be more open to supporting the resistance.  Even though the victories at El Alamein and on the Eastern front along with the Allies’ progress in North Africa had been welcome news, those events laid bare the reality that an invasion of northwest Europe was most likely at least a year off.

     Richarde knew that people were trying to make it day by day.  Supporting the resistance now so as to aid in an uncertain invasion at an unknown time just wasn’t meaningful or motivating for most of the people in the town.  Things were just impossibly jammed up.  No one could buy into the efficacy of supporting the resistance until the resistance had some success, yet success was impossible because of the leak in the resistance. 

     Richarde loved his brother.  Although he wished Francois would stop collaborating, the collaboration seemed fleeting and superficial compared to the wonderful closeness and love they shared as brothers.  Richarde had to admit that he would never be able to live with himself if he gave Francois up to the Gestapo. 

     After putting the watch back together and filing it in an envelope under the customer’s last name, Richarde dropped the contents of the next envelope on his bench.  He had been working with jewelry for decades but these earrings stunned him.  Egg-shaped, with a border consisting of alternating diamonds and black onyx stones, each earring sparkled with spectacular emeralds in the top half and glittering amethysts in the bottom half.  The line between the emeralds and the amethysts wasn’t straight across.  Someone had painstakingly chosen stones of varying hues and brightness and then blended them together so that the emeralds seemed to blend softly and magically into the amethysts. 

     The instructions from the customer were to remove the stones, clean them and the surface below, and then re-glue the stones into place. 

Richarde turned the earrings from side to side under his work light wondering how he could possibly replicate such a skillful and artistic placement of the stones.  Should he try to make a diagram?  Should he try to do it spontaneously, guessing as to how to create this blend from green to purple? 

     As the effervescence of the green and the purple stones glimmered and sparkled at him under the light, suddenly an idea about what to say to Francois took shape in his mind.  Suddenly he had a starting point.  He would need help. A lot could go wrong. Still, if he could pull it off, he felt sure that this idea could prevent a bombing, maybe not forever, but at least until a better plan could be made.

     As Richarde stepped out the door to go see Francois, the cuckoo emerged from the clock for its first of 6 calls.  Richarde shook his head with disgust. When the Germans had occupied Argentan, they had demanded that all of the clocks be changed to German time.  “What will they want to control next?” he wondered out loud.  That question caused him to doubt his choice to save his brother. Again he found himself on the mental treadmill of asking himself over and over again, should I take the side of the resistance and give my brother up?  Should I give my brother up?  Should I take the side of the resistance and give my brother up?  Should I give my brother up?  The question made his head pound with tension and pain.  As he drove down the road his only relief came when he visualized his plan working, working to perfection.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   4:40p

 

     Blue heard the door to the loft slide open.  Al and Beatrix flew up to their perches as David came in.  “Well, British pigeon, my mother has decided you should stay inside with me because you will be warmer.  Then there’s no chance of you going too long without a new hot water bottle.”

     “You’ll be fine,” said Al.  “Beatrix and I were inside for a week while we healed up after the fox attack.  They might put you on a pillow which is really nice.”

     “Thank you” said Blue.  This was a relief because now that the sun had gone behind the trees, the loft had cooled off a lot.  It would have been a long night without any heat from fresh hot water bottles.

     Once they were in David’s room, David put Blue on a bigger blanket inside of one of Marie’s dress boxes.  “You will be up here, in this closet.  It should be warm enough for you all night.  I’ll come back with your food in a moment.”

     It had been fun talking with Al and Beatrix but tiring too.  Blue immediately fell asleep.

 

Wednesday, April 21, 1943   6:30p

 

     Francois raised his eyebrows and looked at Richarde. “You’re telling me that Marceau expects that I am going to tell the colonel that the resistance will be blowing up the railway track and while the Germans are scurrying around trying to find resistance workers who may not even be there a squadron of RAF bombers will fly in and take out a stretch of track in an entirely different location?”

     Richarde nodded his head up and down with the tiniest bit of motion and braced himself for a tour de force of outrage and ridicule directed at Marceau.

     “Do you know what Marceau is?” said Francois.

     “A pompous jerk?”

     “Oh yes.  He certainly is that.  But all in all, to his core, in every fiber, in every particle, in every atom, he is a piece of shit.  Even the invisible dust mites, which trod upon his miserable skull and amidst the foul hair on his hairy arms, are pieces of shit.  The breath he exhales is shit.  His thoughts are shit.  His actions, what few there are, consist of shit, nothing but shit.”

     Resigned to the fact that this tirade was going to last for a while, Richarde made himself more comfortable in the chair.  He knew from experience that it was best to let Francois have his say about Marceau.

     “Even worse than him being a piece of shit, and nothing but a piece of shit, is that he is an idiot.  An idiot!  He is the biggest idiot that I have ever known.  It’s no wonder there isn’t any progress made by any resistance workers in this town.  Marceau is in charge.  As long as he is in charge no progress will be made.  Why?  Because he is an idiot and a piece of shit.  His plan proves it.  How is Francois Letac, me, little old Francois Letac, passing faulty intelligence to a few Germans going to make a difference in this war?  It won’t.  Do you know who will make a difference in this war?”

     Richarde shook his head.

     “Generals like De Gaulle, Montgomery, Bradley, Slim, Patton, Eisenhower, Zhukov, and Wingate with his Chindits or whatever outfit he puts together.  There’s a man with good ideas.  That’s who will make a difference.  That’s who will win this war.  Not the baker, Francois Letac, telling lies to some German soldiers.”

     “I heard that the Chindits are retreating and experiencing brutal attacks by the Japanese. Word is, they’ve lost a third of their men.”

     “Yes.  It’s terribly sad.  But Wingate is onto something.  Small groups doing special operations behind enemy lines are going to win this war, not Francois Letac the baker, vainly trying to trick the Germans!”

     Richarde pondered whether he should tell Francois that the resistance could be described as a small group conducting special operations behind enemy lines.  He decided against it.  The sooner Francois finished complaining about Marceau, the sooner Richarde could explain his plan.

     Francois continued, “What Marceau and that British agent don’t seem to understand is that people are hungry.  They have the possibility of starvation in their lives all day and all night.  I keep them from being hungry.  I am the one who pays black market prices for butter, sugar, eggs, jam, and heavy cream and then I, that’s me, I sell the bread, the croissants, the cakes, and everything else for the same prices people paid before the occupation.  No one wants to see me get hurt.  No one wants to see the bakery get blown up by some little idiotic band of resistance people who think they know what is best for everybody else.  Is blowing up my bakery going to help the Allies win the war?  No!  It’s ridiculous.  Marceau is an idiot.  Marceau is a piece of shit.  That agent, well, he may not be an idiot but he doesn’t understand the circumstances in our town at this point in time.  What he needs is intelligence about what the Germans are doing and what they are planning.  I can’t sacrifice what I am doing for the people of Argentan and turn into a double agent, passing intelligence to the colonel and milking him for intelligence that I then pass onto that idiot, that piece of shit, Marceau.  It’s too much.  Too much.”

     Richarde was starting to feel anxious.  For his plan to succeed, it had to start tonight. How much longer would Francois need to keep talking?  Richarde wondered if it would be less noticeable if he looked at the clock on the wall out of the corner of his eye, or if he could shift around in his chair and get a peek at the watch on his wrist, which was partially covered by the sleeve of his jacket.  He forced himself to look at Francois, knowing that if Francois saw him check the time, Francois would feel he hadn’t convinced Richarde of the complexity of the situation.

     “You’re right.  Neither of them understands what is happening here.  Blowing some places apart in other towns might be acceptable.  Here, now, it’s not going to make things better.”

     Francois let out a long sigh.  “I can’t tell you how tired I feel.  The English and the Americans seem to be a couple of weeks away from taking Tunis and hopefully pushing the whole nasty lot of Italians and Germans into the sea.  Even if they do, the end of this war is such a long way off.  Between you and me, I loathe talking to the colonel.  Well, actually, I never talk to him.  That’s the whole scheme.  I just pass a report to him in the croissant.  I hate myself. Every time I pass that bag to him or one of his deputies I feel like I’ve turned into scum.  I don’t feel like a person anymore.”

     Richarde was now listening intently.  Francois had never revealed how he felt about being a collaborator.  Richarde has assumed that Francois sort of enjoyed it because Francois had always been a bit of a social climber, overly concerned, Richarde thought, with superficial things like what parties he was invited to attend and what kind of clothes he and his wife, Brigitte, wore to important occasions.

     “I can see how you would feel that way,” Richarde said cautiously.

     “I can’t think of a way out,” replied Francois.  He let himself sit down heavily in a chair.  After a minute or so of silence, Francois said, ”You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about.”

     “I have an idea, although I need your help, a lot of your help.”

     “Go on.”

     “Remember you told me about a customer you have who keeps pigeons for the Germans and for that he gets that huge vanilla cake from you every week, paid for by the colonel’s office?”

     “Yes.  I saw him a couple of days ago.  He didn’t mention the pigeons though.”

     “Those are the decoy pigeons right?  The ones who the Germans train to fly back to German lofts but the pigeons are outfitted with counterfeit British rings and message capsules, plus they have the British markings on their wings…those are the pigeons he keeps?”

     “Yes.  Someone from the Gestapo drops them off.  He gets paid to distribute them around to places in the countryside where people might find them and then put a message in the capsule on the pigeon’s leg, believing the pigeon will bring the message to England.  Instead the pigeons bring the messages back to the home lofts in Germany.  It’s really quite clever.  They must train them somehow not to fly back until they have a message, otherwise they would just fly back right after he drops them off.”

     “Isn’t that giving a lot of credit to a pigeon, to think it could know the difference between carrying a message or not?”

     “I agree with you, but how else can it be explained?  The Germans must be getting messages back or they wouldn’t keep providing him ,and probably others, with pigeons.  It takes a lot of work and time to make those counterfeit rings and message capsules as well as marking the birds.  I doubt they would be doing it if the pigeons weren’t bringing back messages.  Anyway, I‘m surprised you remember me telling you about the German decoy pigeons.  How do those pigeons pertain to your plan?”

     “If we can get some of those pigeons, we can swap them with the real British pigeons in Marie’s loft.  The British pigeons will fly back without any messages.  Eric and Marceau will have no way of communicating with HQ.  They can’t ask for a bombing if they can’t get a message through.”

     Francois thought for a second.  “Why aren’t they using wireless?”

     “Three agents have been dropped here.  One by himself, two last month.  They were all supposed to transmit.  They all went missing.  No one knows anything.  On Wednesday, Eric’s partner, was killed by Pointreau.  Those two were planning to transmit from Pointreau’s set, the one he keeps in his house.”

     “What happened to Pointreau?”

     “I don’t know,” said Richarde.

     Francois nodded.

     “Eric shot him,” said Francois.

     Richarde wanted no part of any speculation about Pointreau and he didn’t want to know how Francois knew that Pointreau had been shot.

     “You’re probably right, but I really don’t know.”

     “He shot him, so that agent isn’t going to want to roam around looking for another place to transmit.  You’re right.  They need those pigeons.  And guess what, they aren’t going to have those pigeons.  I’ll go over to Gilles’s loft tomorrow and get some.”

     “Well,” said Richarde, “that isn’t soon enough.  They are getting a drop tonight.  Four pigeons, sometime between midnight and three.  A couple of people from the reception committee will leave them in Marie’s loft.”

     Francois stood up and walked toward the front door.  “I can get the pigeons tonight.  But I need to leave now.”

     “Who will switch the pigeons?  Who can do that at three or four in the morning?  I would do it, except I don’t have papers to be out at the time of the morning.”

     “Claude Bernot.  He does things for me from time to time.”

     “Claude?” said Richard.  He’s police.”

     “Yes, he’s police and he’s police who loves money.  Do you know what he loves more than money?”

     Richarde shook his head.

     “France!  He loves France!  He will happily drive his patrol car over that way and then hide in the woods outside the loft until it’s time to switch the pigeons because I am going to pay him and because he loves France!  It’s perfect!”

     “Are you sure he can be trusted?”

     “When Claude was working in a Vichy office in Paris, he was stealing German documents and passing them to couriers who got them to the British.  Don’t worry about Claude.  He loves money!  And he loves France!”

     Stepping towards the front door, Francois added, “Wait a half hour and then go out the back door.  Take some bread with you from the kitchen.  It’s still well before curfew but you can hand over the bread if anyone stops you.”

    

Thursday, April 22, 1943, 5:40am

 

     David woke and turned his head to check the clock.  Two years ago, when Marceau had asked Marie if she would keep pigeons dropped by the British in the secret loft in the barn, David had volunteered to go out and meet the members of the reception committee who were dropping off the pigeons.  “Absolutely not,” said Marie.  “You need your sleep and so do those pigeons.  They will be fine for two to four hours in the loft.  You are not to be in there until 6.  If I catch you in there earlier, we will not help with any more pigeons.  Also, for all we know, the Gestapo may be tracking the people with the pigeons.  I don’t want you walking into a group of officers who are arresting resistance members.”

     A few days later, Marceau had stopped by the house for something.  Before he left he took David aside.  “Please abide by your mother’s 6 o’clock rule, David.  We need this loft.  It’s our only place for pigeons.”

     Seeing 5:40 on his clock, David lay in his bed, thinking about how glad he was to have Eric staying at the house.  Doing something to help his country felt better than doing nothing, even if it was dangerous.  Since his father’s death, David’s sadness and helplessness had been almost unbearable.  Hiding the pigeons and caring for them dispelled his feelings of helplessness. On a day when Marie had broken down because of the pressure and fear she was feeling from hiding the pigeons, David told her, “We’re doing it for father.  We must do something.  He can’t just die.”

     Some nights David would wake up, look out the window, and see two or three people walking quickly along the woods to the path.  Other nights he slept through.  Last night he had woken up several times, checking on Blue and looking out the window.  If someone had brought pigeons, he hadn’t seen them leave. 

     At a few minutes before six, David went into the washroom and then returned to his bedroom to get dressed.  Once in the barn, he slid the secret door of the loft open about an inch and said, “I’m coming in now, pigeons.”  As soon as he saw the inside of the loft his heart began beating uncontrollably.  The pigeons weren’t in the aviary.  They were still in their containers on the table in the middle of the loft.  What had happened?  The reception committee members always put the pigeons in the aviary and took the containers.  If the Germans made a raid, those containers would mean torture and execution for everyone.  David saw Al and Beatrix perched on the shelf in front of the small pigeon door near the rafters.  Usually they would be outside by now.  David figured they were probably puzzled by this change in the routine too. 

     As fast as he could, he slid each pigeon out of his or her container and put them in the aviary.  He picked up two containers and went into the main section of the barn towards where his family kept the empty burlap feed bags.  Hurriedly he dropped those two containers in the bag, squeezed back through the door, dropped the other two containers in the bag, grabbed a shovel from the barn, and walked rapidly out and into the woods.  After walking about two hundred meters he dug a hole and buried the containers.

     As David came out of the woods, he saw Eric doing push ups on the grass.

     “Good morning.  Will you be sending your messages soon?”

     Eric stood up.  “Good morning.  You are on top of this operation as if you were in training with me.  Yes, I want to get something out.  Are the pigeons alright?”

     “Yes, except they weren’t in the aviary.  Someone left them in their containers on the table in the loft.  No one ever does that.  They know it’s better for the pigeons to get out for a while before they are needed to fly back.”

     “Maybe someone was just tired. Or maybe they heard something and thought they had to get out of the loft.  I will ask Marceau what happened.”

     “What will you be writing?”

     “Peter is dead.  I witnessed the baker passing intelligence, well, his son passed it, to the German colonel and I will be noting the coordinates for the drop zone.  They should have them, however, it’s protocol to confirm them, which we did when we landed the other night.” 

     David nodded.  “How soon will they be off?  How many will go?”

     “Two, each with the same message.  It might take me about an hour to code both messages,” said Eric.

     “Could I copy the code you write for the second message on the other message paper?  If you send them in an hour I will need to have left for school before then.  Can we do it faster if I help you?”

     “I’m glad you thought of that. Let’s go up to your room so we can write and keep watch at the same time.”

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   7a

 

     Al and Beatrix returned to the loft after making a few wake up laps.  They would normally spend most of the day outside, returning in the late afternoon or evening.  Today they had decided to talk with the pigeons dropped off by Claude, to see what they could find out before two of them were let off with messages. 

     The four British pigeons who had escaped through the small door, were long gone.  Usually when the reception committee members would drop off pigeons, Al and Beatrix had time to tell them about places nearby where they could wait out bad weather if they were let go in tough conditions for flying over the Channel.  They would also tell them about where to find food and water on the way west to the Channel.

“I hope they are alright,” Beatrix had said to Al.  “Do you think they flew across the Channel before sunrise?”

     “It’s clear and calm.  They easily could have.  From the way those pigeons flew out of the door, I know they are super fit.  Unless a hawk got them, they might be almost home by now.”

     Al and Beatrix were standing on the trapping platform outside the pigeon door to the loft.  The platform was actually an overhang. It ran across the side of the barn below the one real opening and the several other fake openings.  Paul had built it on the side of the barn as a place where people could stand and keep dry if it was raining.  It was meant to make that side of the barn look uniform.  A typical trapping platform below the real opening would have attracted attention to the entrance.  It had turned out to be a good defense against hawks, owls and falcons because they couldn’t discern where the real opening was, so they couldn’t predict which way the pigeons would go to get in when they returned to the loft.

     “Let’s go in and find out who these pigeons are,” said Al.

     From a nesting box close to the aviary Beatrix said, “I’m Beatrix and this is Al.  We were racing pigeons until we were hurt in a fox attack.  How are you doing after the trip in?”

     “We’re fine,” said one of the pigeons.  “We didn’t fly in on a plane, like you might be thinking.  That man who dropped us off drove us here from a loft about ten miles away.”

     “What?” said Al. “How are there British pigeons being kept in a loft ten miles from here?”

     “We aren’t British pigeons.  We’re German pigeons.  I’m Stefan, this is Fredrich, this is Shostakovitch, and this is Effie.”

     Al and Beatrix had no idea what to say.

     “We are here to prevent the agent from having any communication with England.  We overheard the scheme a couple of Frenchmen are trying to put in place.  They believe if their man, the one who dropped us off, can let the British pigeons out, the British pigeons will fly back with no messages.  Then the agent sends messages with us, thinking the messages are going to England, but we take the messages to our loft in Bremen.”

     “Your rings, your message capsules, the markings on your wings,” said Beatrix, “they are just like what the British pigeons have.”

     “Counterfeit,” said Effie.  “They refer to us as decoy pigeons.”

     Al had become more and more angry.  “Do you have any idea about the suffering your country is causing in the world?  The man who built this loft and who allowed us to have an open loft, the man who treated us like equals, like his own children, he’s dead.  He’s dead because your country invaded France.  Our beautiful France is now a hell.  How do you feel about that?  Do you even think about that?”

     “We think about it all the time,” said Shostakovitch.  “How can we not?  What are we to do?  We’re German pigeons.  We love our country like you love yours.  I can’t say I love the man who keeps us in Bremen.  He doesn’t let us have an open loft.  Still he cares as best as he knows how.”

     “We think about history.  We think about all the times pigeons have carried messages for people.  Things are one way for a while.  Then they are another way.  Right now, Germany, well,” Stefan paused, “I am not proud of Germany.  What we do is our job for our country and we hope that soon, very soon, different people will be at the top.  The one who is there now, and the ones around him, we don’t like them.  But what are we to do?”

     “You could fly away when you’re sent out on training,” said Beatrix.  “Even though Paul was very good to us, we had pigeons who didn’t want to race.  They wanted to go off and have their nests and not be bothered with races and training and everything else that comes with being in a loft.  Haven’t you ever thought about that?”

     “I have,” said Fredrich.  “Still, it’s my country.  The messages I carry will probably save the lives of German soldiers, men who once lived in peace, and maybe they wish they could live in peace now.”

     Beatrix turned and gave Al a hard stare.  That stare meant, Al, do not go into a long thing about the Treaty of Versailles and how the German people would love to have more land.  Don’t do it.

     Al nodded slightly.  He had no intention of getting into all that stuff, because right now, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was finding a way to let David and Eric know what was going on.

     “Despite our differences,” said Al, “when it’s time for you to go we’ll tell you where you can find food and water on a route northeast of here.  We go that direction about forty miles.  We would be honored to help you with that.”

     “Thank you,” said Effie, Stefan, Shostakovich, and Fredrich.

     “If you weren’t in the aviary, you would be welcome to come with us now,” said Beatrix.

     The four German pigeons nodded and settled down to wait for whatever would happen next.  Al and Beatrix flew out the pigeon door and perched on the roof.  They were just about to take off for the day when they heard Eric and David come out the back door.  Al and Beatrix looked at each other with dismay.  This horrible scheme was actually fooling Eric and David.  Eric had the message between his thumb and the first three fingers of his right hand as he and David walked towards the loft.  Helplessly, Al and Beatrix waited as Eric and David went into the loft, came out with Effie and Shostakovich and let them go.

     “We can’t let that happen again,” said Beatrix.  “We just can’t.”

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   8a

 

     After Shostakovich and Effie had flown for about half an hour, they saw what Al and Beatrix must have been referring to as a place to eat and drink.  It was a field bordered by woods on all sides, with a stream running across the west side.  The pigeons foraged for about fifteen minutes, had a drink, and were off.  Even though they had made an effort to seem unaffected by the questions Beatrix had posed, both pigeons couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to leave their loft and live with free pigeons. 

     They loved Hans, their owner.  Even though he always underestimated their intelligence, he had a kind heart.  All of his pigeons knew about other loft owners who killed the pigeons who weren’t flying well.  Hans had never been able to bring himself to do that. Every pigeon in the loft knew they were lucky to be in his loft, instead of someone else’s.  So, in spite of being well aware of the suffering their country was causing for many people in many countries, they wanted to do well for Hans.  It might not go well for him if his pigeons flew poorly for the Reich.

     Effie and Shostakovich couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live a life without serving a master they loved, but who was himself serving a master the pigeons couldn’t abide.  They had heard Hitler’s speeches on the wireless.  The pride he took in his power and the way he used it to kill and bring fear to millions around the world reminded them of the gratuitous cruelty birds suffered when they were caught by a cat or a hawk.  The cat played with the bird before killing it.  The hawk ate the bird alive.  The longer they flew, the less Shostakovich and Effie wanted to deliver messages for a man who played with people like a cat plays with its prey and who, with his instructions to torture or work people to death, was figuratively eating them alive.  If they left the loft, they wouldn’t make Hans look bad and they would be free of a duty they found repugnant.   

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   12:50pm

 

     Hollingswood sat at his desk reading reports, some of which were from North Africa.  He had spent a week in Cairo at the headquarters of the Middle East Pigeon Service evaluating its breeding and training operations. During that week he had rapidly developed a profound respect for the men and women who lived with the heat, the flies, and the sand storms. 

     Sometimes Hollingswood stopped working and made a point of remembering the Spartan nature of those offices in Cairo.  The memories brought on a mix of gratitude and guilt because, compared to those men and women, he was relatively safe.  At those times, he had to admit to himself that he wanted to be safe.  Being in the line of fire no longer held any appeal for him and although he always felt guilty for not sacrificing more of his creature comforts, the lessons of the Great War caused him to be at peace with no longer being willing to sacrifice his life.   He didn’t want agents to sacrifice their lives in this war either.  His pigeon plan had to work, for the sake of the agents and for the sake of his spiritual wellbeing.  If I can help it, no one dies, he would say to himself.  No one should be dying because we as human beings couldn’t learn from the First War.

     Hollingswood came out of one such reverie and saw Oliver standing in the door.

     “Four pigeons have come back, sir.”

     Hollingswood looked puzzled.  “Aren’t they only supposed to send back one pair at a time?”

      “Yes, and sir, I’m sorry.  They’ve come back with no messages.”

     Hollingswood’s heart sank with despair and disappointment.  “Oliver, it’s too soon for things to be going this badly.  It’s too soon.”  Oliver nodded sadly as a nasty combination of fear and adrenaline jumped Hollingswood out of his chair.  “I’m going to the loft.”

     Frank stood out side the loft staring at the horizon through a break in the trees and saying under his breath, “Thank you God for keeping my pigeons safe.  Thank you God for watching over my babies.  Thank you, God.  Thank you.”

     The sound of feet crunching gravel caused him to look around and see Hollingswood jogging toward the loft.  Frank braced himself for questions he knew he would be unable to answer.

     “Frank, what happened?  Did the pigeons have empty message canisters or no canisters at all?  Is anyone hurt?  Have they just got back?  What do you think happened?”

     “They all returned together, about ten minutes ago.  No canisters.  Everyone is fine.  They probably just got out of where they were being kept.  I don’t believe there’s much to worry about,” said Frank, even though he was actually very worried.

     Hollingswood replied, “That does seem to be the likeliest reason.  Has that ever happened before?”

     “Not from an agent.  I’ve heard a pigeon coming back without a message from a plane crash.  Things are chaotic. The crewmember might let the pigeon just slip out of his hand, or the container flies open.  It’s rare though because everyone is well trained on how to handle the pigeons.  The open container tends to be the culprit.”

     “But you’ve never had a pigeon come back without a message who was sent by an agent.”

     “No.”

     Hollingswood let out a heavy sigh.  “Well, they are supposed to get another drop of guns and explosives leaving on the night of the 24^th and arriving early morning on the 25th.  It seems now that four pigeons will need to be dropped too. Should we include a note about the pigeons coming back without any messages?”

     Frank thought for a second.  “If they lost the pigeons by accident they know.  They don’t need a note telling them they lost their pigeons.  Then think about if the Germans retrieve the container with the note in it.  Even if the note is coded they could decode it and that would give them some valuable information.”

     Both men stood thinking, surrounded by pigeons in their cubbies, listening.

     “Right,” said Hollingswood.  “Can you have the next group of pigeons ready by 8 on Saturday morning?  I’ll have the van sent around.”

     “Will do,” said Frank, but he was angry.  Instead of sending his pigeons off on a well-organized operation, it seemed he was sending them to their death.

     After Hollingswood left the loft Marguerite told Linda what Al and Beatrix has said about Blue’s injuries.

     “How was he hurt? What happened?”

     White Dart told Linda and the rest of the pigeons the story about the container flying through the air and hitting a rock or a tree.  “It’s a miracle that someone found him and brought him to a place where they keep pigeons.  Unbelievable.”

     “Do they think he can fly?  Do they think his eye will heal?”

     Velvet said softly, “Linda, they are sure he could fly now, except he wouldn’t be able to see with both eyes working together.  In three days he can start to spend time sitting up if they see tissue forming around the eye.  Al and Beatrix said he misses you terribly.”

     “I must get over there.  What can I do to cause Frank to pick me for the next drop? I can’t stay here because I might be sent on another mission.  Now that I know he’s alive, I can’t live with myself if I don’t get to France,” said Linda.  She started to cry.

     “Just fly over and get in the basket.  Frank always tells us it would be a lot easier on everybody if we would just get into the baskets.  He hates jumping around trying to catch us,” said Henry.

     “Thank you,” said Linda.  “I’ll do it.”  She went over to the feed trough and began eating.  This would be her second mission.  The first one had been a drop into France in early March to a resistance group.  Food had been scant. They had been kept in an outbuilding with only each other as a way of keeping warm.  A resistance worker had sent her and Jeffrey back on a morning when it had warmed up a bit, but large, damp snowflakes fell all the way to the coast. 

     The sight of the Channel had been daunting.  “Come on,” said Jeffrey.  “You’ve flown more than a hundred kilometers in a day plenty of times.  This is only going to take half an hour at the most.  Chin up!  You can do it!”

     It had required a special kind of concentration to fly over that much water.  What would the weather be like this time?  What if Blue were dead by the time she arrived?  For a moment she felt a pang of indecision.  In less than a second it was replaced by the thought of the slow torture of doing nothing day after day or being sent off to somewhere in North Africa.  I’m going.  That’s it.  Linda took a big drink of water and went back to her cubby.

     Frank came back into the loft. “Who wants to go on Saturday?” he said, smiling, because he had never seen a pigeon volunteer for duty.  Frank knew no one would fly over and hop into a basket voluntarily.  Yet after forcing him to run and jump around the loft for a while the pigeons always allowed themselves to be caught.  They could prevent me from catching any of them for hours but they always cooperate in the end.  Why?

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   6:20p

 

      A few minutes away from their loft Effie said, “I don’t want to go in.”

     “Neither do I,” answered Shostakovich.  They landed on the roof of the loft.  Inside they could hear Hans cleaning.  At 66, cleaning the loft took six hours.  Hans frequently had to stop cleaning and go inside to his study to rest and read for a bit.  Then he would resume scraping, spraying, feeding, watering, washing nest bowls, inspecting his pigeons, or sitting or napping in the chair he kept in the young bird loft. 

     Hans liked to watch the young pigeons.  Even though he raced only in short races now, he still enjoyed watching the young pigeons and trying to predict who would be best at what kind of race.  Hans still had more than 70 pigeons.  He always became attached to each one and found it impossible to cull the birds who didn’t train well.  A few of the younger men in his pigeon club called him “Hans the Hoarder” behind his back.  He had overheard them once.  He didn’t care.  All of those men trained their birds from only one direction.  Hans had no respect for that or for them.

     The scraping stopped.  Hans emerged from the loft looking hot and thirsty.  Effie and Shostakovich watched him go into the kitchen for some water.

     “Let’s perch on the window boxes.  Maybe he will come out and take our message capsules off.  Then we can go somewhere for a while.  I don’t care where.  Just anywhere,” said Effie.

     They landed on the flowerbox amidst petunias.  To get Hans’s attention, Shostakovich twirled around in circles and puffed up his feathers as if he was driving Effie.  Hans saw them.  “What are you doing out there?  In the loft birds, go!”

     Hans wasn’t angry.  He had raised his voice so that the two pigeons could hear him through the glass.  They stood looking at him, showing no sign of heading for the loft anytime soon.  “Better get Portuguese,” Hans muttered to himself.

     Portuguese was Hans’s coaxer.  She was a beautiful Portuguese Tumbler, white with splashes of black.  She had splashes of black perfectly placed above her eyes that made her look like she was wearing thick false eyelashes with just the right amount of mascara.  When she stood with her wings folded on her sides, a splash of purple on her back could be seen between the splashes of black on each wing.  Not the shimmery purple that many pigeons have on their necks, but like the royal purple one might see used in the ermine and purple robes worn by monarchs.  Portuguese was a glamorous bird.

     Shostakovich and Effie saw Portuguese fly a few small circles above the loft before she went in.  Portuguese came out and flew a few more circles.  The two pigeons knew they were supposed to go in, but they just couldn’t do it.

     Hans walked over to the window box.  “Have it your way, birds.  He detached the message capsules from each of their legs.  Hans always read the messages, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. He considered it his fair compensation for letting the military use his birds.     His reaction to the writers’ descriptions of their suffering and their valiant efforts to include information they thought might help the Allies always caused the same mix of horror, forced self-righteousness, and shame. First came a piercing sadness at what those people were experiencing and the sensation of being stabbed by the intensity and desperation of the details they meticulously catalogued.

     Then, as protection from those emotions he would tell himself, serves them right after what they did to us at Versailles.  Those people can’t govern themselves.  They need us.  That’s what’s best for them.  His desperate effort to protect himself with self-righteousness was immediately followed by bitter revulsion at those thoughts and shame because he had been co-opted.  Was he not capable of thinking for himself?  Was he merely a mindless idiot who would fall for anything the government tried to make him believe?

     At the beginning he read the messages aloud to his wife.  One night he woke up in an empty bed.  He went downstairs and found his wife, Angela, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of Schnapps in front of her.  Neither of them drank.  They only kept Schnapps in the house for guests.

     “I can’t stop thinking about the words you read today, ‘we’re starving.’  I can’t get them out of my head.  ‘We’re starving, we’re starving.’ I hear those words again and again. That’s what we are doing to people.  We are starving them.  And the hate they have for the Boche.  That’s us.  They hate us, and our sons, fathers, brothers, and uncles.  Everyman we know who went to fight, they hate.  We know those people.  They were good people before this war started. They don’t deserve the hate. They are my friends.  But if they’re killing people and causing them to starve…I think…I think I’ve grown to hate being German.”

     Angela broke down sobbing.  Hans kissed her on the top of her head and threw the Schnapps away.  “Please come back to bed with me.  I’ll tell you some happy stories from when I was little, so you can fall asleep with them in your mind.”  Hans helped Angela upstairs and into bed.  He didn’t read any more messages to her.

     “Now will you go in?” Hans asked the two pigeons.  Shostakovich and Effie flew up and perched on the roof of the house.  This is strange, thought Hans.  He opened the messages.  Expecting to see words and sentences, he gasped when he saw blocks of letters arranged in columns. Hans surmised that neither one of these messages contained a single actual word in any European language.  This was a code.  Hans let out a deep breath and tried to calm himself.  He couldn’t.  The pigeons hadn’t gone into the loft and now the messages were in a code.  What was going on?  Hans felt jittery.

     Don’t stand here.  Just do what you are supposed to do and make the telephone call.  When they come just give them the messages like you always do.  Don’t let on.

     Hans made the call and then made a sandwich.  He sat down in his chair in the study and, crashing from the adrenaline that had been driving him for the past half hour, Hans fell fast asleep.

     Up on the roof, Effie and Shostakovich continued to discuss what they should do.

     “I want to see everybody but I can’t go in.  If we go in, we may never be let out again, for one reason or another.”

     Shostakovich nodded.  “I feel afraid of never being able to be out again too, like we are now.  Let’s go over to the pond and have some water.  Then we can spend tonight in the shed.  We don’t have to make a final decision tonight.”

     Until their two children were grown and gone, Hans and his wife had kept two ponies.  In the winter, the ponies were blanketed and stood in the three-sided shed.  When they came back from the pond, Effie and Shostakovich perched on the beam from which the hay bags had been hung from two screw eyes.  “Are you going to be ok?”  Shostakovich asked Effie.

     “I think I might feel happier tonight than I have ever felt,” said Effie.  “As we were flying, I kept asking myself why I felt afraid of being out on my own away from our loft.  Our ancestors did it.  They survived very well without anything from people.  Still, I felt unsure.  But, now, now that we are actually out on our own, I believe we can do it.  Do you?”

     “Yes.  I felt shy about telling you that I was having the same trepidation. My ancestors come from a strong pedigree so they’ve been in racing lofts for generations.  Even so, and I don’t know why, the longer we flew the more I wanted to be out on my own.  And we are!  We’re doing it! Tomorrow we’ll meet up with the pigeons who perch downtown.  I rather think they’ll give us a round of applause and help us anyway they can.  Does that sound good?”

     “Yes,” said Effie as she fell off to sleep.

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   7:55p

 

     Hans jolted awake.  Someone was banging on the door.  The half sandwich he had brought towards his mouth lay in his lap.  He put it on the plate and went to the door.

     “Good evening.  You have some pigeon messages to turn in?” said one of the officers.

     “Yes.  Please come in.”

     The officers stood in the entryway wile Hans retrieved the message capsules from his study.

     One of the officers took the messages.  The other was scrutinizing Hans.  “You don’t look well.”

     “I apologize.  I just woke up,” said Hans as politely s he could.

     This wasn’t the right thing to confess.  Both officers raised their eyebrows as if falling asleep while waiting foe them to arrive was an act of treachery against the Reich.

     “You seem unnerved,” said the other officer, eyeing Hans suspiciously.

     I have to be honest about something, thought Hans.  If they decide that I’m concealing anything they might suspect me of plotting to overthrow the Reich or of plotting to assassinate Hitler, or Himmler, or someone else at the top of the Nazi totem pole.

     Hans straightened himself to his full height and said earnestly, “The pigeons landed in the window box.”

     The two officers couldn’t help themselves.  They started to snicker and quickly progressed to tossing their heads back and letting out loud laughs, over and over again.

     “Go back to sleep Hans.  We appreciate your service to the Reich.  Heil Hitler.”

     “Heil Hitler,” said Hans, while sweat beaded on his forehead.

 

Thursday, April 22, 1943   8:05pm

 

     Richarde heard a knock on the back door of his jewelry store.  Getting up from his workbench he wondered why it had taken Francois so long to stop by.  “I expected you earlier.  Did something go wrong?”

     “No.  After dinner I spent some time chatting with the new cook Isabella, just filling her in on how to do the job.”

     “What happened with the pigeons?”

     “According to Clause, everything went perfectly.  He waited until the reception committee members were well on their way, easily found the secret door in the barn to the loft, and left the pigeons on the table.  The four British pigeons flew straight out the pigeon door.”

     Richarde shook his head.  “Claude made a mistake.  David’s told me the pigeons who come in the drop are always taken out of their containers and put in the aviary.  No one wants the Germans to find those containers at Marie’s.  He can’t do that again or David will catch on.”

     Francois laughed.  “I’ll tell him and I know exactly what he will say, ‘If I have to take the pigeons out, that’s extra work, so I want more money.”

     “Well then he’ll probably want more money for this too.  Eric is going to the drop zone from now on.   Claude will have to wait until Eric goes into the house and settles down to sleep.  That’s probably more time than waiting for two people to walk into the woods.”

     “Is that it?” asked Francois, “or is the cost of doing this going to keep climbing?”

     “You’re the one who decided to pick a greedy person to do this job,” said Richarde, smiling at Francois.

     “I told you, Claude loves France, but in these times, ironically, if someone is greedy, they are more trustworthy.  To me, you can trust the greedy ones more you can the altruistic ones.  Anyone who can be bought usually delivers.  That’s my experience.”

     “Sad,” said Richarde.  “I’m going home now.  Please talk to Claude.  David is no dummy.”

     Francois nodded and went out the back door.

 

Saturday, April 24, 1943   6a

 

     David’s alarm clock went off.  He reached over to shut it off and as was his habit now, turned to look at Blue next to him in the small wooden box partly covered by a small blanket.  Blue looked back at him.  Today was the day he would finally be allowed to stand.

     “It seemed like it would never be today, didn’t it, British pigeon?  I’ve hated seeing you on your back all this time.  It must be so hard for you.  Well, Dr. Pierce said he would be here at ten to stand you up.  That’s in four more hours, British pigeon.  You can do it.  I know you can do it.”

     After David fed him the mix of warm water, and mashed up corn, barley, and peas, he took Blue into Marie’s bedroom with its south facing windows and gentle breeze blowing through them.  This had been the routine, first Marie’s room so that he could get the warmth and light from the sun, and then out to the loft when the sun was in the west and warmed that side of the barn.  David and Marie had decided it was good for Blue to have some “pigeon time” with Al and Beatrix in the afternoon.  Usually Al and Beatrix would spend the whole day out but with Blue convalescing in the loft, they had taken to returning to the loft for a couple of hours to visit with him before going out for their last exercise and foraging before sundown.

     Blue lay in his box in Marie’s room listening to the birds chirping and the drone and buzz of various insects in the yard.  How much pressure would there be on his eye when he was upright?  Would he be able to stand for an hour like Dr. Pierce hoped he could?  How wobbly would he feel on his legs?  Whatever happens, Blue decided, I’m just going to push through it.  I don’t want to be on the ground for the rest of my life.

Finally he heard the sound of wheels on the dirt driveway.

     A few minutes later, Dr. Pierce picked him up and brought Blue right up close to his face, peering at Blue’s eye.  “It’s knit together better than I expected.  What have you been doing?”

     “David was able to get a hold of some peas and barley from Emile at the bakery.  Plus we added some linseed oil to the mix.  Paul put that in most of his feed mixes,” Marie answered.

     “Great work by you. Are you ready British pigeon? I’m going to stand you up on Marie’s bed.  Don’t feel badly if you topple over because your legs are stiff.  It’s been a long three days.”

     Blue stood on the bed.  His eye was definitely pulling down in its socket but his legs felt strong.  He took a few steps and quickly learned that walking on a bed requires a different kind of step than walking on solid earth.  He wobbled a bit for the first few steps and then began taking longer strides, glad to feel his muscles working again.

     “That’s great!” exclaimed Dr. Pierce.

     “Yes it is,” said Marie.  “Yes, it is.”  She began sobbing.

     “There, there Marie.  I can understand why you’re crying.  It’s very hard taking care of an injured animal.  I could spend most of my life crying if I let myself.  You go ahead and let it out.  It’s perfectly fine.”

They watched Blue go back and forth and in circles on the bed for about five minutes.

     “What we need,” said Dr. Pierce “is a small mattress on the floor he can sit and walk on by himself until it’s time for him to be on his back again.”

     “We could use David’s old mattress.  It’s in the barn.  I’ll get it.”

     Dr. Pierce sat down in Marie’s reading chair.

     “You don’t know how much I wish I knew what it is like to be a pigeon.  How do you always find your way back?  What do you hear that we don’t hear?  What do you sense that we don’t sense?  What do you know that we don’t know?  Do you have thousands of years of knowledge you can dip into or do you know just what you have learned in your lifetime?  I wish to God I knew.”

     Blue sat down and then stood up, continuing to walk up and down the mattress, twirling from time to time.  Dr. Pierce sat silently, watching Blue or looking out the window, deep in thought.

     Marie appeared in the doorway with the mattress.

     “I would have offered to help but knowing you, you would have said ‘no,’” said Dr. Pierce.

     “You would have been right.  Now do you think I should put it on this side of my bed so he’s near this patch of sun?”

 

Saturday, April 24, 1943   5p

 

     As Linda, Zarella, Tipsy, and Charlene rode along in the van it started to rain.  Because of the wind, the pigeons knew the storm would last until early evening.  Then it would subside and the skies would be mostly clear in time for take off that night.

     When the duty officer at Gibraltar Farm opened the door of the van, the familiar smell of the wet farmland in that area rushed in to Linda.  Her first flight had been after a small rain.  It actually felt good to smell that smell again.  I’ve done this before, thought Linda.  I can’t let my worries about Blue make me think I can’t do this job.  That smell and the faint smell of jet fuel, reminded Linda that she was part of something organized and scrutinized by a lot of people.  We aren’t helpless.  Lots of people want us to get right to where Blue is.  During the drive, the other three pigeons had chatted non-stop, making an effort to bring Linda into whatever they were discussing.  Linda had been grateful, because whenever there was a break in the chatting, the thought of Blue’s broad shoulders, his calm, thoughtful gaze, and the way his purple neck feathers shimmered when he turned his head just made her go to pieces.  I must get there, no matter what, she told herself over and over again.

     The chatting came to an end, however, when they were finally strapped into the Hudson in their crates.  Side by side in their crates, the pigeons savored the last warm summer air.  At altitude, fluffed up feathers would be a necessity as well as a stoical determination to endure whatever came their way.

     The pilot, Bunny Rymer, stuck his head in the door before going to the cockpit.  “Got everything ship shape, Billy?”

     “Yes, sir.  Ready when you are.”

     At the coast, the plane attracted some flak for about thirty seconds.  The pigeons listened to the engine and learned how it felt when the plane took a turn in any direction.  When they were at the drop zone, the number of times the pilot had to circle would have an impact on how soon they might be found after they landed in their crate attached to their parachutes.  Two circles usually meant everything was going well.   The reception committee would note where they and the containers were dropped and, uninhibited by interference from a German patrol, could quickly fan out and find them. 

     More circles than two usually indicated some kind of problem.  Maybe the pilot didn’t see the torches. Maybe the reception committee didn’t flash the correct letter in Morse code.  Maybe the pilot had seen something that made a safe landing questionable.  There wasn’t anything the pigeons could do, because they counted the circles, but it was a way of keeping tabs, sort of, on how things were progressing.

     Because the four pigeons had all done a flight to France, it now felt like there were about twenty minutes to go until they reached the drop zone.  But just as they had that feeling, the inside of the plane lit up with light from tracer fire.  Linda’s heart sank.  She hadn’t been bombed on her two previous flights, but plenty of other pigeons had and the memory of their descriptions of it filled her with despair.

     After the sky lit up, the port propeller took a hit.  The plane lurched violently to that side and began to head towards earth.   All Bunny could do now was try to control their descent.  “We’re going down!  Drop everything now, pigeons first.  Anything left on board will burn. Go Billy, now!  And get ready to bail!”

     Moving faster than the pigeons had ever seen a person move, Billy opened the door and rapidly tossed each pigeon out.  Zarella went first.  Linda went second, followed by Charlene and Tipsy.  Now that the plane had been hit each pigeon understood that the plane crash would attract the attention of the Germans.  German soldiers would scour the surrounding area for people, pigeons, and containers.  The reception committee would be forced to disperse.  The pigeons knew that the crash would make it far more likely that German soldiers would find them, instead of the reception committee.

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   3:30a

 

     Claude woke up from a dream in which for some reason, even though he was in his bed, his face was damp and cold.  Aloud he asked,  “Why is my face damp and cold?”  The sound of his voice woke him up and he discovered that he wasn’t in his bed.  He was in the woods waiting to replace pigeons for Francois.  Claude sat up and reached for a cigarette, not caring if someone smelled the smoke.  He always had a cigarette when he woke up and right now would be no different.

     After a couple of drags a rush of adrenaline blasted through him.  Wait a minute, what time is it?  Shouldn’t they have come by now?  Through the trees he could see that the sky hadn’t started to brighten. Claude sensed it was past three o’clock in the morning.  He looked at his watch.  Three thirty?  Did I sleep through them leaving the pigeons?  Are the pigeons already in there?  Should I go check or just keep waiting?

     A few minutes went by.  As he became more awake, Claude decided the best time to check was now.  If they hadn’t come yet, the longer he waited for them, the more likely it would be that they would walk right in on him in the barn. 

     Claude made his way to the barn door and tiptoed through the barn to the loft door.  He opened it slowly and stuck his head through the narrow opening.  No pigeons.  What was going on?

     I guess that means I need to keep waiting. Suddenly he felt very hungry and thirsty.  I should just leave.  Francois will pay me regardless of what happens.  He told me that.  I’ve had it.  I’m leaving.

     Once outside the barn, Claude turned towards the driveway.  A flash of realization hit him.  Francois was so often full of shit. Just because Francois said he would pay me doesn’t mean he actually will.  I need this money.  If I don’t have the containers to prove to him I switched the pigeons he might say to me, “Go to hell.  I never said I would pay you regardless of the outcome.”  Plus, Claude knew that Francois would be just fine with coming up with some ridiculous reason for not paying him even if he did everything exactly, perfectly right.  Claude sighed and went back to his spot in the woods.

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   4:10a

 

     Linda stopped pecking.  She had been pecking at the cardboard part of the cage intermittently since a few minutes after the cage had hit the ground.  On her way down, despair had almost taken over.  She was landing so far away from the drop zone.  How would she ever be found?  Would the reception committee come back and look, after the Germans had lost interest in searching?  Would the Germans ever stop searching or would patrols go on for weeks?  Linda’s eyes filled with tears of frustration.  She hadn’t considered the chance of a plane crash at all.  She had only envisioned being carried to the loft where Blue had been brought. 

     Thankfully, the story Dimitri had told everyone after pecking out of a cage came back to her.  Dimitri was the only pigeon in the loft who had pecked his way out of one of these cages.  “Even if you feel sure you will be found soon, start pecking right away.  It takes a long time and it gets tiring on your neck and beak.  Peck for a bit and then stop.  Don’t peck until you feel tired.  Just do a few minutes, rest, and get back at it.  That way, if you aren’t found for days, at least you will have a way out.”

     Within a minute of pushing back her despair and beginning to peck, Linda’s telepathic ability let her know where Blue was sleeping.  She knew he was dreaming anxious dreams about not being able to fly back over the channel.  He was having a nightmare, in which over and over again he dropped into the sea.  Linda concentrated and said to Blue, “I’m her, darling, I’m here.  You and I are going back together when you are ready.  I will make sure of it.”  Linda figured that Blue was about six miles off.  If I get out of here, I can get to him.  I know it.

     Now, during this break from pecking, Linda picked up on Tipsy and Charlene.  They had been found and were being carried in the general direction of where Blue was being kept.  Linda smiled. Tipsy and Charlene were calm and relieved so she knew the reception committee had found them.  Linda guessed that Zarella, not yet found, was sitting in her cage a half a mile away.

     Linda began pecking again.  How long would it take to get out? She kept asking herself and just as often answered back to her own question with just peck, then rest, peck, then rest.

     Then, beyond the vibration and noise of her own pecking, the faint vibration of footsteps seemed to be traveling through the ground toward her.  Linda stopped and listened.  Someone’s feet were nimbly hitting the ground.  This was someone who knew the land.  They weren’t hesitating.  The footsteps stopped near where Linda believed Zarella might be.  Yes!  Linda felt Zarella’s happiness at being found.  Now Zarella was telling her, “We’re getting closer to you.  Don’t give up.  We are coming your way and I know the person who is carrying me is determined to find you.”

     In seconds, the vibration of the footsteps became heavier and heavier.  Suddenly, Linda smelled a person who quickly picked up her cage and whispered,  “Welcome to France, little pigeon.  We cherish you as if you were one of our own soldiers.”

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   4:50a

 

     The two resistance workers who had just trekked from the drop zone after retrieving the four pigeons stopped at the edge of the woods and surveyed the area around the barn, checking for any sign that it might not be safe to go inside.  They had walked because they hadn’t been able to get the traveling papers needed to be out in a vehicle at that time of the morning.  Traveling papers had been harder to obtain since Hitler’s decision in November of 1942 that all of France should be occupied.

“I’ll go,” said Jannik.  “Do one of your bird calls if you see anything.”

Marc nodded.  His birdcalls had proven to be an effective warning sign for people about to be advanced on by German patrols.

     Jannik crossed the grass in a few seconds and opened the bolt on the barn door.  Once inside he went quickly to the shelves behind was the sliding door separating the loft from the main part of the barn.  Inside the loft, he held open the door of the aviary and opened the first of the four containers.  Jannik carefully slid the first two pigeon out and placed them in the aviary.  When he tried to put the third pigeon in the aviary, it took him by surprise.  The pigeon pushed against his light grip and flew up into the rafters.  Members of the resistance had been trained to gently grasp a pigeon on the pigeon’s underbelly with their fingers in the shape of the letter V and to use their other hand by placing it gently over the top of the bird’s wings. Jannik had never heard of a pigeon escaping like this one had just done, but there wasn’t time to think.  He had to get out of the loft.  The next pigeon went into the aviary calmly and Jannik quietly closed the sliding door and then the door to the barn, trying not to let the containers bang against one another.

     Marc and Jannik had to get back before sunrise.  Without any pigeons needing to be kept from jostling around in the containers, Marc and Jannik began the walk home, striding as fast as they could while trying to avoid tripping over any of fallen branches outlined by moonlight in the darkness of the woods.

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   5a

 

     One second after he guessed that Marc and Jannik were onto the path through the woods, Claude darted across the yard, opened the barn door, and then the door to the loft.  Just like the first time, the pigeons came thundering out of the aviary when he opened the door and made a beeline to the little pigeon door in the upper corner of the loft.  Because he was nervous about getting out before he might be caught, Claude didn’t notice that just three pigeons had flown out.  The four pigeons he had went affably into the aviary.  Thank God, said Claude to himself, but when he was in the doorway on his way out of the loft, something made him look back.  He saw Al and Beatrix in their cubbies and Linda, staring at him from the rafters.  “Shit, goddammit,” Claude said out loud.  “How am I going to get that pigeon out?”

     Claude jumped up and down waving his arms.  “Go! Go, you stupid bird! Go!” he shouted.  Linda stared at him.  Deciding he would need to poke her out the door, he grabbed the push broom from the barn and began jabbing the handle end at Linda.  Al and Beatrix flew up into the rafters and all three pigeons flew back and forth, easily evading the broom.  Seeing that using this end of the broom would never work, Claude turned the broom and rammed the broom end, which was about two feet long, directly at Linda.

     “Let’s go,” said Beatrix.  “Out the door!  Now!”  The three pigeons bolted out the door and circled around until they could land on the peak of the roof.  “He can’t see us here from down there,” said Beatrix.  “I don’t think he’s even going to look,” said Al.

     Al was right.  Looking neither up, down, left, or right, Claude ran through the yard towards the driveway with two pigeon containers in each hand, clattering together as he ran.

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   5:40a

 

     As usual, David woke up before the alarm set for six o’clock.  He went to the bathroom and found the door closed.  The sound of water running in the sink ended and Eric opened the door.  David had to jump back because Eric rushed out the door, clearly in a hurry.

     “I think a plane may have crashed last night.  Maybe one of ours.  Can you smell the smoke?”

     David had noticed a faint smell of smoke and figured someone was up burning leaves.  “Yes.  What are you going to do?”

     “Go into the bakery now and see what I can find out.  If it was one of our planes I doubt anyone will be talking about much else.  Are you and Emile going to be running after school?”

     “Today is one of Emile’s training days.  Why?”

     “If the pilot is hiding he may be in the woods.  Just be ready for him to point a gun at you.  He might be really on edge.  I doubt he’s still around, if he’s alive.  Just be aware.”

     “Did you tell Mother that you think a plane crashed?”

     “No.  I’m off.  If I find out anything, I’ll tell both of you later.”

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   5:50a

 

     “We usually fly now,” said Beatrix to Linda.  “Do you want to come?”  The three pigeons had gone back into the loft to eat and drink.

     “I don’t know.  When might I see Blue? I don’t want to go very far until see him.  If a hawk gets me, it will eat me alive and all I will be able to think about is that I never saw Blue,” said Linda.

     “David or Marie bring him out to the loft in the afternoon, after the sun has warmed things up.  For today, you might do well to fly some laps around the yard.  Hawks don’t come this close because they don’t catch anything.  When there were young pigeons around the hawks would make regular attempts to hunt them.  Not anymore.  You will be ok around here,” said Al.  The three pigeons flew out the door of the loft.

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   12:30p

 

     Frank and Hollingswood stood on the lookout porch attached to the second floor of the loft.  “This isn’t good, sir,” said Frank peering through a set of binoculars.  “I see three pigeons.  There should only be two or one.  I hate to say it, they probably don’t have messages.”

     “What is going on over there?  Is Eric really not able to handle the pigeons?  Are they just escaping?  And why are they escaping at the same time?  It’s always the morning after the drop that they come back.”

     They watched Zarella, Tipsy, and Charlene fly closer and closer.  Once the pigeons were within thirty yards of the loft they circled a few times and then landed on the peak of the roof just above where Frank and Hollingswood stood on the lookout porch. 

     “It’s as if they want us to see that they have no message canisters,” said Hollingswood.

     “Yes,” said Frank.  The pigeons immediately shot up into the air, circled around to the trapping door, and went inside.

     “What are they trying to tell us?” asked Hollingswood.

     “Beats the bloody hell out of me,” answered Frank.

 

     Hollingswood sat at this desk, not seeing the reports he was supposed to be reading.  Flashbacks of agents being tortured in the terrible days of two years ago when so many were captured forced themselves into his mind.  He knew he had to get this mission off the ground, meaning get a workable circuit going in and around Argentan.  Arms and explosives needed to be dropped.  Men needed to be trained in sabotage and to function as a secret army that could assist the Allies once the invasion of northwest Europe began.  Propaganda needed to be distributed to weaken German morale.  How in the name of God am I supposed to do all that without being able to communicate with my man on the ground?         Agents’ lives didn’t matter to London as much as they should, Hollingswood believed.  People working in the comfort of their offices seemed willing to drop men and women in regardless of whether they were positioned to succeed or not.  He knew that if word got to Baker Street about what was now quickly becoming a debacle, orders would go out to drop a radio set and a wireless operator, even though no secure network of contacts and cut-outs existed.  There would be no patience with pigeons mysteriously returning without messages.  “Drop the radio and the operator and get on with it,” would be the sentiment, loud and clear.

     Hollingswood just couldn’t manage hearing about another brave, young man being beaten, left in a cattle car in the dead of winter with no clothes, food, or water for days at a time, and then hung on a meat hook after hours of interrogation.  There had to be a way for his faith in the pigeons to be validated.  He knew they could do their part.  Whatever was going wrong, he felt sure it was the fault of a person, not of a pigeon.

     Oliver tapped on the open door to Hollingswood’s office.  “Frank asked me to tell you to come out to the loft.  He says he has an idea.”

     Hollingswood jumped up.  Frank never had vague, poorly planned ideas.  If Frank was having an idea now, it was likely to be meticulously thought out.  It was likely to work.

     Inside the loft, Frank stood at the sink scrubbing nesting pans.  “You wanted to see me?” said Hollingswood.

     Continuing with his scrubbing, Frank answered, “I’ve just got off the telephone with Billy O’Connor in Staines.  Searchlight Pied can fly on the night of May 15. That would be the first drop date in the next moon period.  If all goes well, she would arrive with a message on the next morning.”

     “Searchlight Pied?  I don’t know what you mean,” said Hollingswood.

     “Searchlight Pied is a pigeon Billy trained to fly towards a particular type of torch.  The crew drops her about seven miles away from the reception committee which is shining that torch.  Instead of homing back to her loft in Staines, like other pigeons would be trained to do, she flies to the torch with a message.  They read the message and then send her back with a message at first light.”

     “You’re kidding.”

     “No.  How he trained her, I don’t exactly know, except he carefully trained her with other lights.  She doesn’t fly towards them.  She doesn’t get confused.  She only flies to that one type of torch.  She’s a remarkable pigeon.  He only lets her go if she’s urgently needed.”

     “Incredible.  The only thing is, I don’t believe they have that torch in their kit right now.  We will need to drop one.”

     “Can we get two of those torches on board a flight which goes out on the night of the 26^th and drops the containers early on the 27^th?” asked Frank.

     “Tomorrow night is our last chance to do that if she is flying on the first flight date of the next moon.  We are going to have to.  Who has the torches?”

     “I will check to see if they have any at the airfield.  If not, Billy will need to bring them.”

     Hollingswood frowned.  “I just thought of another roadblock.  How will the agent know what the torches are for?”

     “During their week of pigeon training they get briefed on those torches.   Just to be sure we can mark it.  If that agent was paying attention, he will remember and know how to proceed,” said Frank.

     “Do you see any merit in sending some pigeons tomorrow night?”

     “No.  Until they get things running properly I am not wasting good pigeons.  When they send back a pigeon with a proper message, then they get more pigeons.  Until that happens, no pigeons,” said Frank.

     Hollingswood nodded.  “You’re right.  The only other thing is, how do we know they have the torches?  What if Searchlight Pied gets let out of the plane and the people on the ground don’t have the torches?  What will she do?”

     Frank smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  “Here is a tried and true military strategy: hope for the best.  There have been plenty of things undertaken in this war based solely on hoping for the best.  Haven’t there been?”

     “Yes, the main one, it seems to me, being Dunkirk.  That was all about hoping for the best.  I have often wondered if we hadn’t had a prime minister from the admiralty if that evacuation with the little ships would have been given the green light.   Would someone less familiar with the sea have even seen the possibility of it working?”

     “Interesting question,” said Frank.  “I am going to go and ring up Tempsford.  See what they have for torches.”

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   2p

 

     Marie stood up from her chair in front of her sewing machine and stretched.  “Looks like it’s time for you to go out to the loft,” she said to Blue.

     Marie brought Blue’s box into the loft and placed it on the table.  Linda immediately flew over and perched on the edge of his box.  Marie had stepped back instinctively to avoid this unknown and unexpected pigeon zooming towards Blue.  “No! No! Don’t hurt him.  Don’t hurt him,” Marie said as she stood a few feet back, unsure of whether to try to protect Blue or not.  Linda jumped into Blue’s box.  They nuzzled each other.

     “You scared me half to death,” said Marie.  “You know each other, I can tell.  You must be from the same loft.  Are you?”

     Linda and Blue ignored Marie.  They had no way of explaining to her everything that had happened.  Marie sat down in the chair at the table.  “Clearly you know each other but I hope you two don’t mind if I sit here for a bit and make sure that British pigeon is going to be alright.”

     “What happened, what happened?” asked Linda.  “What did anyone say about whether you can fly again?”

     “It is strange to be on a surface all the time, instead of in the air, but the doctor, the vet, said I would be able to fly.  Actually he said I could fly now, except that my eye isn’t good enough for it to be safe for me to fly.  In two weeks the vet thinks I can start flying around in here and in the barn.  Then he thinks it will be at least two months until I am completely recovered and I can be outside flying on my own.”

     “I am not going anywhere,” said Linda.  “I am staying here with you.  In two months we can decide what to do.  Just please don’t tell me you want to fly over the channel in two months.  We are going to make sure you are strong and fit before you go anywhere near the channel.”

     “I can’t believe you are here.  How did you convince Frank to pick you?”

     “I just flew over to the basket.  You know how Frank is.  He doesn’t want to catch pigeons.  Not that any of us ever gave him very much trouble about being basketed.  But I’m sure he was happy to have one of us make it really easy for him.”

     “That sounds like Frank.”

     Marie stood up.  “Paul loved to tell me about how pigeons mate for life.  I found it amazing, that pigeons can manage to stay together while people usually muck it up.  I can see how much you love each other.”  Marie looked at Linda.  “Don’t worry.  No matter how much Eric may need you to take back a message before your mate is healed, I won’t stand for it.  You two are staying together until British pigeon is ready to go back.”  Marie walked out of the loft.

     “Don’t you want to go outside and fly for a while?  You’ve been inside or in a container since you left our loft,” said Blue.

     “I might tomorrow.  Today I’m staying with you.  What will happen tonight?  Will they bring you inside again?”

     “I don’t know.  We’ll have to see.”

 

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   7:20p

 

     “I’m sorry I didn’t get back in time to help with dinner,” said Eric as he came through the back door into the kitchen.

     “We saw him!” said David and Emile.

     “Who, the pilot?”  Both boys nodded. “ You did?  Where?  Is he alright?  Is he still in the area?”

     “We decided that since our loop passed pretty close to the farm which was bombed but still has a shed standing that we would check in the shed.  We opened the door and said ‘Hello’ quietly because he seemed to have dozed off.  Like you said he would he pointed his revolver at us,” said David.

     “How did you convince him you meant him no harm?”

     “Emile said, ‘God save the king and long live England.’  That made him laugh.”

     “He told us it was just a matter of luck that a German patrol didn’t find him.  When he heard them coming at around noon he hid under a thick group of bushes that were so low to the ground he could barely get under them.  Three times they walked right past.  He felt sure they would have found him if it hadn’t been close to their lunch break,” said Emile.

     “He asked us if we knew any other English.  We said no and then he said, ‘If you do and you feel you can’t say, just tell him or her, or them, that ‘I know Bunny,’” said David.

     “That’s definitely a pilot for us.  Bunny flew some of us on our parachute training jumps.  Almost anyone would know Bunny.  That was smart of him to tell you that.  What else happened?”

     Emile said, “His clothes were pretty torn and dirty from being under the bushes.  He wanted clothes and food.  We went back to my house because I am about his size, although I am a little taller.  We left with a loaf of bread and a hunk of roast.  David thought that was too obvious so we went back and made sandwiches.  We ran home and back because he was afraid the Germans might look again in that area.  Just before we got there, David went ahead and I stayed a little ways away and drew him a map of how to cut through the woods to get farther down before getting on the road.  He said he wanted to go to Lyons.  He had heard it would be a good place to shelter and a good place to find help with making an escape plan to the border and then over the mountains.”

     “When we gave him the map, he wouldn’t take it.  He said if he was found, the Germans might check everybody in the town’s handwriting.  He copied the map onto four cigarette papers.  Then he used those to roll four cigarettes,” said David.

     “He thanked us and shook hands and then he practically ran out of the shed.  He knew he had to keep moving,” said Emile.

     “Then there’s the matter of the pigeons,” said Marie.

     “There are five pigeons instead of four,” said Emile.

     “There should be three.  I sent one off this morning,” said Eric.

     “No,” said Marie gently.  “You were in a rush to find out about the pilot.  You usually send a pigeon after they drop.  This morning you didn’t.”

     “You’re right.  I should have gone to the drop like I planned, but Marceau said he had it covered.  Too many people out there increases the chance of attracting attention. Do we know if five pigeons came in the drop?  The requisition form for this operation states two or four pigeons per drop.”

     “I don’t think so,” said David.  “Four were in the aviary this morning.  When I checked on British pigeon in the loft after school a pigeon I had never seen before was in the box with him.”

     “What?  This is too strange.  I need to see these pigeons,” said Eric.

     The two boys and Eric stood up.

     “Wait,” said Marie.  “There’s little enough food as there is.  Finish your plates.  Then you can go.”

     In less than a minute Emile, David, and Eric had empty plates and their mouths full of food.  Still chewing, they sped out the back door.

     Eric looked at the four pigeons in the aviary.  He looked at the pigeon next to Blue in his box.

     “Is it my imagination, or do those four look better fed?  Don’t their feathers look shinier?” asked Eric.

     “You’re right,” said David.  “I noticed that about the first four.  They looked better fed than the British pigeon.”

     “How did that pigeon get in here?”

     “Through the pigeon door would have been the only way.  But why?  The only thing I am certain of is that she and the British pigeon know each other.  She’s been nuzzling him and sort of grooming him.  He looks happy as could be.”

     “This is crazy,” said Eric.  “Isn’t it?  Did anything like this ever happen when you and your father kept pigeons?”

     “Not exactly.  But we heard amazing stories from time to time of pigeons returning to their home lofts after a long time away.  Sometimes years.”

     “Well, I guess now we have another pigeon who knows the way to England.”

     “Yes, she’s definitely trained and capable of flying back or she wouldn’t be marked and ringed like British pigeon., but if you don’t want to make my mother mad, don’t suggest sending her back with a message. She thinks it’s romantic, that another British pigeon somehow found her mate.  She told me British pigeon can stay in the loft from now on because his mate will keep him warm.”

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   7:50p

 

     As they walked back to the house Eric asked, “What are you boys going to get up to tonight, what’s left of it?”

     “We have a test on the religious persecution of the Dutch and why they went to the New World,” said Emile.  “We’re going to study for that for a bit.”

     Eric stopped walking.  “That’s it!  The Dutch!  You reminded me that the Gestapo was dropping Germans pigeons into Holland last year.  Those pigeons had counterfeit rings and counterfeit markings on their wings.  The Gestapo hoped to catch people who were spying for the Allies and sending them intelligence by pigeon.  We had a brief talk about that during our training.  It happens all over Europe, apparently.  Those pigeons are sometimes referred to as ‘decoy pigeons.’  That’s why those pigeons don’t look like British pigeons.  I bet if we look closely at their rings and capsules we can dind some imperfections.  They’re counterfeit.”

     David and Emile stood speechless, trying to absorb the enormity of this pigeon scheme.  Then David said, “How did they come to be in the aviary?  Who brought them?  Let’s tell Mother.  She may have heard something about decoy pigeons and she’s very good at solving mysteries.  She reads those kind of books and she always guesses the ending.”

     Walking into the kitchen through the back door, Eric said, “We think those might be German decoy pigeons.”

     “Oh, yes.  I’ve heard of those.  Now, David and Emile, please try to get some studying done before bed.  All of these problems will still be here when you wake up.”

     The boys went upstairs.  “Why don’t you sit, and I’ll finish the clean up, since I wasn’t here to help before.”

     “That would be nice,” said Marie.  “How do you know those pigeons in the aviary are decoy pigeons?”

     “I don’t actually.  Tomorrow I am going to take some pictures of the rings and the pigeons.  Then the best thing may be to pretend we don’t know and just send off a message with each one which is just sort of gobblety gook.  If they are British pigeons, the person on our end who reads the message will think it’s just a prank.  

     The problem is,  if we keep letting someone replace the British pigeons with German decoy pigeons, how do we communicate?  We won’t have any legitimate pigeons.  How do we keep fooling whoever is doing this, but hang on to the pigeons who come in the drop?”

     “It is a conundrum, but I think you’re right to send a pigeon off tomorrow morning, well, two, with a message which seems real but doesn’t give anything away.  Gosh, this is getting awfully complicated.”

     “I’m sorry,” said Eric.  I just have a feeling that not letting on to the Germans that we know we have their decoy pigeons could prove useful, as long as we can get some of our own British pigeons.”  Eric sighed.  “I wish I could explain why I think it’s so important to play along for a bit.”

     “Might you be having an intuition that this has something to do with the leak in the resistance?  That maybe both are being controlled by the same person, or people?”

     Eric had been staring into space, concentrating, trying to make sense of everything.  Marie’s words snapped him out of that.  “You’re right.  That is what I was trying to get at.  Whoever is sabotaging the resistance would definitely have an interest in preventing me from being able to communicate.  Thank you, Marie.”

     “You’re welcome, but you don’t have to thank me. Sometimes it helps to just have a good chat about things.  There’s something about saying things out loud which is helpful.  It’s better than letting things constantly ricochet back and forth inside of your mind.  What happens next?”

     “The next drop of pigeons won’t be until mid-May.  I guess sending fake messages with those four German pigeons, if that’s what they are, is all we can do.”

     “Shall we go out to the porch for a bit or are you exhausted after this long day of worrying about the pilot?”

     “No.  I think I might do well just sitting and doing nothing before going to sleep,” said Eric.

     After a few minutes of listening to the insects Marie said, “How do you think that pigeon got here?  How did it find its mate?”

     “I haven’t a clue.  I don’t know enough about pigeons to be sure they are mates.  Maybe they are just from the same loft.  But still, how did it find it’s way?” said Eric.

     “That’s the question everybody who didn’t fly pigeons would ask my husband.  How do they find their way back?  He had a theory that I agree with.  Paul believed that they sense each other’s thoughts almost instantly.  Each thought is an electrical signal that travels as fast as the speed of light.  He came up with this after seeing pigeons fly their laps and circles in such perfectly orchestrated unison.  How do they know where to fly in the group?  Who follows whom?  And he was fascinated by how pigeons would all suddenly as one, jump up and fly together. I am not going to try to explain how a discussion of electricity he had with a friend brought him around to believing that thoughts are like electrical signals.  It was so complicated I couldn’t do a good job of recreating it.  All I can tell you is he saw a similarity and decided to observe the pigeons as if they were communicating instantaneously by picking up signals from one another’s brains.”

     “I don’t see how that explains finding their way back to a location,” said Eric.

     “Because another pigeon is always in the loft.  Hundreds of years ago, pigeons made their nests in rocky cliffs by the sea.  That’s why they are known as the rock dove.  They would need to fly inland, sometimes great distances, to eat.  The other pigeon in the pair, the father pigeon, stayed on the eggs during the day.  Paul felt that they learned about picking up the signal of each other’s thoughts hundreds or thousands of years ago.  I admit, he never had any evidence.  For me, it works as an explanation, simply because right now, there isn’t one which makes any sense at all.  They don’t navigate solely by landmarks or they wouldn’t be able to find their way back from places where they have never been.  That’s what pigeon racing is about.  The pigeons very often are taken to a place they’ve never been and let go.  That pigeon chose to come here.  She missed her mate.  She set out to find him and she did.  My guess is that she could sense his thoughts from wherever she was.  Over the years Paul and I heard plenty of stories about one pigeon owner giving a pigeon to another racer.  Even if the pigeon was taken to Belgium, for example, he might still fly back to his home loft hundreds of miles away.  So it’s entirely possible to me, and David too, that even though she was in England, she could sense where her mate was and fly to him.   It’s wonderfully romantic, don’t you think?”

     Eric had been trying to accept Paul’s theory about pigeons but the longer Marie went on about it, the more disappointed Eric became.  He liked Marie but now she seemed to be sort of a kook, a gullible person who would believe anything.  Pigeons making choices?  Pigeons being able to sense thoughts electrically somehow?  Images of the illustrations from Alice in Wonderland suddenly formed a disturbing collage in Eric’s mind.  I’m through the rabbit hole and there’s that rabbit which doesn’t look anything like the cute, friendly bunnies I’ve seen.  How did Lewis Carroll come up with such a horrible version of such a beautiful and loveable animal?  Maybe he was just a sick bastard, and everybody was afraid to say so.  The Mad Hatter shoved his face into Eric’s face, the black and white sketch of a grotesque oversized Alice that had frightened Eric whenever he was forced to look at the book pushed the Mad Hatter away and suddenly pushing Alice away was Marie dressed like the hideous red queen.  This new way of thinking about pigeons had up-ended everything he thought to be true.

     This landslide of chaotic images lasted for less than a second. Eric realized he hadn’t answered Marie’s question and that he was utterly exhausted.  The past five days had finally caught up with him.  Sleep was what he needed.  Then he heard Marie say, “I’m sorry, Eric.  I didn’t mean to overwhelm you with what must seem to be a sort of eccentric way of thinking about pigeons.”

     “No, no, it’s alright.  I was just thinking about everything you said.”  Eric battled back against his disappointment.  He had felt a mysterious closeness to Marie the first time he had seen her.  Until tonight she hadn’t done or said anything which Eric didn’t like or respect.  Now the closeness was gone.  Marie seemed a million miles away.  Get it together, man, Eric told himself.  You’ve been disappointed by plenty of women.  You’ll get over it.  Just do your job.  Change the subject.  Find out what she knows about the decoy pigeons.

     Eric’s intention didn’t materialize.  To his own surprise he kept on talking about pigeons.  “It’s funny or a contradiction maybe.  When you say pigeons can communicate like that it seems possible that my pigeon I flew here with, could do it, yet when I think of pigeons in general, say if I saw some on the roof of a church or something, I wouldn’t think they could do it.  I don’t understand how I can believe my pigeon is special and has that power but I can’t believe it about every pigeon.”

     Marie said, “Did you see your pigeon before he was put in the container?’

     “Yes.  The man in the barn who issues kit and pigeons said he always makes a point of showing the pigeon to the agent.  He thinks it helps man and bird to form a bond.”

     “Do you agree?” asked Marie.

     “In my case yes, but Peter didn’t care about his pigeon, or mine.  To him, the pigeons were just like any other kit, like a rifle or a water canteen.  I don’t remember any other agents I’ve been on missions with saying much about their personal pigeons.  Still, if the bloke who is giving out kit thinks things go better if the pigeon and the agent meet face to face, who am I to question that?”

     “He’s been around pigeons quite a bit, has he?  The man in the barn?”

     “I don’t know.  From the way he looked at my pigeon I would guess yes, but I don’t actually know.”

     “Well, you should feel about pigeons however you want to feel.  I am sorry I was going on and on.  It was a bit rude,” said Marie.

     “Not at all.”  Even though Eric still felt repulsed by Marie’s and Paul’s ideas about pigeons, his realization that his mind would allow him to accept those ideas when it came to Blue gave him some hope.  I want to get past this, he thought.  I want to feel about Marie the way I did a few minutes ago.  Don’t give up, old chap.  She’s worth a try, isn’t she?

     “What can you tell me about the decoy pigeons?”

     “Not very much really.  One way or another, just about everyone in town heard about them because someone went for a visit to Holland when the warning was issued to the Dutch.  The Dutch were told to beware of any pigeons because they might actually be German pigeons made to look like British pigeons.”

     “Did the person who went to Holland hear of anyone sending a message with an actual British pigeon, in spite of the decoy pigeons being about?”

     “No.  Everyone became terribly afraid of picking up a pigeon.  The British continued to drop pigeons and it’s awful to think of, but the pigeons must have perished.  Everyone was very, very scared.  That’s the impression this person had anyway.  But for all he knew, people were still secretly sending messages back to Britain.  In these times, it’s so difficult to know the facts, isn’t it?  Or who is telling the truth?  Or who thinks they are telling the truth yet they are actually just a pawn in someone’s game?”

     “Yes.  Well, I don’t mean to be abrupt.  It’s been a long one.  I’m afraid it’s off to bed for me.”

     “Me as well,” said Marie.  “I’m sorry I went on about the pigeons.  They were very dear to Paul.”

     “It’s fine, really, it is.  Goodnight,” said Eric.

     After brushing her hair, Marie sat in bed reading as she always did before going to sleep.  Tonight, however, she couldn’t concentrate.  I shouldn’t have lectured to Eric about the pigeons.  He’s not interested in pigeons the way Paul was.  Am I trying to make Eric into Paul?  Was I being too emotional?  Feeling clumsy and self-conscious, Marie resolved never to bring up pigeons again.  You can resolve to do that if you want, she told herself.  But it’s too late.  Eric probably thinks you’re silly and strange. Marie reprimanded herself.  You talked too much.

     Out in the loft, Blue and Linda were sleeping as close to each other as they could possibly get.  In the late afternoon, when Blue would have been brought inside Marie said to David, “There’s no need to bring the British pigeon into your room to keep him warm.  His mate will do that.” 

 

Sunday, April 25, 1943   11:35p

 

     Eric woke up suddenly and sat up in bed.  Now I understand what Marie meant, he thought to himself.  She was trying to explain that pigeons communicate on a frequency, like a radio frequency.  Pigeons are sending out signals to each other on a frequency.  I’ll tell her in the morning that I get it now and I’m going to apologize again for being such a clumsy oaf, first thing tomorrow morning, that’s what I’m going to say.  I can fix things up. 

     Still very tired from the past week, Eric laydown without realizing it and fell asleep without pulling the covers up.

 

Monday, April 26, 1943   6:40a

 

     “Good morning,” said Marie, as Eric walked into the kitchen.  “You and I are going to have a bit of a feast.  My neighbor who has a secret hen, stopped off with four eggs already this morning.  She’s afraid to bring eggs except before sunrise.”

     “A secret hen?”

     “When the Germans first trampled all over everything, taking everything and ruining everything, she had two chicks who were just old enough to eat solid food.  She put them in her hat, turned upside down, on the top shelf of her closet.  The chicks were still at that age where they were cheeping nonstop. When the German soldiers opened that closet, she had already turned on the radio to distract from the cheeping, but by some miracle they didn’t make a cheep or a peep or anything.  The soldiers went away with the radio of course, but not the chicks.  Now she has a rooster and a hen.  The rooster is remarkably quiet.  They seem to know.”

     “Wonderful.  May I cook the eggs?”

     “Yes, although I don’t have any butter.”

     “That’s not a problem.  Watch what I can do with your iron skillet.  Listen, I’m sorry I was such an oaf last night about the pigeons.  I woke up last night, thinking.  I understand, maybe, what Paul believed. 

Was it that the pigeons communicate on their own frequency?  Is that what you meant by electrical energy?”

     “There’s no need to apologize.  I thought I was being a bit heavy handed and I apologize for that.  And I didn’t do a good job of explaining.  He didn’t hypothesize that pigeons communicate on their own frequency, because then they wouldn’t be able to know our thoughts,” said Marie.

     “Pigeons know our thoughts?”  Eric started, much to his frustration, to have that anxious, through the rabbit hole sensation again.

     “Paul wondered if every emotion, or thought, or other intangible thing which the mind creates is a series of electrical reactions. For example, think of positive and positive ions repelling each other or positive and negative electrons being attracted to each other.  He thought it might be possible that when a lion is angry, their brain produces the same series of electrical interactions as when a person or a pigeon or a chimpanzee is angry.  So he believed that pigeons know what everyone in their flock is thinking or feeling instantaneously.  That’s why they fly in unison so perfectly and maybe why they can find their way back, because they can pick up the signals from the thoughts and emotions of the pigeons in their loft, or their mate on a nest. They don’t need to take time to speak, like we do, because they can apprehend the electrical signals almost instantly.”

     “I still don’t quite get it,” said Eric, but that is easier to understand than the frequency bit.  What you just said I am able to comprehend, because I studied physics and chemistry.  I’m just not sure I can buy into it completely just yet.”

     “Paul didn’t really quite believe it wholeheartedly either.  It was something he wondered about and would sort of test out as he had experiences with pigeons.”

     When the eggs were cooked Eric and Marie sat down and ate in silence, enjoying their food, because they knew it might be years, if ever, before another meal like this came their way.  Emile and David had stopped in, grabbing a couple of pieces of toast and their lunches, before walking to school.

     When Eric and Marie were finished eating Eric said, “Well, I guess I better get on with it, with the pigeon message.  Trouble is, I don’t know what to write.  How can I derail the Germans with out inadvertently hurting our side?”

     “Why don’t we invent a weapon?” asked Marie.

     “What do you mean?”

     “A weapon that the Germans don’t have an answer for.  It could be anything.  A tank, a gun, maybe a bomb.  Something that will cause them to feel afraid.  What’s the worst weapon the Germans have, on land?”

     “Probably the 88.”

     “How about a 96 millimeter gun that can penetrate the armor of a German tank every time?”

     “Brilliant,” said Eric.  “I can make some statements about how I haven’t seen anything which is an answer for the 96s which are to be transported to the continent for the invasion.”

     “You might as well throw in that the guns are on their way to North Africa too, yes?” asked Marie.

     “Brilliant again,” said Eric.

     Marie smiled.  “Well, I guess that’s one message done.  But you’re right.  It’s going to be a bit tricky.”

     “I’ll go up and code it,” said Eric.

     Once in his room, Eric pulled the desk away from the wall and turned it towards the window that looked out to the driveway.  He found it easier to concentrate on the coding if he could just look up and see what might be coming.

     When Eric was finished he went out to the loft.  The German pigeons were just as beautiful and intelligent as the British pigeons and David’s French pigeons.  Did the German pigeons understand what their country was doing, Eric wondered.  Did they know what Nazism was about?  If they know, do they care?  Do they feel proud or are they miserable?

     Eric shook himself out of this reverie and went outside with the pigeons carrying the duplicate messages.  He tossed the pigeons up and watched as they circled a couple of times and then angled sharply up over the trees, setting off on a northeast trajectory.  Why didn’t you notice that before?  The other birds didn’t head west towards the sea, like they should have done.  They went the same way as those pigeons.  Eric chided himself.  You should have noticed that the first time it happened.

     Marie walked up and stood beside him.  “Richarde certainly is going to a lot of trouble to protect his brother.”

     “Pardon me?” said Eric.

     “Richarde is the only one outside of us and Marceau who knows we have pigeons.  He’s got to responsible for these decoy pigeons being here and the British ones being let go.”

     “Not Marceau?  I know he seems devoted to France but so do a lot of other collaborators.”

     “Marceau hates Francois.  I’m not sure why.  It seems like more hate than one would have for a collaborator.  It’s more personal, the hate Marceau has for Francois.  I can’t imagine Marceau sneaking around trying to prevent us from communicating with London via pigeons,” said Marie.

     “You’re right.  If we can’t talk to London, I can’t get instructions on what to do with Francois.  I can’t even give them any evidence against Francois once I get it.  We have no way of letting HQ know a bombing is in order.  Do you think Francois is in on this pigeon scheme too?  Or is Richarde dong it on his own?”

     “I don’t know,” said Marie.  “And where are they or he getting the decoy pigeons from?”

     “If we knew that, we might be able to make this pigeon scheme even more convoluted.”

     “How?” asked Marie.

     “We find the Frenchman who is caring fro the decoy pigeons for the Germans and convince him to substitute British pigeons for the decoy pigeons.”

     “You mean he gives British pigeons to whoever is bringing the German decoy pigeons to our loft instead of the German decoy pigeons?”

     “Yes,” said Eric.

     “Don’t get your hopes up.  Once someone is locked into helping the Nazis, that’s what they are, locked in.  I doubt he could be turned.  He would be too afraid.”

     “I would bet on that too.  Still, we don’t know until we find him,” said Eric. 

     “Even if we found him, we don’t have enough British pigeons,” said Marie.

     “And no way of getting more,” said Eric. 

     After a minute as they both watched the sky become brighter and more blue, Marie said, “I wonder how people will be judged.”

     “You mean after the war?”

     “Yes.  Will there be any forgiveness for people who say they were just helping the Nazis because they wanted to survive, that they didn’t believe in the Nazis, they just wanted to live?”

     “I can’t even imagine how that might go.  And honestly, speculating about the end of the war makes me feel like crying.  It’s a long way off and by no means guaranteed that we will win.”

     “I know,” said Marie.  “Next time I say ‘the end of the war’ or ‘when the war is over’ please just shake your head at me or something.”

     Eric smiled at Marie.  “Will do.”

 

Tuesday, April 27, 1943   2:20a

 

     Eric stood at the edge of the drop zone and watched as the Lysander dropped three large containers, turned neatly, dipped its wings and sped west.  I guess I should be happy that they didn’t drop any pigeons, he thought.  The pigeons must have arrived back without any messages and now they know that something needs to be sorted out.  I can’t blame them for not sending more pigeons.  It must seem like a waste of pigeons if they are coming back without messages.  This also means they’ve probably concluded that I am a complete idiot who can’t keep track of my pigeons.

    He walked quickly towards where he had seen one of the containers land.  Each container could be detached into smaller containers.  He and each of the members of this reception committee would hike with part of a container to the pick up point near the road.  Dr. Pierce had papers for him and three assistants to travel at night, ostensibly to care for animals.   According to Jannik, the assistant named Mr. Cozzo was likely to be the driver because he hadn’t done a pick up in a while.  It was his turn to drive the horse truck in which any German patrols would find two horses, bales of hay, piles of straw, manure, shavings, and random piles of bags of feed and whatever else could plausibly be used to conceal the containers.  Relieved to be hearing nothing but the nighttime insects, Eric and the reception committee members began the forty-five minute walk to the pick up point.

    

Tuesday, April 27, 1943   5:30p

 

     “Dr. Pierce came by this morning to have a look at the British pigeon.  He brought something for you from the drop last night,” said Marie.

     Eric had just come back from a day of hanging about for a while at the bakery and then playing his role as a geologist at the library.  “Do you mind?” he asked Marie.  “You usually only allow pigeons and agents to be here.”

     “He brought something mysterious to me.  I don’t know how or why you would need them.  It’s three torches.  I put them out in the open in the barn because torches are torches.  No one can have any suspicions as a result of seeing some torches in a barn, can they?”

     David and Emile came downstairs and into the kitchen.

     “Why did you get torches?  How did Dr. Pierce know to bring them here?” asked David.

     “I don’t know what prompted him to bring them here.  I do know what they are for, if they are the torches we saw in training.”

     Marie turned off the stove and everyone went out to the barn.  They could hear Blue cooing at Linda from inside the loft.

     “That door to the loft must be kept closed.  It’s supposed to be a secret loft, remember?” said Marie.

     “I know,” said David.  “It gets stuffy for the British pigeon with it closed all the time so I opened it when I came home from school.”

     “It’s warm enough now that you can get the ladder and open the two windows during the day.  That door must stay closed.”

     David nodded.  Eric held one of the torches above his head.  “This is a torch, all of them are, to bring in Searchlight Pied.  During our week of pigeon training, we were shown these torches and told that if we receive them in a container, that is our signal that she is coming.  I wish there had been a note about what date.  She is the only pigeon who has been trained to be dropped from a plane and then fly to this particular kind of torch.  She’s a valuable pigeon.  I can’t mess this up.  I wish I knew the date.”

     “Here’s the note,” said Marie, pulling it from the back of a drawer in the table.  “It’s coded.”

     “If this doesn’t have a date, we will need to monitor the BBC.”

     “Why did someone train her to fly to this torch?” asked Emile.

     “To enable two way communication.  She carries a message.  Then we are supposed to send her back with one.  Honestly, I am kind of in shock that they are using her for this operation.  That tells me that they really want to get some kind of resistance going in this eastern part of France.  If the German army gets through that gap at Falaise, they can make things a whole lot worse for the Allies if they ever get round to launching an invasion.  The Americans and everybody else would probably be a whole lot happier if they can bring this thing to an end before the Germans can retreat to Germany.  I don’t even want to think about what the fighting will be like when the Germans are defending their homeland,” said Eric.

     “So let’s not think about it,” said Marie.  “I wish Paul were here.  He would love to know this very special pigeon is coming.  Don’t you feel grateful?  I suddenly feel like someone is watching out for us.”

     David smiled at his mother.  She looked genuinely happy, happier than she had in years.

     “I feel like Paul is sending us this pigeon, Searchlight Pied.  What a hopeful sounding name.  Very beautiful.”

     David put his arm around Marie’s waist.  “I’ll help you with supper.”  They walked out of the barn, leaving Emile and Eric with the torches. 

     “Is she right?” asked Emile.  “Is this pigeon really that special?”     “Yes,” said Eric.  He paused.  “Yes.  She’s very special indeed.”

 

Sunday, May 2, 1943   2:25p

 

     Jean, Eric, Marie, Marceau, David and Emile stood on the incline of a ridge near Metz.  Anticipating that the pigeon situation might improve once Searchlight Pied established communication with London, Eric had been dividing his time between watching Francois and the bakery and learning everything he could from books and people about Metz and Fort Driant.  Seeing the fort from a distance wouldn’t actually accomplish much, but Eric had wanted to get a sense of, if one were to approach the area on foot, how much time that might take and what the walking would be like.  Marceau, still convinced that a group of people on a picnic made for the best cover, had suggested a hike out from the main road on a Sunday afternoon.  “How much more innocent can I make it look?” he had asked Eric.

     They could see Fort Driant on the other side of the river with its imposing walls and overwhelming number of German artillery, tanks, and soldiers around and atop parts of the fort.  Marceau had brought Jean Regenier along with them. Jean had a knack for talking his way out of being arrested by the Abwehr, the Gestapo, and almost any kind of authority figure who might stop his progress.  Plus, whenever Marceau couldn’t find someone to transport arms and explosives, Jean would volunteer.  He would happily load the cart he pulled behind his bicycle with guns and bomb making materials, cover it with a tarp, and convincingly pedal through the streets as if he were hauling something of no more consequence than manure. 

     In the early going of the war, before Marceau understood the importance of security, he had gone together with Jean to do things for the resistance and had been witness to Jean’s breezy, relaxed explanations to someone in a German or French uniform.  Marceau knew that if they were stopped while doing reconnaissance of Fort Driant, Jean would say and do the perfect things to keep whoever had questions convinced that they were just a group out to enjoy the nice weather on a beautiful Sunday in spring.

     “I like to think that nothing is impossible, if you put your mind to it, but I don’t see how anyone is taking that fort,” said Jean.

     “The only way an army is taking that fort is if by chance the openings for the fort’s guns are left open and no one happens to have the guns in the openings set up to fire.  If someone could get a few shots in through those openings, the shots would ricochet around on the inside and most likely cause the Germans to think a much larger force is outside.  Then they might surrender.  But what are the chances they would ever have the openings wide open with no one firing?  I can’t see that ever happening,” said Jean.

     “That would be a miracle,” agreed Eric.  It had taken longer to hike out to this view of the fort than expected.  If they didn’t eat the picnic soon it would seem suspicious to anyone who stopped them.

     “Should we eat and see what we can see from under that tree over there or should we get a little higher on this ridge?” asked Eric.

     “Higher,” answered Emile and David.  Jean and Marie both smiled at the boys’ enthusiasm and nodded yes.  As usual, David took off and covered an extraordinarily large stretch of ground in just a few seconds.  Even with his longer legs, Emile lagged behind David.  Jean laughed.  “I’ve never seen a boy so fast.  It’s almost like he flies.”

     “He’s always been like that,” said Marie.  “Well, not when he was still crawling.  But pretty soon after he could walk he was fast.  I don’t know where he gets it.  Paul and I aren’t unusually fast walkers or runners.”

     “It is mysterious, how children have a trait which doesn’t come from their parents,” said Eric.

     They stopped on a grassy plateau a few hundred yards short of the crest of the ridge.  Having not eaten since morning, everyone ate without talking, listening to the small birds twittering in the bushes and the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees.   Marceau noticed Marie frowning slightly as she ate her sandwich.

     “What’s the matter, Marie?  Do you wish you had made that sandwich differently?”  Marie took pride in her cooking and several times Marceau had heard her roundly criticize what he would have described as a perfect meal cooked by her.

     “My sister lives in Metz.”

     “Do you think she knows someone who goes into Fort Driant on a regular basis?” asked Jean.

     “I don’t know, but I visit her every couple of weeks.  It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?”

     Pain struck Eric around his heart and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.  He didn’t want Marie to take the risk of posing that question.  These days, asking questions like that could lead to the dangerous catastrophe of finding out that a family member actually had very different ideas about how to cope with the Nazi occupation which did not include spying.  Yet he knew Marie would resent it if he suggested she limit her work to sheltering agents and pigeons.  Eric took a deep breath and gulped down some water.

     “That would be fantastic,” said Marceau.  “But Eric can never meet your sister or anyone in Metz and you and your sister can never meet the person who goes into the fort.  If she does know someone, Jean and I will establish some cutouts, to get communication handled by a larger number of people.  Each one must know as little as possible about this plan.”

     Sensing everyone’s anxiety about the risks ahead, David said brightly, “And then the pigeon can take back maps or whatever is found out about troop strength and how many guns and tanks are protecting the fort.”  Everyone relaxed a bit, as David’s mention of the pigeon brought at last one component of order and predictability to the scenario.

     “That might be a heavy load for the pigeon.  I may end up photographing the stuff and giving the film to the pigeon,” said Eric.

     “What if the Germans shoot down the pigeon and retrieve the film?  Won’t they then know someone is planning to attack the fort?” asked Emile.

     “We take a picture of a map or a message and then without winding the film, take a picture of a newspaper, or something else typed.  If anyone tries to develop the film, the documents are obscured by the second image.  If the film arrives in London, it’s put in a special solution which makes the documents visible.  We just started using that technique this year.”

     As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Eric hated himself for saying them.  Now everybody knew about the solution.  Now they could reveal it if they were tortured.  Marceau, with a horrified look on his face, jumped in.  “It will be a bad day for the Allies if the Germans find out about that film solution.”  He looked around at everyone with narrowed eyes.  Marie, Jean, David, and Emile nodded gravely.

     Remaining silent and feeling really awful, Eric thought to himself, what is the matter with you?  During your jump you fail to steer away from a tree and lose your pigeon, you have to dig for your ration card, you allow a skeletal old man to kill Peter, you are falling in love with Marie, you treat David too often as if he is another agent instead of an eleven year old boy, and now you reveal one of the most important tools your country has for transferring intelligence.  Is it time to get out?  Are you washed up?  Then it hit him.  He was exhausted and fed up with being secretive and guarded.

     “Well.” Said Marie cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood, “I will visit my sister next Sunday.  That’s my usual day to see her.  I’ll let you know what I find out and then you can proceed with setting up things after that.  Is that how we should go, Marceau?”

     “Yes absolutely, however, I don’t want to waste exposure, even you asking your sister a few questions, if we don’t have pigeons in place to carry back whatever is found out.  Once you speak to your sister, you are at risk.  I know she’s your sister, yet these days, you never know.  I would hate for you to be arrested for nothing.  Let’s wait on actually putting things in motion until we have a reliable system for receiving British pigeons.  When will that be, Eric?”

     “If we don’t want whoever is dropping off decoy pigeons and letting the other pigeons go know that we know what they are doing, we need a way to keep a hold of the pigeons which get dropped.  We may need to take them somewhere else.”

     “Taking them somewhere else gives it away that we know,” said Marie.

     “You’re right.  Honestly, Marceau, right now, I don’t have an answer for you, except that they will probably drop more pigeons during the next moon.  That’s in about two weeks.  We’ve got two weeks to figure this out.”  Eric had decided not to tell anyone about Searchlight Pied. He couldn’t take any chances that someone might sabotage the efforts of such a special and valuable pigeon.

     “Got it,” said Marceau.  “Shall we pack up and head back?”

     As they walked at a more leisurely pace through the countryside in the warm late afternoon spring sunshine, Eric and Marie went along behind the others, hanging back so as to enjoy the beauty of the trees and the land without the busy-ness of other people tromping along directly in front of them.

     “You didn’t tell Marceau about Searchlight,” said Marie.

     “No one can know about her.  If anything happens to her, I will never be able to be happy again.”

     Marie stopped, turned, and smiled at Eric.  “Paul used to say the same thing about some of his favorite pigeons.”

 

Saturday, May 15, 1943   12:30p

 

     “Sir, Frank asked me to tell you he’s just spoken with Billy O’Connor.  Billy is leaving Staines now to bring Searchlight Pied to the airfield.”

     “Thank you, Oliver,” said Hollingswood.  “Isn’t it a bit early though?”

     “Billy likes to give her a break between the noise of the motor car and the noise of the plane.  When he can, that is.”

     “I like that when I travel too, now that I think about it.  I like to sit without the roar of engines and being bounced around for a bit before the next round.  I guess it would be the same for a pigeon.”

     “Some of the miners I knew who raced pigeons before the war didn’t care about their birds at all.  They just expected the birds to win.  And then there were others who treated their pigeons as well as their own children.”

     “Yes,” said Hollingswood, “my father was in that category.  The pigeons were lavished with the best of everything, when we had the money.  He would always sort of shake his head when the other fliers who didn’t treat their birds well would complain about them being poor fliers.  ‘Why can’t they put two and two together?’ he would say.  Can you ask Frank to check in with the airfield and make sure Billy and Searchlight get there safely?  I know I’m being a bit of a worry wart.”

     “Its fine, sir.  I’ll relay that to Frank.” 

 

Sunday, May 16, 1943   2:50a

 

     Eric and David lay on their stomachs in the wood at the edge of a field.  They hadn’t spoken, because they didn’t want to miss the faint sound of the Special Duties Squadron plane approaching the field.  Searchlight Pied would be let out approximately seven miles away from the field.  They wanted to hear the first sound of the plane so that they could shine the torch as soon as she might have been dropped out.

     It seemed to Eric that every tree, plant, insect, animal, and bird were awake and waiting for this pigeon.  It was just a regular summer night, but somehow it felt as if expectancy hung in the air.  As they waited he kept thinking, everyone knows she’s on her way, I can sense it.

     During their training, agents had never received a pigeon in this way.  They knew that if the particular torch came with a drop, that they should listen to the BBC for the obscure phrase telling them when and where to expect Searchlight Pied.  That was it.  This whole endeavor seemed to Eric to be hanging by the thinnest thread.  He had asked David to come with him because he knew David could handle the pigeon better than he could.  Over the past couple of weeks Marie had accepted that it was better for David if he were allowed to work with Eric.  She had realized that her worries for his safety were far outweighed by the benefits of assisting Eric.  David found it exciting, he was learning, he had a sense of accomplishment.  This was far better than marginalizing him, causing him to feel useless and superfluous, or in other words, treating him like an eleven-year old child. 

     A couple of days after hearing that Paul had been killed, Marie told David, “I want you to take his place.  I know I can depend on you to be everything your father was, courageous, gentle, and smart.”  After giving him that responsibility she couldn’t logically forbid him to do the tasks Eric asked him to do.  Her only requirement had been that she be told what was happening and that her suggestions be taken seriously.  “Don’t treat me like I am inferior just because I don’t have your training,” she had told Eric.  “Good ideas can come from anywhere.”

     For tonight, she had suggested that David’s cover be that he was out training to be an explorer, with his haversack containing a map, a compass, a sandwich, water, and a small torch.  At the first hint of a patrol he was to run as far as he could and then make his way back home ready to tell that story if he were stopped.

     After some nudging, Dr. Pierce had convinced Eric and Marie that a good cover for Eric would be as Dr. Pierce’s second veterinarian.  Luckily for everybody, the chief of police hated the Nazis and didn’t mind if Eric told a patrol that he was driving home from caring for one of his animals, even if he really hadn’t been.  The chief of police had been allowed to keep some of his animals because the Abwehr wanted the police chief’s cooperation.  Dr. Pierce had coached Eric on how to talk about the care he had given to the police chief’s sick goat, sheep, or cow even though Eric never actually stopped at the chief of police’s house.

     Eric and David heard the faint sound of an aircraft engine in the distance.  Both of them jumped up, Eric shining the torch and David scanning every direction for a patrol.  Once she was released, it would take Searchlight Pied at least seven minutes to reach them.  Eric checked his watch.

     A speck appeared in the night sky, gradually becoming a pigeon lit by the moon.  She wasn’t cruising.  She flew with urgency, as if she knew how vulnerable David and Eric were because they were standing and shining a light.  Searchlight Pied circled above them.  I wouldn’t doubt it if this pigeon can distinguish between Germans, French, and English, thought Eric.  I wouldn’t put it past her to be inspecting us to make sure we aren’t the enemy.

     After one loop, Searchlight Pied dove towards them.  David put out his arm.  She ignored his arm and landed at his feet.  David knelt down and picked her up.  He turned her slightly to allow Eric easier access to the message capsule on her leg.  Both of them were back on the ground now, still listening intently for any sounds of approaching Gestapo, police, or soldiers.

     Eric removed the message and began decoding it.  After drinking some water from the cup of David’s thermos, Searchlight Pied sat demurely in David’s hand, while David’s head swiveled methodically in all directions.  A patrol just can’t come along and ruin this.  That just can’t happen, David thought.  What this pigeon is doing is too amazing to be brought down by some cruel, overbearing members of any kind of patrol.

     After decoding it, Eric read the message in a low voice, “Seven pigeons have returned without messages.  Advise of how you are solving this problem and whether drops of pigeons and stores can continue.”  He paused.  “Good. I can send the message I ‘ve already written without adding anything.”

     David held Searchlight Pied while Eric attached the capsule to her leg.  They both stood up.  David loosened his grip.  Without circling, Searchlight Pied sped off.  Both of them felt like they wanted to remain standing in that spot, reliving and cherishing their time with this special pigeon.

     They couldn’t.  It was too dangerous.  Without a word, each one turned and started their separate paths back to the house.

    

Sunday, May 16, 1943   11:15a

 

     “She’s back to Billy’s loft,” said Oliver, standing in the doorway of Hollingswood’s office.

     “What’s in the message?”

     “It says, ‘I sent seven pigeons with messages during April moon.  One of your pigeons dropped on 24/25 refuses to fly back.  She stays with the pigeon I lost who was found and is being cared for here.  It seems someone is leaving German decoy pigeons in loft and letting our pigeons go.  Send 4 pigeons and planned stores.  What you sent in April has been hidden.  Went to Metz.  Will send report if I have pigeons.  Eric.’”

     “That means Eric sent pigeons with messages and we received pigeons with no messages.  Someone has those messages.  It’s a wonder he’s not burnt.”

     “Wouldn’t he have coded those messages?” asked Oliver.

     “I guess you’re right.  That would save the operation.  I just don’t like knowing that someone has those messages, whether they can read them or not.  Could you find Frank and tell him I will meet him at the loft in twenty minutes?”

     “Will do, sir.  At least we got a pigeon, at last.”

     Frank stood in front of the loft waiting for Hollingswood.  After hearing the message from Oliver, which Oliver wasn’t really supposed to be sharing with him, Frank didn’t want to send out any more pigeons.  Something strange was happening over there.  How was someone sneaking into the loft and leaving German decoy pigeons?  And why?  He resolved to say to Hollingswood, “I’m not releasing any more pigeons until you get your act together with this operation.  Find out what’s going on.”

     “Hello, Frank,” said Hollingswood as he walked towards the loft.  “Good news about the pigeon.  Thank you for getting her so quickly.  She did a great job.”

     “Yes.  It’s quite a lot for a bird, if you think about it.  First they fly in the plane.  Then they fly from the plane to a light held by someone they don’t know, who catches them and attaches a message to their leg.  Then they fly back.  All this in under nine hours.  Incredible.”

     Hollingswood read Eric’s message to Frank.  Can we send out four pigeons tomorrow night, to land on Tuesday, the 18^th?”

     Frank took a deep breath.  He couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t say no.  It verged on insubordination.

     “Yes.”

     “What’s the matter, Frank?  Do you not feel comfortable with sending more pigeons?”

     “No, I don’t.  Someone is watching that operation.  Who?  And that someone is meddling with it.  Why?  Why is Eric still alive?  If the Gestapo were watching, Eric would be dead or missing.  What’s going on?  Truthfully, until you can answer those questions, I don’t want to put any birds in harm’s way.  It’s a waste of some good birds.”

     “I don’t like it either.  If more searchlight pigeons were available, that would be the solution.  But there’s only one.”

     They both stood there, trying to think of another way of communicating with Eric.

     “Would you be alright with sending two pigeons?”

     “I guess so.  I guess that’s the only option.”

     “Which two might you select?” asked Hollingswood.

     “I don’t know.”  The thought of sending even two pigeons out into this mess made Frank feel sick.  People don’t seem to realize that pigeon are living things.  They want to live and do things just like people do, he thought to himself.

     “What about the two hens?”

     “Are you kidding?  They’ve done very well on training since you talked to them but they are only six months old.  They need more time.”

     “Something tells me they are the right pigeons for this job.  I’m going to talk to them.  Do you want to come?”

     “No.  It’s the first sunny day in a week.  I am going to do my paperwork in the sun in my chair,” said Frank.

     “See you in a few minutes.  Thank you, Frank.”

     Frank sat down.  It wouldn’t do if someone came out to the loft on a break from work to chat or have a smoke and overheard a major having an in-depth conversation with pigeons.  He would sit here until Hollingswood came out.

     Standing in the middle of the loft, surrounded on three sides by pigeons, Hollingswood announced, “Pigeons, I’ve come here to talk to you today about a problem we are having with our mission in Argentan.  As you have probably figured out, we need to set up a viable resistance circuit in that area.  Its work would be to sabotage communications, railways, power, water, anything which would make life more difficult for the Germans.  Because a large number of agents were captured, interrogated, tortured and executed in recent months, I was hoping very much that we could communicate entirely by pigeon.  That would eliminate the risk of transmitting with a wireless set.  The Germans have direction finding vans.  The equipment in the vans picks up the radio transmission.  The Germans catch the agents who may or may not give up other agents or other information about the circuit.  The problem we’re having is that pigeons are coming back without messages.  We need the messages to operate the circuit.”

     Hollingswood stopped speaking and looked around.  Was anybody paying attention?  Did anyone care about what he was saying?  It didn’t seem as if anybody did.  A pigeon jumped out of the bathing trough and flew a few inches, flapping her wings to shake off some of the water.  The feed trough being empty at this time of day, a few pigeons were scouring the floor for any of the extra feed Frank liked to throw on the floor.  Many of the pigeons were staring into space seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.  A sleeping pigeon opened one eye, looked at Hollingswood, and then went back to sleep.  Another pigeon facing Hollingswood, stood up, turned, and sat down with his back towards Hollingswood.  Another pigeon followed suit.  Maybe that means that pigeons hear things better which are behind them, thought Hollingswood hopefully.  Only Mallard was looking at him intently, as he always did whenever Hollingswood visited the loft.

    At the start of the war, when Hollingswood began his visits to the loft, he noticed that one pigeon always scrutinized him.  Whenever Hollingswood stood in the loft, this pigeon did nothing but stare at him. He never moved from his cubby, he just stared at Hollingswood. After several episodes of this, Hollingswood said to Frank, “Who is that pigeon?  Why does he always stare at me?  What is his name?”

     Frank answered, “I haven’t the foggiest why he stares at you but his name is Son of Emerald Isle.”

     “That’s not a name, that’s a description.”

     “It can be a name in pigeon racing.  His father was one of my best short distance racers.  I named him Emerald Isle because he hatched a couple of days after my wife and I took a trip to Ireland, in the spring.  We loved it.  His sister we named Dream of Green.  Strangely, neither of those two birds had much green around their necks, just the average amount.  Their son, as you can see, has probably more green than any bird on earth.”

     “What do you call him for short?  You don’t say ‘Son of Emerald Isle’ every time, do you?”

     “Actually, I do,” said Frank.

     “Well, since he is watching me as if I am a suspect and he is an interrogator, we have a relationship, and therefore I am going to give him the nickname of Mallard, like the duck with the green head.”

     “Works for me,” said Frank, laughing.

     As Hollingswood stood in the middle of the loft, looking around, he wondered if he might be wasting his time.  Could these pigeons really turn things around over there?  “Well, Mallard, I guess it’s you and me, old chap.  If nobody else is listening, I am going to trust you to get them up to speed.”  Hollingswood took a deep breath and plunged on.

     “The other thing we’re trying to do with this operation is keep the Germans distracted by something happening inland.  The invasion of northwest France is probably next year.   I don’t actually know that.  I just figure it’s next year because it’s getting to be too late for it to be this year.  And if they leave it until 1945, Hitler may have developed an atomic bomb or some other sadistic secret weapon, one that will cause an infinite amount of death and misery.  Therefore, we want the Germans to be as bogged down as possible with anything and everything happening in the interior, well away from the coast.  This means, if you can come back with the messages, you will be helping that circuit in the short term and also the planning for the invasion which will be a long complex process.  We need all hands on deck, pigeons, because if the Germans have full troop and armament strength in the exact location of the invasion, there’s no way it can succeed. 

     Also, it’s important for you to know that we will be engaging in a number of deception plans, one of which includes pigeons.  Next year, we are contemplating including a different kind of questionnaire with the pigeons dropped by the small parachutes.  These questionnaires will contain questions designed to lead the French and the Germans to believe the invasion will take place where it won’t actually be taking place.  We will be trying to trick everybody into thinking the invasion is coming in one particular spot.  Therefore, you pigeons matter to the success of the war in a multitude of ways.

     But all of that is months away.  Right now, I am asking you to do everything you can to come back with a message from Eric.  If someone is letting you go without a message, maybe you could hide until that person goes away and then go back and wait for Eric to see you?  I don’t really know what to tell you to do.  Just please, I am begging you, pigeons, come back with messages.  Stand on Eric’s head, if you must.  Something.  Anything.  Britain, and honestly, the whole free world are counting on you.”

     Hollingswood stopped.  Was he overstating the importance of this operation?  Not really, he decided.  Beating the Germans and ending the repugnant grip of Nazism on Europe would require every possible effort.  Everyone had to do their bit, even these pigeons.

     Frank came into the loft.  “Oliver asked me to remind you that you have a meeting starting in twenty minutes.  Have you explained this mission to the hens?  After thinking about them, I decided they should go.  They seem quite keen to do well.”

     Both men looked over at the hens, who had been sitting but now stood up, at attention.  “We need two birds who are smart and determined to come back with messages under any circumstances,” said Hollingswood.  “This is the perfect opportunity for you both to prove yourselves.  I believe your fathers will know what you do.  They will be proud.”

     “You shouldn’t make it about their fathers.  It’s about what they can do as fliers.  They don’t need to be motivated by talk of making their fathers proud.  These two hens are already motivated.  I’ve seen it everyday.”

     “You’re right.  I’m sorry, birds.  It was probably painful for you that I brought your fathers into it.  They go tomorrow?”

     “Yup.  Monday, May 17.  Tomorrow afternoon the van will take them to Tempsford.  Two old birds will go in the van with them. They seem to calm the young pigeons.”

     “Right,” said Hollingswood.  “Now I will go and face all sorts of questions I may not have answers for.  If anyone asks me, I will say that two of our best pigeons have been assigned a special task associated with this mission.  Thank you, hens.”

     “I can’t tell if you are serious,” said Frank.  “People do notice a difference between the great pigeons and the ones who do ok.  It is meaningful if you say to the brass ‘best pigeons.’  Say it.  That will make them feel better.”

     “I was serious,” said Hollingswood.  “But thank you for reiterating that.  Sometimes I wonder if I wax rhapsodic about particular pigeons too much, that people may think I am a bit loony.”  Hollingswood and Frank walked out of the loft.  All of the pigeons looked at the two hens.

     “You will do well,” said Charlene.  “Stick together.  All you have to do is hide for a bit until the guy who is letting the pigeons go walks down the road.  Then fly back into the loft and rest up.  When David sees you, he will understand.  If for some strange reason he doesn’t get it, ask Al and Beatrix to fly over to him with you.  Then there’s no way he can’t understand that you are the real pigeons who can bring the messages back to Britain.”

 

Monday, May 17, 1943   4:30p

 

     “Small load?” said Errol.  He took each of the two pigeon crates from Frank.

     “Yes.  Now that Tunis has fallen, the Americans are standing up a breeding base at Bizerte.  The two old birds, Johnny Airtime and Battlecat, may do their quarantine there before they go on to one of our breeding lofts to be stock birds.  The American base will supply the pigeons for the invasion of Italy.  British Royal Signals will provide the pigeons for Sicily, but you didn’t hear any of that from me.”

     “Of course.” Errol climbed into the back of the van.  He pushed the two crates to the middle of the van.  As he was securing them with straps, Errol turned and looked at Frank. “Something tells me the other two are young birds?”

     “How did you know?” asked Frank.

     “You handed them over a little more carefully.”

     “Yes.  This is their first trip.  The Major picked them himself.”

     “Must be top secret.  Well, whatever it is, because you had a good trainer, you can do it, young birds. You can do it.  What do you call them?”

     “Diamond and Gemstone.  They do everything together, as if they are one bird.  They’ve been like that since they were squeakers.”

     “I was like that with my brother.”  Errol climbed into the driver’s seat.  “See you for the next one.”

     “Roger that,” said Frank.

     He watched the van drive away for as long as he could see it.  Then he stood there, wondering what the two hens were thinking.  They knew they were going to where their fathers had been eaten.  He was sure of it.  How does a pigeon manage that?  It was another in a series of many, many moments when the courage of the pigeons in this war overwhelmed him.  Don’t get sentimental, he told himself.  If you do, you will never be able to send another pigeon into that hell over there.

 

 

Tuesday, May 18, 1943   6:05a 

 

     “Looks like we have pigeons now, ” said Eric smiling at David, as the two hens stood on the ground in front of them. 

     “My father always said, “If you ask pigeons to do something they will try their best to do it.  I have a feeling someone who thinks like that about pigeons is the one who sent these two hens over.  I bet he just told them, “Please don’t fly back without a message.  When you are let go, find a way to hang around until they give you a message to carry back.  My father used to talk to the pigeons like that all the time.  They always understood and they seemed to go out of their way to make it known to us that they did understand what we were saying.”

     David looked down at the two hens standing at his feet.  “We don’t have a message ready for you yet.  Maybe in an hour.  I’m going in to the loft to put out some food and fresh water for you.  Please eat and rest before your trip, alright, birds?”

     The two hens flew back up onto the ridgeline of the roof next to Al and Beatrix.

     “Amazing,” said Eric.  “Amazing.”

 

Tuesday, May 18, 1943   1:30p

 

     “Your girls are back,” said Frank as he swung himself around the doorframe into Hollingswood’s office.  In fine form, as if they never broke a sweat.  You were right.  They’ve got the stuff.”

     “My babies!  I knew it!  They just needed some positive encouragement.  We all need that from time to time.  I want to go and thank them right now.”  Hollingswood stood up.  “Did you get the messages decoded yet?”

     “In process.  They only got back five minutes ago.  Let’s go see these two lovelies.”

     The two hens stood in their cubby answering questions from the other pigeons.  “Did you see Blue and Linda?  How are they doing?  Did any hawks get after you?  How was the weather over the channel?  Did you have fun flying?  Were you scared?  What are David and Eric like?  What did you talk to Al and Beatrix about?  Is it true they both go about only on one leg?”  What did you have to eat?”

     Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, Diamond and Gemstone did their best to answer, although as each minute went by, they both wished they could hop into the bathing tub.

     Whitedart could tell.  “Go ahead.  Get a bath and then we’ll let you sleep.  Although, now that you’ve proved yourselves, you may find that you’re put aboard another plane not too long from today.  So eat, bathe, rest, little pigeons.”

     A few minutes later, Hollingswood and Frank found Diamond and Gemstone splashing about in the bathing tub.  “I hear you did a fantastic, absolutely perfect job.  I knew you could.  Thank you, my little darlings.  You are absolutely the best, the very, very best,” said Hollingswood.

     Diamond and Gemstone looked at each other.  “I wish we could thank him,” said Gemstone.  “If he hadn’t spoken to us, we would still be in this loft, never flying, wasting our lives away.”

     “How can we thank him?” asked Diamond.

     “You have,” said Whitedart.  “Look how happy and proud he is.  You’ve thanked him.”

 

Wednesday, May 19, 1943   Daybreak

 

     And so, at the height of spring and for that wonderful time at the start of summer, when the longest days of summer still lie ahead, began one of those rare and remarkable stretches of time during which nothing bad happens and everything goes smoothly.  Marceau recruited three men for Eric train in how to build bombs and where best to place them depending what was to be disabled or destroyed.  Two more pairs of pigeons were dropped in May, followed by two pairs during the June moon period.  In the morning after each drop, Eric and David would go out to the loft, see that the German decoy pigeons had been left in the aviary and then step around to check the roof of the loft.  Most mornings they would see Al and Beatrix perched there with two British pigeons.  If Eric and David went out before six, which Marie allowed David to do because sunrise was earlier, they wouldn’t see any pigeons.  But in a few minutes from one direction or another, Al, Beatrix, and two British pigeons would zoom into the yard, show off with some swoops, figure eights, and flourishes, and land on the roof.  Later that morning, or the next day, Eric and David sent the British pigeons back with their messages.  They sent the German pigeons out with some sort of hocus pocus created in London and dropped in code in a container.

     The only difficulty came when Eric had to discuss a new recruit with Marceau.  “You know the most recent recruit you sent to me, the young one named Pierre?  I am going to have to cut him loose.  He’s asking too many questions.”

     “What’s wrong with questions?” asked Marceau. “If someone is risking their life to engage in an endeavor they deserve to know the purpose of the mission and where it fits into the big picture.  They deserve to have a sense of purpose and not to be treated like some kind of mindless zombie who is expected to mindlessly follow orders.”

     ‘I understand what you mean and to some extent I completely agree with you.  However, I don’t know anything about these people.  I didn’t vet them, I don’t know their background, I’ve never had the chance to just sit with them in a group of people and see how they behave and what they say.  How do you vet them?  What kind of process do you have in place?”

     “Anyone who comes to me and says something like ‘I hear you are working against the Germans’ or ‘a friend suggested I meet you because they know I very much want to help France’ I send along to you.  If someone has the courage and the desire to help their country, they shouldn’t be treated with suspicion.  They should be welcomed with love and acceptance.  No one who loves France enough to risk their life should be excluded.”

     Although Eric had come to enjoy working with Marceau ad to respect him for many reasons, at times he found him to be impossibly naïve.  “All of that is wonderful.  It really is.  But you must put people through some questioning, you must ask around about them.  This isn’t like inviting people to Christmas dinner, Marceau.  I’m sorry.  It’s got to be a little less open than that.”

     As soon as the words were out of his mouth Eric regretted them.  Marceau slumped down in his chair, his face seemed to crumble and first his mouth quivered and then his whole body shook with emotion.  Marceau began breathing fast shallow breaths, as he wrapped his arms around himself.  Then he couldn’t hold back tears any longer.  Giant sobs convulsed his whole body.  He cried loudly, hysterically, as if his leg had just been blown to bits by shrapnel.

     Eric leapt across David’s room.  “No, no, Marceau, no.  I’m so sorry, I’m so terribly sorry.  I wasn’t using your Christmas parties to make a point at all.  It was just a random figure of speech.  It just slipped out.  Truly it did.”

     Marceau didn’t calm down at all.  His agonized sobs came over and over again.  Eric heard someone clearing their throat very quietly and saw Marie standing in the doorway, eyes wide with concern.  Eric put his finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet.  She nodded and went downstairs.

     All Eric could do was keep his arm around Marceau and offer him something to dry his nose and face after the one Marceau had became soaked.  Finally Marceau went silent.  He walked to the window and looked out for a long time.  Then, without turning, he said in a hoarse voice, “Marie told you about my parties?  What did she tell you?”

     “Every year, two Saturdays before Christmas, you give a party for four hundred people.  It’s one of the most exclusive and sought after invitations of the year.  You serve a sit down three-course dinner with a different wine for each course.  Then your guests enjoy after dinner drinks and a layer cake that is always at least three feet tall.  You hire a band, there’s dancing, champagne, wine and liquor all night, and your staff makes up all of the beds in the guest rooms so anyone can sleep or spend the night.  At seven a full breakfast is served.  Anyone who went home for the night can still come to the breakfast. 

     On Christmas, you open the doors to your home from noon to seven to anyone who can’t afford Christmas dinner or who will be spending Christmas alone.  You have one hundred gifts wrapped for the children.  Food and various drinks, but no alcohol, are available all day.”

     Marceau turned away from the window just as the brown dove flew in behind him and perched on the windowsill.  It’s uncanny, thought Eric.  That dove always seems to know when someone is upset.  Marceau said quietly, “You might think that rich socialite Marceau’s favorite party is the one for my friends and important people in the worlds of politics, sports, finance, the arts and entertainment.  It’s not.  That’s not me.  I live for Christmas Day when I can see tired, listless hungry people with their hungry children show up and eat.  The color comes back to their faces.  The children have energy to run and play with each other.  They make new friends.  People leave with full stomachs and a bag of food from the buffet if they want it.  That’s me.  That’s who I am.  That party is me.”

     Marceau started to cry again.  “But the Nazis have taken it.  They’ve taken me.  They have me.  I don’t have me.  They’ve taken who I am.”

     “No, no, Marceau, that’s not true, that’s not true.  You mustn’t think that about yourself.  You are still larger than life loving, benevolent Marceau.  Everybody looks to you for inspiration, hope, and leadership.  The Nazis haven’t taken you.  They’ve taken away your freedom, our freedom to live our lives the way we want.  The party is a way you express who you are.  It’s not you.  I know it feels like shit not to be able to express who you are, especially in the way that is most important to you, but you will get through this.  You are still you, and you will be you when this godforsaken war is over and all of the Nazis and Germans hang from the gallows.”

     Eric could sense Marceau hadn’t been really listening.  Marceau had been a million miles away, thinking about something.

     “What about this?  How about if I invite someone I think might be adept at learning from you to a meeting at a café?  I can invite several of my friends and see how everyone gets on with the new man.”

     “That’s splendid, Marceau.  Perfect.”

     “It’s not giving a party for those who don’t have much, but at least I can pay for some good meals for people.”

     “Should I attend?”

     “No, Eric.  That might be too dangerous for you.  Why is an Englishman sitting with a bunch of young hotheaded French men, is what the authorities will be asking.”

     “Well then, carry on with that plan.  I look forward to meeting more of the men you pick.”

     They stood up.  “Marceau, are we still friends?  Can you trust me after the horrible thing I said?”

     “Of course.  And you have a standing invitation to both parties when they take place again.  I want to see you at Christmas with the children.  That would mean an enormous amount to me.”

     “You can count on me to be knocking on your door a few weeks before Christmas,” said Eric.

     Marceau turned out to be exactly right about Pierre.  His questions came from enthusiasm and a desire to know everything about everything.  “My goal is to make myself as useful as possible and to learn everything you know because someone must carry on if something happens to you.  Or if you are called back to London.”

     “Thank you,” said Eric.  “I’ve been so preoccupied with trying to get everything going I didn’t account for that possibility.”

     Pierre nodded and went back to showing the other men the best way to climb a fence with barbed wire at the top.  

     At the end of another day in a string of busy days Eric said, “It’s too easy,” to Marie. 

     “Well, I think it seems easy to you because the pigeons are doing a wonderful, generous, cooperative, unprecedented thing, but everything else is the same.  We could all still be arrested, there’s hardly any food, and the colonel cold be replaced by someone who is a true madman.  Please, don’t ruin this beautiful early summer we are having by saying it’s too easy.  I, for one, will take easy.  Eric, please, let’s just enjoy that things are working, could we?”

     “You’re right.  I’ll try.  I guess, maybe, well, I’ve never had it like this.  It doesn’t seem real, almost.”

     “You have to let the good times be just as real as the bad times,” said Marie softly, “and don’t take them for granted.  Treasure them, because they could be gone in a second.” 

 

Tuesday, July 13, 1943   1:30p

 

     Eric lay on the cold stone floor of the cell inside of Fort Driant.  He hadn’t had water or food since his capture three days previous.  His body ached with bruises from the beatings.  Tiny cuts covered his arms and his chest where German interrogators had sliced him with the point of a knife blade as he sat naked, hands tied behind his back, on a hard chair beneath one bright light. He knew all of those wounds could heal.  It was his eye that worried him.  His first interrogation had started with a hard punch to his left eye and cheekbone.  His eye had swollen shut.  On the first day, he could still open it and see, but as each hour went by, it became more painful and swollen.  He couldn’t open it now. Pus oozed out the side.  If he didn’t get treatment for the infection, Eric knew he would lose his eye before the infection killed him.

     Early this morning, a German officer came into Eric’s cell.  This officer had stood silently in the corner of the room during each interrogation, peering at Eric as if obsessed with him.  Gruffly, he said, “You’re coming with me.”  He pushed Eric around the corners of the underground tunnels and once they were inside the interrogation room, bent Eric over the table, simultaneously yanking Eric’s head to the right and banging it onto the table, pressing Eric’s swollen eye into the wood. The officer raped him until he could do no more.  The officer pulled Eric up off the table.  The door opened and the German officer who spoke English and a guard entered the room. 

     “I told you before, you are not to do that.  Take the British man back to his cell,” the English-speaking officer said to the guard.

     During their training, all agents learned that homosexuals populated the ranks of the German military enough that any agent should be ready to be raped when they were tortured.  Eric hadn’t cared about the rape.  He had cared about his eye.  The officer had been pressing Eric’s face onto the table, putting immense pressure on Eric’s eye.  Sick with sadness at the thought of losing his eye, Eric said over and over again to himself, this guy can’t go on forever.  He can’t go on forever. He can’t go on forever.

     Now, for the first time in three days, even though he was lying on a freezing cold stone floor, Eric found himself drifting off to sleep.  He was so tired the stone actually felt comfortable, somehow soft as the most comfortable bed, and for the thousandth time he reminded himself of Blue.  The thought of Blue and the speed at which his eye had improved during May and June, flooded Eric’s mind with joy.  He thought of Blue’s glistening feathers, his alert eyes, the way Blue tilted his head as if to say, “I am thinking about you and what you are saying,” and irrationally, again, he had a fleeting conviction that Blue would save him from dying in this fort.  It had been the same sequence of thoughts each time:  Blue will save me, but how can an injured pigeon save me?  No one knows where I am.  How can an injured pigeon fly back with a message asking for a commando raid if he can’t fly and no one knows where I am?  But Blue is going to save me. He will.  I can feel it.

     Again, Eric saw Blue and Linda flying over water, on their way to get help.  Eric fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of flocks of pigeons, flying across a bright blue sky, confidently making their way back to England.

     Eric’s cell had no window, but during what felt like early evening, the guard entered the cell. He presented Eric with a pair of khaki pants, a wrinkled linen shirt, a pair of wool socks, and a liter of water.  As he drank the water and dressed, Eric made no secret of the fact that he was studying the guard.  Who was this person?  He looked like he would make a good neighbor, easy going, considerate, and like the kind of father whose children would have fun playing with your children.

     Eric sat down on the stone floor with his elbows on his bent knees.  “How did you come to be in this fort?’

     “During military training I was a terrible shot yet I excelled in hand to hand combat.  I guess that’s why they posted me here.  Even I can hit a prisoner who might try to run down one of these tunnels.  And they need hand fighters in case this fort is ever stormed.”

     A little surprised by the guard’s willingness to chat and his command of English, Eric said, “What’s been happening in the war since I’ve been in?”

     “Your boys and your American friends have invaded Sicily.”

     “How far have they gotten?” asked Eric, knowing the guard probably wouldn’t give much of an answer.

     “It’s going very badly for the Allies.  Patton was killed.”

     Eric laughed.  “You’re making that up just to scare me into thinking we are going to lose the war.  I know Patton likes to lead from the front but Patton is not dead.  If he were dead, this place would be having a celebration a thousand times bigger than Christmas and New Year’s combined.  Even your most stoical guards would be drinking and dancing in these godforsaken tunnels.”

     “Yeah,” said the guard.  “I didn’t think you would fall for that.  It’s just enjoyable for me to imagine it.  Patton’s army killed my brother in May during the battle for Bizerte.”

     “I’m sorry,” said Eric.  He meant it.  German or not, this guard was still a human being.  “What about your other family?”

     “Killed in a bombing of Berlin.  My wife, my two children.  My dogs.  Our cat.  We called him Panthera Leo.  That’s Latin for lion.  He was my favorite.  I was his favorite.  I used to love to read on a cold winter evening with him lying on a blanket in my lap.”

      Not speaking at this moment seemed to Eric to be the most respectful thing to do.  Both men were silent until the guard said in a monotone without emotion, “I hate this war.”

     After what he hoped was a polite interval, Eric asked, “What would it take for you to get me a set of keys so that I could get out of here?  If you come with me, I can see to it that you get safely to Switzerland, or wherever you want to go.”

     “I’ll think about it.  But you aren’t going to survive going anywhere even if I do say yes, if something isn’t done about your eye.  That thing is on its way to being infected enough to kill you.”

     The guard walked out, slamming the door hard before the key turned loudly in the lock.

 

Tuesday, July 13, 1943   2p

 

     Dr. Pierce and Marie stood looking at Linda and Blue perched side by side on two chairs in the backyard.

     “He’s not quite ready for a long flight, I’m afraid.  Although he’s strong as an ox, his vision is off.  It seems as if he’s trying to sense something or see something and he can’t, yet,” said Dr. Pierce.

     “I notice that when he’s in the loft by himself making short flights he seems timid, as if he’s afraid he might fly into something.  When his mate is in there, he follows her and flies like a healthy pigeon.  I know they would rather be home, well, I would guess they would rather be home with their friends in their loft,” replied Marie.  “Therefore them still being here makes me sad because it brings up the possibility that he will never be completely healthy again.  They may be desperately homesick all the time.  I wish I knew.”

     “If British pigeon could fly back, they would already be gone.  I wouldn’t give it another thought if I were you.  They will go when they are ready.  And if they never go, I’ll be sure it’s because you’ve made a nice home here for pigeons.  They may just want to stay.  Watch out for a nest!”  Dr. Pierce smiled a big smile.

     “A nest would be lovely.  What I’m trying to say is, I want British pigeon back to full health.  He has been so patient and cooperative.  Whether he stays or goes, as you pointed out, isn’t something I should concern myself with.  It’s their decision.”

     They heard Marceau’s Rolls Royce coming up the driveway.

     “I wonder what dramatic news he is bringing,” said Marie.  “Everything with Marceau is dramatic.”

     “Yes, but I like that about him.  You need a sense of urgency to push through the kinds of things he tries to get done.  I had no interest in ferrying firearms and explosives around in our veterinarian vehicles.  Marceau convinced me with his huge heart, his courage, the amounts of money he’s given to people striving to work against the Germans, his willingness to sacrifice his life, and yes, the dramatic way he expressed everything.  I love being able to help him.”

     Marie smiled.  “I do too.”

     They walked around to the front of the house and found Marceau standing on the porch.

     “Can I invite you in or shall we sit out here?” asked Marie.

      “Eric’s been captured.  Word is that he’s inside Fort Driant.”

     Marie sat down on one of the chairs and put her head in her hands.  Dr. Piece pulled a chair next to her and rubbed her back vigorously, not saying anything.

     Marceau forged on.  “We need to get a message to London.  They can launch a rescue operation, if they know.  If they don’t know, they can’t launch shit.”

     After a couple of minutes, Marie lifted her head up.  “We haven’t got any pigeons.”

     “What about the British pigeon, the hurt one?  It’s been three months.  I bet he could do it, if he goes with his mate.  I’ve always heard that pigeons fly better in pairs.  Actually, Paul taught me that, Marie.”

     Marie looking at Dr. Pierce to gauge his reaction answered,  “And another thing Paul said a lot was, ‘If you want to know if a pigeon wants to do something, just ask him or her.’  Does he have the desire to get home?  I haven’t picked up much desire to leave here from him.  He seems happy here.”

     Dr. Pierce nodded. “His mate is here and he doesn’t have to carry messages back and forth, so, yes, he would like it here, but if you think we need to ask him, let’s do it.”

     Al, Beatrix, Blue and Linda perched on the roof above the front porch as Marceau spoke.

     “Seems like they are going to want you to fly back to get help,” said Beatrix.  “They don’t have any other pigeons, Blue.  You and Linda may be Eric’s only hope.  Unless a wireless operator has dropped who we haven’t heard about.”

     “Marceau would have been out here telling Marie if one had dropped.  I know he means well, but Marceau can’t keep much to himself,” said Al.

     “We’ve learned from other pigeons that the Germans have snipers on the coast,” said Beatrix.  “You may have trouble flying past them if you aren’t confident in your sight or balance.  When the shots come, you might get separated from Linda.  I hate to bring this up but what if she is hit, could you fly back on your own?”

     “My flying is fine,” said Blue.  “My problem is sometimes my vision is a little blurry and sometimes I can’t get the signal I need to orient myself in the correct direction.  Right now, because I’m still, I can tell you exactly which direction to fly straight to our loft in England.  Sometimes when I am outside and moving, the signal just goes away.  I don’t have a sense of direction.  If I can’t follow Linda, I don’t know where I would end up.  I can fly across the channel but where would I be?”

     “Now that I’m hearing you explain it again, I’m afraid you might end up flying in circles while you are over the channel.  You would have no landmarks,” said Al.

     “We need to distract the snipers away from you somehow,” said Beatrix.

     “That’s a great idea,” said Al.  “A feint!  I know some pigeons out that way who I’m certain would love to join in on that.  When they send you out, I’m going with you.  That way I can meet up with those pigeons and ask if they would be willing to fly on the feint.  I can’t imagine them saying no.  Those pigeons would enjoy having a little fun with a German sniper.”

     “If you’re going, I’m going too.  We haven’t flown all the way to the coast and back in one day.  I can’t stay here and worry about you all day, Al. I’m going,” said Beatrix.

     “Thank you, my lovely.  We should probably spend the night, instead of doing both trips in one day.” 

     “We could have as many as a hundred pigeons in on this thing,” said Beatrix.   “It will only take about fifteen or twenty minutes for the word to get passed along and that many to assemble.  After you get the message and they let you off, we’ll be right there with you to go out and get this going.  We’ll make it fun!”

     “Marie and David don’t shut you in the loft when an agent releases pigeons?” said Linda.

     “No. The loft hasn’t been shut since racing days. I told Blue on his first day here that we almost always fly out for a few miles when any British pigeons are released.  It’s only a few miles because they are young and determined to get back in good time.  They are too fast! We couldn’t fly at their speed all the way to the channel and then back in one day.  Our years of flying for a distance at those speeds are over for us, ” said Beatrix.

     “We just enjoy seeing them off and taking them to a place near here where they can eat and drink if they want,” said Al.

     Everyone became silent, pondering the serious nature of what tomorrow would bring.  Blue and Linda would finally be going home and they would be carrying a message which might save a man’s life.  Al and Beatrix would be making a long flight they hadn’t made since before the war.  A group of pigeons would be organized to outwit the German snipers.  And, just as importantly, four birds, who had become good friends, were about to be separated because of circumstances.

     “I’m still a bit worried about your sense of navigation, Blue.  I hate to think of something happening to Linda, yet to make a sound plan, we must,” said Al.

     “What about this?” said Beatrix.  “Let’s fly two farms over to Randy and Collette’s nesting area in the pony shed.  They might be willing to fly with you over the channel.  That’s the dangerous part.  Once you’re over land, you will be safe, even if you are meandering a bit while you find your way.”

     “Could we please stop thinking about Linda getting hurt?” pleaded Blue.  “It’s not helpful for either of us to dwell on that.  Can we work on a plan without bringing up Linda getting hurt?”

     “I’m sorry,” said Beatrix.

     “I am too,” said Al.

     “Who are Randy and Collette?  Why would they go?” asked Blue.

     “Randy and Collette were dropped in Brussels in February.  They were to be part of a secret pigeon service.   We heard it was known as Operation Ribbon. Once they got there, they learned that the Germans had killed most everybody’s pigeons.  Some people could have pigeons if they were registered with the German authorities.  The problem, as Randy and Collette saw it, was that they were to be housed in a secret loft until they were needed to fly back with a message.  They could have been in that loft for days or weeks, constantly at risk of being discovered by the Germans.  One morning they stormed the door when the pigeon keeper came through it.  They got past and headed towards England,” explained Beatrix.

     “We met them by accident,” continued Al.  “They were hungry so we brought them here for a few days.  After a week they decided to stay in France for a while.  We showed them the shed and they had their first nest there in April.  If they aren’t on eggs now, I’m sure they would fly across the channel with you and Linda, just to make sure you stay on course.”

     “Thank you for saying ‘you and Linda,’” said Blue.

     “It’s a wonderful idea, but then I am going to be worried sick that something happens to them when they fly back across the channel,” said Linda.  “Could we compromise?  If they want to come that would be lovely, however, if Blue and I feel we can make it across by ourselves could they stay on this side?  I will never be able to live with myself if I don’t know whether they made it back across or not.”

     “Sounds good.  I’ll find out of they want to go.”  Al bent his knees, took off and flew up over the trees.

     David and Dr. Pierce came around the corner of the barn to where the pigeons were relaxing on the grass.

     “Well, British pigeons, duty calls,” said Dr. Pierce.  “We need help getting Eric out of Fort Driant.  Tomorrow morning you and your mate are flying back with some kind of message to that effect.  I would have liked for you to fly around here for another few weeks, but we don’t have a few weeks.  They might be killing Eric right now.”

 

Tuesday, July 13, 1943   7:20p

 

     Richarde knocked twice on the screen door at Francois’s house and then let himself in.  The kitchen was empty and the house was quiet.  After checking Francois’s study, Richarde went to the dining room where he found Francoise staring disconsolately at a baked potato cut in half with a small bite taken out of it.

     “What’s the matter?  I thought you told me a few weeks ago your new cook, Isabella, was cooking your potato perfectly.”

     “She did a few times,” said Francois.  “Then she became inconsistent.  As you know, I’ve cut back from a potato every night to having a potato only three nights a week.  I treasure those nights.  I look forward to them all the time.  It’s extremely disappointing that she is only cooking it correctly maybe once every four or five times.”

     “Well, it looks delicious to me.  I’m going to eat it.”  Richarde sat down to the right of Francois and pulled the plate with the potato on it towards him.  “Good, it’s still warm enough to melt the butter.”

     Francois pushed the salt and pepper towards Richarde.  “It’s especially frustrating tonight because I went into the kitchen to check on the potato in the oven myself.  I told her it was done and then I went into my study.  I expected her to call me for dinner a few minutes later.  She didn’t for another half hour.  Then I came in here and to this overcooked potato and a plate of chicken.  The chicken looked alright but tonight is my potato night.  I don’t care for chicken tonight.  I asked her to take it away.”

     “You were in the kitchen and you saw that the potato was done?  Why didn’t you just take it out yourself right then and there.  This whole thing could have been avoided.  You could have had a perfect potato, just the way you like it,” said Richarde.

     “That’s her job.  Her job is to cook the potato the way I want it cooked.  I pay her to do it.  So why should I take it out of the oven?”

     “If it’s her job, why are you in the kitchen?  That’s her territory.  Isabella is young and anxious to please.  You probably scared her by being in the kitchen and she completely forgot to take out the potato.  She’s not accustomed to you being in the kitchen is she?”

     “I’m never in the kitchen.”

     “I still say if you’re in the kitchen and you’re right next to the oven just take out the potato.  Don’t be so high and mighty about it.”

     “That girl is always reading.  I saw her trying to chop an onion and read at the same time.  I took the book away.  Then another time I saw her with the book propped up on the shelf at the back of the stove while she was stirring soup.  That book could have fallen into the flame and started a fire.”

     “Didn’t you say you are never in the kitchen?”

     “Yes, I guess I did.  After I saw the stove episode I asked Igor, my carpenter who does tings at the bakery, to make her a stand for her book.  It’s adjustable, so she can read regardless of what she is doing.”

     Richarde stopped eating and looked at Francois.  “You like Isabella.  You’re going into the kitchen to see what’s happening because you want to see her.”

     “No, she needs to be supervised, that’s all.”

     “Come on, Francois, there’s no harm in liking one of the servants.  It’s happened over and over again throughout the course of history.  The important thing is that you admit it to yourself.”

     “You’re wrong.  You’re interpretation is all wrong.”

     “No, I’m right.  Now, repeat after me:  I like Isabella and there’s nothing wrong with spending time with her.  Say it.”

     Francois giggled and his face reddened.  “I’m not saying  that.  You’re crazy.”

     “Fine.  Stay stuck in your old-fashioned attitudes.  Remember the Revolution…liberty, equality, fraternity.  I’m just trying to help you to see that you can enjoy Isabella’s company.  Don’t put up barriers.”

     “That’s nice, but what about my potato?  How am I going to get my potato cooked correctly?”

     “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of firing Isabella because she can’t cook your potato, like you’ve done with so many other cooks.  What happened to the man you had before Isabella?  You loved how he cooked your potato.  You were eating seven potatoes a week and he cooked them all just right, as I recall.”

     “He gave notice.  He told Brigitte and I he was going to Monte Carlo to be a professional card dealer.  It was just as well, because Brigitte had been nagging me to let him go, but I stood my ground against her because of the potato.”

     “Why didn’t she like him?”

     “I took her away for a romantic, or what I hoped would be a romantic weekend by the sea.  She loves the sea.  But it was awful.  She ignored me whenever I spoke to her at meals, she stayed on the beach the whole time and if I tried to sit with her she would pick up her things and move to a different spot.  She slept curled up in a ball as far away from me in the bed as she could get.”

     “At least you tried,” said Richarde.

     “When we came home, the house was overflowing with people playing card games. I mean literally overflowing.  Sebastian had rented tables and chairs.  The yards, front and back, were full of tables with people playing cards.  Every inch of the house had people crammed into it playing cards.  You know that closet, the huge one, where Brigitte gets dressed?  They were playing cards in there.  She was furious.  They were using her shoes to hold the different chips.”

     “Where was Emile?”

     “In the kitchen, sitting at the table, sandwiched in between two players.  He was trying to eat some soup.  They told me he tried to take the soup to his room, but they wouldn’t have that.  They insisted he sit down with his soup and get dealt into their game.”

     “Gamblers.”

     “Yes.  When I located Sebastian, I could see he was enjoying himself to the point of ecstasy. He was completely in his element, overjoyed.  So I wasn’t surprised when he told us he was going off to manifest his dream of working in one of the casinos in Monte Carlo.”

     Francois stood up.  “I going to help myself to some chicken.  Do you want any?”

     “Two drumsticks and some breast.”

     While Francois was in the kitchen, Richarde thought about what Francois had said about Brigitte.  He had a vague feeling that Francois wasn’t depicting their relationship honestly.

     Francois put the two plates of chicken on the table.

     “If things are bad between you and Brigitte, why don’t you get a divorce?”

     “Oh no,” said Francois.  “We still have interests we share.”

     Richarde felt the headache coming on which he always had when he sensed Francois was playing games.  “Like what?’

     “Husband and wife stuff.  You know, secret stuff.”  Francois winked at Richarde.

     “Well, since you’re committed to staying together, why don’t you consider that if you were nicer to Emile, Brigitte would be nicer to you.”

     “The boy needs discipline.  Brigitte never disciplines him.”

     “What are you talking about?  Emile is the paradigm of discipline.  He keeps his room neat, he studies hard and does well in school, and if they don’t have a game, he and David run every afternoon, even in the rain and snow.  Can you say that, you fat slob?”

     “Good chicken,” said Francois.  Richarde knew that was Francois’s way of saying he didn’t care about Richarde’s opinions on Emile.

     “And there have been plenty of Saturday and Sunday mornings when I’ve come over and found Emile cleaning up the kitchen if you are between helpers.  He’s scrubbing all the pots and pans, washing the dishes, sweeping, and throwing away all of the wine bottles from the night before while the two of you are sleeping it off.”

     “That’s his job.  He knows that.  And I haven’t hit Emile in almost a year, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

     “It’s not just the hitting.  It’s how you talk to him all the time, like he’s stupid and worthless.”

     “Because he is.  Emile will never amount to anything.  He’s lucky I married his mother.  Why did you come over her, anyway, besides being in the hunt for a cooked meal because you’re too lazy to get a cook or cook for yourself.”

     “The agent’s been captured.”

     “I’m not surprised.”

     “Don’t you want to know where?”

     “I don’t need to be told.”

     Richarde felt an uncontrollable rage welling up.  “Did you have a hand in it?”

     “Let’s just say if I wanted to have a hand in, I could have.  Any more questions?”

     Richarde had always felt that because they were brothers, he was obligated to look the other way when it came to Francois’s work for the Germans.  Tonight, for the first time, he didn’t.  Unlike the other agents who had stayed at Marie’s house, Richarde had spent time with Eric.  He genuinely liked and respected Eric, especially because Eric treated David as an equal.  If only every father were more like that, Richarde would think, after being around David and Eric.

     “Should we keep switching the pigeons?”

     “Of course, and now, they will want to send back a message telling London that the agent is captured.  That message will go straight to the Germans.”  Francois laughed.

     Richarde couldn’t take it anymore.  He brought his plate into the kitchen, washed it and left it on the counter.  He went back to the dining room.

     “Did I say something wrong?” asked Francois, knowing full well that he had.

     “No,” said Richarde, not wishing to engage with Francois at all, ever again.  “Thank you for the dinner.  It was delicious.  Isabella is a lovely cook.  Will you tell her I said so?”

     “Maybe.  Good night.”

     Richarde let himself out with a stabbing feeling of sadness.  His loyalty to his brother was gone.

  

Wednesday, July 14, 1943   8a

 

     The German sniper leaned against a stone column and looked south along the coast.  His name was Wilhem Ryker.  He stood watch from midnight to ten am.  The last four hours were the hardest.  When the sun rose high enough in the sky, it beat down on his spot.  This made him terribly sleepy.  He would look out at the beach and wish he could just drop his rifle, fling off his burning hot helmet, run onto the beach, and dive into the cold salty water.  If only he could swim furiously for just twenty minutes, then for the last hours of his shift he would be alert, instead of groggy and nauseous.  Some mornings, when the sun hit the stretch where he walked back and forth, he would be so tired he would give in and let himself sleep on the ground, not caring how long he slept.

     That morning, Ryker, as usual, felt lonely, tired, and far away from the woman he had met on leave a few weeks before the invasion of Belgium.  The sweetness of knowing her for two separate evenings and one joy and laughter filled Sunday, had been replaced by killing.  He killed in Belgium.  He killed in Holland.  He killed in France. 

      He couldn’t allow his mind to ponder how or why he had survived.  If he tried the memory of so many men dying inches away from him would destroy any sense of order in his mind or in the way he thought about his life and the world.  There had been times when a man’s organs had been shot out and sprayed all over Ryker.  He had seen men’s heads shot off, the head sometimes rolling to a stop on the ground, before then being blown apart by an artillery shell.   He had seen Panzers get hit and all he could do was listen with horror and helplessness while his fellow soldiers screamed, “Help me! Help me!” as they burned alive inside of the blazing tank.

     Although it had been more than three years since he had met Hannah, he still loved to remember their first meeting.  She had been carrying two bags from the market towards the bus stop.  A plum in one of the overfilled bags had been smushed.  Its juice ate away at the paper.  Seeing the plum sticking out of the bottom of the bag, Ryker ran towards Hannah.  “May I help you?  It looks as if your bag is about to break.”

     When Hannah turned to look at him, he felt as if he had lost his balance and fallen headfirst into her enormous light blue eyes.  Then she smiled.  His life changed. 

     “Would you?  I can feel the plum about to fall out.”

     Ryker smiled as he remembered her effort to preserve decorum by standing away from him and trying to hand him the bag with out getting inappropriately close.  The plum dropped into one of his hands and his other hand caught the bottom of the bag.

     So April 1940 had been a month of dreaming about Hannah and counting the hours until he could see her.  For the first few days of the invasion of Belgium he thought of her constantly.  This isn’t all there is to the world he would tell himself.  His ability to superimpose his memories of her over what was right in front of him didn’t last.  Soon, numbness took over.  He deliberately never thought of her.  Her sweetness and the killing couldn’t coexist in his mind.  He had to let her go, or he would have lost his mind.

     In a few minutes it would be time for the first cigarette after sunrise that would help to keep him alert until quitting time.  Ryker did a three hundred sixty degree rotation, carefully scanning every direction for a pigeon or anything indicating the start of trouble.  Three more turns, and then I am going to smoke, he told himself.  By the end of the second rotation, his body and mind were completely focused on the soon to come hit of nicotine.  Although Ryker did his final rotation, he really wasn’t seeing anything at all, he was just craving the cigarette.

     Finally it was time.  He leaned against the stone column with his back to the north and pulled out his cigarette case.  He pulled out a cigarette and laid the case on the stone wall on his right side.  His lips were around the cigarette.  The match was coming towards it.  All he could think about was the first drag.  Somewhere in his consciousness he had the strong conviction that everything about the war should just stop so that he could enjoy his cigarette.

     Just as Ryker was about to inhale on his lit cigarette, a raven began honking unbelievably loudly from the tree above him.   The loudness of the honking startled Ryker, causing his cigarette to fall out of his mouth.  Another giant raven on a branch a few trees over began an earsplittingly loud honking.  Then seemingly hundreds of crows began squawking in the woods a hundred yards or so from his watch area.  What was going on?  Had some people spooked these birds?  What people?  He instinctively looked at the shoreline to the south to see if someone was trying to bring a boat in to pick people up, in spite of the mines and the other obstacle.  Nothing.

     Now dozens sparrows had begun chirping angrily, as if a cat was near one of their nests and a few seconds after that the largest flock of pigeons Ryker had ever seen catapulted into view from over the tree tops.  They were swooping, circling, flying figure eights, diving, flying huge circles and then small circles, constantly breaking into small groups and then reforming before breaking into different small groups.  The pigeons’ flight was completely unpredictable.  Ryker stared.  They weren’t covering any ground.  These pigeons remained in the same place forming their own hurricane with it’s eye and then something like a tornado, and then just chaos.

     Ryker didn’t sight his rifle.  These weren’t messenger pigeons.  These were pigeons acting very strangely.  But why?  Again, he peered at the woods, expecting some bedraggled looking people to emerge as they were trying to escape occupied France.  Well, whatever these birds were doing, he might as well have his cigarette.  When the cigarette had fallen, it had rolled down a slight incline so that it ended up two feet behind Ryker. 

     As he stood up, with his fingers happily holding the cigarette, his gaze naturally went out on to the ocean north of him.  His heart stopped.  Two pigeons were valiantly flapping across the channel to England, well out of range of his rifle.  Panic gripped him.  There was no way of knowing what might be written in a pigeon message.  Was it intelligence about something important but not terribly consequential?  Or did it contain a sentence that could set in motion a chain of events that would have a profound impact on the war?   Ryker’s face turned red with shame.  He had failed.  If he had kept turning and looking, as he was supposed to do, he would have had a perfect look at those two pigeons right when they were in range.  He had killed pigeons enough times at that distance to know it wasn’t difficult.  He had failed. 

     Ryker smoked his cigarette.  Apathy and discouragement took over.

Letting a pigeon through was a serious mistake.  And he had done it.  After all of his effort during the hours of watching, when it had mattered most, he had been distracted by a bunch of birds.

     The events of the past few minutes caused Ryker to think back to when he was a boy.  His father had kept pigeons just because he loved birds.  They weren’t racing pigeons.  All birds were welcome in the backyard.  Any crusts of bread were saved and thrown onto the yard for the neighborhood birds.  His father would always say that the crows were the smartest.

     One day a couple of young pigeons, maybe five weeks old at the most, were on the ground digging around for food in the grass.  A hawk zoomed in and landed on one of the young pigeons.  Immediately, two crows flew over and landed on the hawk, pecking and pecking, until the hawk let the pigeon go.  Ryker’s father loved to tell this story.  He never ceased to wonder why the crows had helped him and his pigeons.

     Ryker smiled.  All of those birds causing that commotion hadn’t been a coincidence.  They were protecting the pigeons from him and his rifle.  The cloak of the war and the meaning it imposed on everything dropped away.  He didn’t care that the war’s standard for success meant that he had failed.  Ryker’s shame was replaced by gratitude for having witnessed what the birds had done.  The birds had outsmarted him.  It was impressive.  Humbled and thankful, Ryker resumed walking back and forth, feeling, somehow, like a person again.

 

Wednesday, July 14, 1943   8:30a

 

     Eric woke and believed he could faintly hear birds chirping in spite of the thick, stonewalls surrounding him.  Last night the guard had reappeared with a dose of penicillin and a topical disinfectant.  Now Eric sat on the floor and removed the old bandage from the night before.  He soaked a piece of gauze with the disinfectant and carefully dabbed around his eye.  Less pus oozed out and the whole area felt a little more stable.  Not much, but it was an improvement.

     The door of his cell opened cautiously.  “How is it?” said the guard.

     “Coming along.  Thank you.”

     “Here’s another dose of medicine.  I will replace your bandage in a moment.  First I want to tell you what’s coming.  The colonel wishes to turn you.  He feels you would make an excellent asset.  I won’t be able to help you with an escape.”

     The guard looked genuinely sad.  Eric sensed that this guard longed to do something that would be a statement of opposition to the Reich.

     “He hopes I’ll turn?  Act as a double agent?”

     “That’s all I know.  Let’s get this bandage on.”

     The guard had left the cell door open.  He and Eric heard footsteps coming towards them.

     “Good morning,” said the colonel.  “I am Colonel Wilhelm Jacobsen. I instructed the guard to help you with your eye because I am hoping you will help us.  You are a free man, right now, if you agree to provide us with intelligence on the invasion of the continent, which we know is coming.  We guess that it’s in the planning stages so only a few people know the big picture on it.  Still, as time goes by, more and more people will know bits and pieces.  That’s what I want.  I want you to gather those bits and pieces from everyone and everywhere.”

     “Do I have a choice?” asked Eric.

     “Of course.  It’s a choice between doing it or knowing that those you care about most in France will die a horrible death.  You should say yes, because you have the perfect way to deliver the intelligence to us.  Your superiors will never know.  Go back to your life with Marie and David.  Use those German decoy pigeons that one of our people has been sneaking into the loft to send us any thing you find out.”

     “Understood.  How did you find out about the decoy pigeons?” Eric asked, not expecting an answer.

     With a condescending laugh, the colonel relied, “It was obvious, Eric, because you made a big mistake.  You wrote all of the messages, didn’t you?”

     Eric nodded, even though he had split writing duties among himself, Marie, Emile, and David to reduce the chance of the messages seeming similar.

     “Our man who translates the messages thought some of them were too intelligent for the average stupid French peasant.  Also, they were noticeably less emotional than most of what we receive.  His assistant made a list of the ring numbers of the pigeons who delivered these sorts of messages.  Then he compared that list with our lists of which pigeons are in each loft around France.  The one just outside of Argentan housed all of those pigeons.  We already had Francois in place as an asset.  Someone from the colonel’s office talked to him and Francois told him he had been using the decoy pigeons to thwart communication between you and London.  Of course we were a little confused by why Francois didn’t tell us about you, but Francois has been invaluable, so we didn’t ask him about that.  Eric, if you think you’ve been fooling Francois, you’re wrong.  Since our man talked to him, he’s known. We told Francois to keep doing what he’s been doing and that we would take care of you, soon.”

     “What about the English pigeons?”

     “That’s a stupid question, Eric.  Do you see any English pigeons in the loft?  No, you don’t, because they’ve flown home, like any good pigeons does.”

     “Yes, it was a stupid question.  It’s just that I’ve developed a fondness for pigeons and I would hate to know they were eaten.”

     The colonel laughed.  “We Germans know how to have food, unlike the stupid French who have no choice but to eat pigeons they find on the ground.”

      “Well, it seems to me that the best thing for me to do would be to arrange a trip to London.  Like you said, any thing of importance is there.  I won’t be able to find out much in France.”

     “Exactly.  But I hope you don’t think you can solve your predicament by escaping to London.  If you don’t come back and deliver on our agreement, what you experienced with that idiot guard yesterday will be nothing compared to what David, Marie, Emile, Marceau, and Dr. Pierce will experience over and over again for days on end at the hands of deviants you can’t even imagine.  The most sick, slimy, perverted individuals on earth will have their way with all of those people, especially Marie and David, for months, until everyone you care about will be dead from starvation or disease.  That’s what happens if you don’t come back from London.”

     Eric nodded.  Right now the colonel had him by the balls.  That was the grim truth.

     “Come up with a reason you can give your superiors for why you need to spend some time in London every month.  That’s what we expect from you.  And Eric, no games.  No phony intelligence like what you’ve been sending with our pigeons.”

 

Wednesday, July 14, 1943   9:30a

    

     Blue and Linda were flying over land now.  Blue’s sense of direction and his ability to pick up magnetic energy had been steadily becoming more consistent.  Every flap of his wings seemed to bring things more into focus.  Suddenly, like a jolt of electricity, the full force of the earth’s magnetic field hit him.  He could detect every nuance, every variation, every area where it was stronger and weaker.  Each field of energy was like a signpost and amidst all of these markers and signposts, he now knew exactly where the loft at Metchley was.  Now he could really fly.  Now he could go at his top speed.  He realized that not having the ability to pick up the magnetic fields had caused him to fly tepidly, cautiously.  Now there was no need for that. 

     Blue flapped his wings effortlessly thirty times in three seconds.  He sped past Linda, flew up in the air at a sixty-degree angle, swooped down until he was at her flying height and shimmied from side to side.  He could hear Linda laughing.  “You’re back!”

     “Yes!  I am!  Let’s go!”

     They were flying about sixty miles an hour.  In seemingly a few seconds, the trees surrounding Metchley Park came into view.  Before they dropped down in elevation for the last mile Blue and Linda saw at least thirty pigeons suddenly pop up into the sky above the trees surrounding Metchley.

     “They’re coming to meet us!  How wonderful!” Linda looked at Blue.  “Let’s show them how fast you can go.”

     For the first time since leaving Britain, Blue felt proud.  For the first time, he felt happy with himself.  Seeing everybody made it seem far more real that he had recovered and was now delivering a message.  The possibility of actually succeeding had been too happy an outcome to contemplate.  Thinking about success had to be pushed off until it was real.  Now it was.

     As the pigeons came closer, Blue and Linda could see the bright white feathers of the three white pigeons.  Whitedart, the biggest and strongest, almost looked like a great snowy owl as his strong shoulders brought him closer and closer.  The brown pigeon with the pink splashes on her neck cruised along towards the back of the flock.  Some of the young pigeons Blue had trained with were keeping pace confidently.

     “Frank must be wondering what is going on,” said Linda.  “I can picture him standing on the ground outside of the loft telling them to go in.  Then they must have just all flown off.”

     A few seconds later, the pigeons engulfed Blue and Linda, flying around and above them.  Blue and Linda stayed on course as the pigeons circled around and flew back, surrounding Blue and Linda again.

     “Good job!  We knew we would see you again!  Congratulations!”  All sorts of well wishes poured forth as they continued on towards the loft.

     And then, finally, after months of pain, uncertainty, recovery, training, and preparation, there it was, the loft, with Frank standing in the driveway, watching the pigeons speeding towards it.

 

Wednesday, July 14, 1943   11a

 

     Oliver knocked on the door of the conference room.  Even though Hollingswood was in a meeting with two higher ups from London Oliver knew Hollingswood wouldn’t mind an interruption in their meeting interrupting  about Blue’s and Linda’s return.

     “Excuse me, sir.  I am so sorry to interrupt.  The lost pigeon, Eric’s pigeon, and his mate have come back with a message.  Eric’s been captured.”

     Knowing he had to maintain an air of stoicism, instead of revealing the despair he felt, Hollingswood said grimly,  “Do we know where he’s being held?”

     “Yes, sir.  Fort Driant.”

     Gibbons and Butterfield both shrugged apathetically.  “Sorry, old chap,” Butterfield said to Hollingswood, “Unless he can muster up some help from inside, there is probably no way to get him out.”

     “That’s right,” said Gibbons.  “Commandos won’t be sacrificed for just one man.”

     “We can’t do nothing,” said Hollingswood firmly.  “Can’t we at least get another agent on the ground by tomorrow to scope out any possibilities?  If Eric is just left to rot, what kind of message does that send to all of the other agents?  That kind of tale, of being deserted or sold out by London, is so often used during interrogations to try to make agents lose heart, their faith, and their courage.  I’ve heard of agents keeping their mouths shut through unspeakable physical torture, but if the Germans lie to them and tell them that someone on our side set them up, or that we have no plans to rescue them, then they cave.”

     Butterfield frowned.  “Where’s your secure line to London?”

     “I’ll take you to it,” said Daphne, Hollingswood’s secretary.

     After they left the room, Gibbons said, ”What’s happening with this mission?  I thought you said your pigeons would prevent captures?”

     “No.  I didn’t say that,” replied Hollingswood.  The pigeons serve as a communication method instead of a wireless.  If agents aren’t transmitting, the direction finding vans can’t locate them.  One of the goals of this mission was to find the leak in the resistance.  There’s been no progress on that. The only breakthrough has been that we discovered someone swapping out our pigeons for decoy pigeons.  Now that Eric knows they are decoy pigeons, he has been sending messages asking for an RAF bombing of track in and around Argentan. The deception is that he’s being told planes can’t be spared because they are needed for bombing runs into Germany.  We’re stalling, now, to bring on a sense of complacency.  At some point we will agree to the bombing and on the night the Germans believe it is going to happen, the local resistance will disable the power station with plastic explosives.  Then   the steam powered trains can’t run.”

     Gibbons said gently, “Didn’t you say there is a leak in the resistance?  How can you hope to blow the power station if there’s a leak?”

     “That’s another reason we’re stalling.  We need to find the leak.”

     Gibbons looked at Hollingswood.  “I wonder if there is a way to write some of the messages being sent off with the decoy pigeons in such a way which flushes out the leak.”

     “Probably,” said Hollingswood.  “But if you feel sure that no one can get Eric out of that fort, we need someone to write those messages and keep sending them off with the decoy pigeons.  Can you work on finding a replacement for Eric?”

     “Yes,” said Butterfield.  He sighed.  “It’s like dropping good people into hell.”

 

Wednesday, July 14, 1943   3:30p

 

     The guard at the fort had driven Eric to the train station and given him some money.  “Are you sure you don’t want to make a run for it?  That can be arranged,” said Eric as they stopped in the parking area near the station.

     “If I was younger I might.  Thank you.  For now, I am going to stay put and do whatever I can to undermine what goes on at the fort and see to it that the prisoners aren’t treated too terribly badly.”

     “Well, if you change your mind, think up a reason to go to Argentan.  Now a German colonel and my bosses want me to be there, so I’m kind of stuck there.”

     “Will do.  Good luck.”

     As the train rolled along, Eric stared out the window and went back and forth between deciding to tell Marie and David about the colonel’s arrangement and trying to keep it to himself.  The thought of keeping a secret like that from Marie and David just didn’t work.  He would need their help, and he had to admit, he didn’t want to keep secrets from them.  He wanted them to be a team. 

     Eric reprimanded himself.  You’re not supposed to become attached.  You’re not supposed to need anybody.  You’re not supposed to have feelings.  It didn’t work.  I do care and I will care and anybody who doesn’t like it can go to hell.  I want things to be real with David and Marie.   No lies. Screw it.  If that makes me a lousy agent, too fucking bad.  They’re in on this, and Emile too.

     After listening to Eric’s account of what had happened in Fort Driant   Marie said, “I never would have believed that I could feel this way three years ago, but now I am willing to do just about anything which will hurt the Nazis.  There’s no choice.  I don’t even need to think about it for a second.”

     Eric looked at Emile and David.  Each boy gave a slight nod, neither of them showing any fear, just stoical calm and unbreakable determination.

     “There’s something else.  This could be an opportunity to stage a kidnapping,” said Eric.

     “A kidnapping?  Why?  Of who?”

     “Emile, how would you like to fly back to London with me?”

     As Emile’s eyes lit up and he smiled and nodded, Marie exclaimed, “Why in God’s name would you want Brigitte and Francois to think that Emile has been kidnapped?  And do you really need to put Emile in that kind of danger?  He could be killed if the Germans intercept the pick up or if the plane is shot down on the way back.  I don’t see why a fake kidnapping is necessary.”

     “We can’t accomplish anything until we find the leak.  We need to know who is passing on to Francois their knowledge of what the resistance is trying to do.  I have a feeling that Brigitte is involved.  It’s a hunch, but we must find a way to rule out that she is part of the problem.  If Emile is gone, then, Marie, you can tell her that some people from the resistance came here and took him, because they think she is the one passing information along to Francois.  Her response to that scenario may reveal a lot,” said Eric.

     “I still want to know why you think Brigitte has anything to do with this.  It’s more than a hunch.  You have a reason.  What is it, Eric?”

     “During all the time I have spent hanging about in the bakery, I never see anything happening which could be a transfer of information from anyone to Francois.  We know he hands off intelligence to the colonel, or one of his subordinates, using the croissant in the bag, or a pie or a bread but I don’t see a pattern of anyone speaking with Francois, or handing him anything.  He is never anywhere but home or the bakery.  Never.  Marceau, some others, and I have been watching him for months.  That might mean he’s getting information from Brigitte at home.”

     “I would be shocked because Brigitte is always so timid.  She never has any opinions about anything and never seems to take an interest in the world.  She has her parties, her clothes, and her hair.  That’s it, as far as I know.”  Marie looked at Emile.  “You must understand that you have a choice.  No one is forcing you to fly to England.  You can say no,” said Marie.

     “I’ll go.  Even if it’s my mother who is part of the leak, we need to know.  She never prevented Francois from hitting me after they were first married.  She never stands up to him when he yells at me for no reason, or tells me that I am stupid, even though I do well at school.  I don’t feel it’s my duty to protect her.  I wish I did, because she’s my mother, but I don’t.”

      Eric shook Emile’s hand.  “You’re a brave man.  Thank you..  Now I must let London know tomorrow morning that I require transport.  Who have you got in the loft?”

     “I’ll show you,” said David.

     As Eric and David stood in the loft, David said, “These two pigeons came with the drop on Monday, Tuesday, the twelfth to the thirteenth. There will be another drop on the sixteenth to the seventeenth, Friday, Saturday.”

     “This is going to be a long message.  Let’s get up a bit earlier tomorrow,” said Eric.

     “Of course,” replied David.  “Will you give a reason for needing transport in the message?”

     “I will say I have intelligence which requires detailed instructions, the kind that must be given in a completely secure environment.  They will understand.  When there’s lots to tell, or a need to reevaluate, it’s not uncommon for an agent to go back for those reasons.”

     “Are you sure they will let return here after you tell them the whole story?”

     “It’s too good an opportunity to let get away.  They will.  Emile and I will be back in two or three days, most likely,” said Eric.

 

Thursday, July 15, 1943   6:10a

 

     Eric and David looked at the two pigeons.  “It’s interesting.  The messenger pigeons always seem to know they should rest for their trip the next day.  Sometimes the pigeons who get dropped will go out and fly with Al and Beatrix, I guess to get food, but I have only seen that when there aren’t plans for them to fly with messages the next day.  How do they know?” asked David.

     “I have no idea.  And it’s a bit strange that they are being let go by this numbskull in the middle of the night, and then they are coming back in.  Have you ever seen that?”

     “Never, but we’ve never had decoy pigeons here before.”  David thought for a few seconds.  “You might think I’m funny in the head for saying this.”

     “I promise I won’t,” said Eric.  “Fire away.”

     “Because of the time I’ve spent with pigeons and the things I’ve seen them do, it’s entirely possible to me that they were told to stay until someone gave them a message to carry back.”

     “I’ll take your word for it but why these pigeons?  Why didn’t the first pigeons stay and wait for messages too?”

     “They’ve been waiting since you sent the message with Searchlight Pied saying you thought we had decoy pigeons.  After someone on the English end received that message they may have told the pigeons not to come back until they had a message from you.”

     “I don’t know enough about pigeons to know if they are capable of understanding instructions like that but it is the only way to explain the fact that they aren’t just homing back once they are let out of the loft.  I have to be honest with you David, I am trying to see pigeons the way you and your mother see them.  I’m not quite there yet.”

     “Please, don’t worry.  It’s fine.  I’m glad I can tell you these things knowing that you won’t automatically dismiss them as silly.”  David turned from Eric towards the pigeons.

     “This one black pigeon is so small,” said David, “and the blue bar is practically the size of a raven.  They seem to get on well.  I bet that’s why they were picked to fly together, in spite of their size difference.”

     “Right.  Even though it’s close to breakfast we should write this message and send two copies off with these two before we eat.”

     “Sounds good,” said David.  “I’ll let my mother know and then I’ll help you code it.”

 

Thursday, July 15, 1943   6:30a

 

     As soon as Eric and David were gone, Scarlet, the small black pigeon, and Richard, the blue bar pigeon, opened their eyes.

     “We do get on well, don’t we Scarlet?” said Richard.

     “Yes.  I’m glad Frank put you with me on my first mission.  It makes it fun, like all the training tosses we had together when Frank was still mixing in a few old birds with us young birds.  You were always making me laugh with your irreverent remarks about people and pigeon racing and everything else.”

     “I could see right away that you have explosive speed, just like your parents.  They were champion short distance racers.  Both your mother and your father could always be counted on to come in within the top five.  In some races it was a question of who would come in first, your mother or your father.  That’s why I watched out for you.  Lots of times a small pigeon like you will get passed over.  I knew that when Frank saw me next to you when we trapped that he would understand you were something special.”

     “I couldn’t believe a pigeon like you, who had done well in quite a few 600s was helping me.  How shall we go tomorrow?  Should we trade off who is in front?”

     “We should find out from Al and Beatrix where the hawk areas will be.  In those, I should fly pretty close to you.  It’s tough to know which one of us they might go after.  I am a bigger and therefore easier target, but heavier for them grab and carry. Hopefully any hawk will make the mistake of choosing you as their target because you can accelerate so rapidly.  I don’t want to make you afraid by bringing up the hawks, but a little strategy against them is always a good thing.”

     “I don’t feel afraid.  This is fun.  I’m glad to be out on a mission finally.”  Scarlet smiled at Richard.  Her skull was rounder than most pigeons and the way her head attached to her neck made her look very pert and “adorable,” as Frank would always say.  The other pigeons loved to tease her about that.  “Here comes Adorable,” one might say when she came into the loft.  Or “Make way for Miss Adorable,” as she came over to the feed trough. 

     Richard and Scarlet heard the sound of Al and Beatrix landing on the edge of the little pigeon door to the loft.  “Don’t be afraid to ask questions,” said Richard.

 

Thursday, July 15, 1943   1:30p

 

     “Sir, a pigeon not much bigger than a robin brought back a message from Eric.  He says it’s urgent that he get transport out as soon as possible,” said Oliver.

     Surrounded as usual by impossibly tall stacks of paper that looked like they should already have toppled over, Hollingswood squinted at Oliver.

     “Dial up Tempsford.  See if they can get a plane over there tonight, meaning the pick-up would officially be logged as on the sixteenth.  Emphasize that it’s just him.”  Hollingswood paused.  “It is just him, right?  Or am I getting ahead of myself?”

     “Just him.”

     “Good.  Emphasize that it is just him who needs taking off so they don’t have a Hudson lumbering over there wasting fuel.”

     “I will, but for all we know they have a whole gang of people going across already and Eric will just hitch a ride back.”

     “You bring up a good point.  If they have a lot who need bringing over they aren’t going to Argentan.  Nobody wants to go there.  Those people might get dropped closer west and he may need to travel to that drop zone.  Let me know what they say.  Then if we’ve got a plane for him, we’ll get the message over to the BBC.”

     “Will do, sir,” said Oliver.  He walked as fast as possible down the hall, thinking, this is going to be tight.

 

Thursday, July 15, 1943   2p

 

     “What happened?” asked Whitedart.  “Where’s Richard?”

     “Just before we reached the channel, a hawk saw us.  He got Richard in the shoulder because Richard was covering for me.  Even so, Richard flew over the channel.  He kept telling me to speed ahead.  I couldn’t leave him.  When we reached England, he told me he had to rest and that I should get back as fast as I could.  He might still be resting under those bushes,” said Scarlet.

     Dun Velvet flew in the door.  “Get Frank.  Richard is outside on the ground.  He’s dragging himself with his wing.  Get Frank!”

     Getting Frank meant that as many pigeons as possible perched on the windowsill of the office until Frank noticed them.  In a few seconds Frank looked out the window.  He jumped up and ran outside.  “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he said to Richard as he gently picked him up.  “Looks like a nasty puncture wound, but it’s going to heal.  We’re going to get you fixed up, real good.  Great job, Richard.  You did a great job. You’re going to be out winning those six hundreds whenever you’re ready to go.”

     Richard had never been hit by a hawk.  He had done it to save Scarlet.  Now that he knew what it was like, he understood why some pigeons didn’t want to race again.  They were happy to stick close to home.  I understand them now, thought Richard, but that’s not what I’m going to do.  I’m out as soon as I can fly.

 

Friday, July 16, 1943   10:30a

 

     Once he was in London, Eric asked the driver to drop him about a half hours walk from the office where he was to report to on Baker Street.  He needed to be alone for a bit and slow down the pace after the flight, the de-briefing, a coma-like sleep, and the drive.  The difference between the mood in London and almost everywhere he had been in France was troubling.  The sense of urgency and determination evident in everyone’s demeanor in London made the sadness and despair of the French people seem far more tragic.  The absence of German soldiers, the Gestapo, and the milice in the London streets caused the cruelty and the absurdity of the occupation of France to seem even more barbaric than it did from moment to moment in France. 

     Eric realized that while he had been in Argentan, it had felt like a heavy metal band had been wrapped around his head, covering his forehead.  Periodically, it would seem to tighten.  That feeling was gone and so was the slight hunch in his neck and shoulders.  Eric deliberately stood up straighter and took longer strides.  I am not going to take these days of safety for granted, he promised himself. 

     Seeing free people going about their business amidst the rubble and chaos caused by the air raids caused Eric to wonder again, as he had many times, why the push to oppress?  Why inflict pain and humiliation on a people in a foreign land?  How do things get to a point where this kind of destruction can take place?  And the three most chilling questions which banged around in his mind were how could this war have happened just twenty years after the slaughter and destruction which came with the first one and is it inevitable that a third war will happen in another twenty years?  Is this what we’ve become as a civilization?

     After a few minutes of comparing the pride evident in the people in the streets of London to the hopeless demeanor he had come to associate with the French, Eric felt guilty for thinking of the French in the aggregate as being downtrodden, sad, and despondent.  They weren’t.  Many were risking their lives to fight the Nazis any way they could.  Yet really all they had were small victories like power stations or telephone exchanges being blown up for a few days or weeks until they were repaired.  Putting sections of the railway out of use was important but really too subtle to give the French a bedrock of pride in the same way Dunkirk, winning the Battle of Britain, or the victory at Alamein had buoyed the spirits of the British.  When I go back, whatever I do must give those involved much more of a sense of accomplishment.  I must find a way to help the French do more, before things seem irredeemably hopeless to them.

     Eric sighed.  It was easy to make those resolutions here, where people could walk freely without any possibility of being stopped by the Gestapo.  Could he keep that thought process alive once back in France? Could he keep the Germans convinced he was working for them and simultaneously ratchet up acts of resistance and the process of arming and training the French?

     This meeting coming up in a few minutes had to count.  He had to convince Gibbons and Butterfield that drops of arms and explosives would make a difference.  They had to be convinced that the French could be trained and armed.  They needed to understand that it would be productive to allocate aircraft for that purpose, instead of always giving priority to bombing campaigns.

 

Friday, July 16, 1943   11a

 

       Butterfield, Gibbons, and Eric sat in three chairs around a low table in Gibbon’s office.

      “We need two things from you,” Butterfield said to Eric.  “The plan is to loosen the connections and degrade the wiring on what the Germans have set up to blow the Ludendorff Bridge across the Rhine.  We believe the bridge is rigged to blow, although we’re not sure.  We assume there’s a remote control.  We don’t now where the connections or the charges are, or to what extent the bridge is lit.”

     “Loosen the connections?” said Eric.

     Gibbons answered, “It’s a railroad bridge.  We figure if we can get things loosened up then with the repeated passage of trains, the whole line might just be loose enough that by the time the Allies want to cross the Rhine, that it won’t blow at all.  You know how everything has a vibration and everything on a machine gets loose over time, from it’s own vibration?”

     Eric nodded.

     “That’s the premise here,” said Butterfield.  “We want to speed up the loosening process.  We can’t disable the demolition completely.  If the Germans test the remote and find it’s not working, they will inspect and repair the wiring and connections to make them functional again.  They can’t know it’s been tampered with this soon in the game.”

     “Incremental change is a squirrely thing,” said Gibbons.  “Remember those two Germans ships which sailed into the channel?  They were able to get through because the Germans jammed the radar incrementally every few days.  The bloke who was checking it never noticed because it was done a bit at a time.  That’s what we’re going for with this.”

     Butterfield chuckled.  “I heard a story once about a man living in a flat in Paris.  He played a prank on the lady living a few floors down.  She would put her turtle in its box on the windowsill.  He bought several larger turtles.  Every few days he lowered a larger turtle down using a rope. He used a grappling hook to remove the smaller turtle.  She couldn’t understand why her turtle was growing so fast.  Because he was a scientist, she actually asked him why her turtle was growing so fast.  Of course he enjoyed that conversation immensely.  Then after he had lowered the biggest turtle he waited for a while and then proceeded to replace each turtle with a smaller turtle.  The poor woman just about lost her mind.  I guess I shouldn’t find it funny, but I do.”

     Eric laughed louder than he had in months.  “No.  That’s funny.  And it was just a prank.  She got her original turtle back didn’t she?  That’s a great story.  Now what are the two things you need from me?” asked Eric.

     “We need intelligence on everything about the bridge and we need a distraction to happen on the night that the men go in to loosen the connections and degrade the wiring,” said Butterfield.

     “We’re trying to convince the Americans to do a couple of bombing runs up and down river from the bridge.  It seems we are close to an agreement with Eisenhower and Bradley.  Still, if we can also get something happening in Remagan, to take the focus off the water under the bridge, the men can swim and do their work,” added Gibbons.

     “What men?” asked Eric.

     “The firm will pick and train the appropriate people,” said Gibbons.

     “Well, I wish you all the best with that.  No one should be swimming in the Rhine unless these men you think you are going to find are half whale, half man.  Whoever gets into that river must be in a boat.  Boats will be super easy to see.  The more I think about this, the worse it seems,” said Eric.

     “There can’t be any lights,” said Butterfield.  “Someone will have to sabotage the power station for those lights.”

     “What if they are on a generator?  There is no end to the things which can go wrong with this,” said Eric.

     The three men sat silently, realizing the plan they thought they had consisted of nothing much at all.  Butterfield’s assistant knocked on the door.  “More tea?” she said through the door.

     “Yes.  Might as well,” answered Gibbons.

     Everyone sat quietly as Barbara poured the tea.  “I’ll leave the pot.  Let me know if you require anything else.”

     “Thank you,” said Eric.  Barbara left and closed the door.

     “What about this?” said Butterfield.  “Can we abandon this plan for the Ludendorf and use your decoy pigeons to make the Germans believe the Allies will only be crossing the river above and below the bridge, at Oppenheim and Wesel?”

     “That is doable,” said Eric.  “However, to make it plausible, circuits must be set up in or near those places.  It must appear to the Germans that the purpose of the circuits is to sabotage German defenses and to do reconnaissance.  Then I can send what information I am supposedly getting from them back with the decoy pigeons and make allusions to the future river crossings at those points.”

     “Here’s another task, which if accomplished, might turn things in our favor,” said Gibbons. “If the Germans blow any bridge, they must blow it with a detonator, among other things, correct?”

     Eric and Butterfield nodded.

     “Can you see about putting in motion some sabotage in the factories where detonators are manufactured?”

     “That would be fantastic,” said Eric, “but it would take a miracle, no, many miracles, to put that in place.  It is going to be extremely lucky if I can make a connection that leads, ultimately, to the production of defective detonators.”

     “I will include it in the mission statement, but please, as you implied, just kind of let things take their course.  If you can make it happen, great.  The main focus should be on convincing the Germans that crossings will take place above and below the Ludendorf.”

     Butterfield stood up.  “Right.  You will get a call an hour before the car is to take you to the airfield.  It won’t be until after dinner.  Why don’t you take the young man out to a meal in the most British pub you can think of.”

     “We might do that.  He very much wants to buy gift for his friend and for his friend’s mum.  That could take time, finding the right thing.  We may end up with some sandwiches back at the hotel, if shopping takes awhile.”

     “Of course,” said Gibbons, his eyes twinkling.  He seemed to know that Emile would not be the only one shopping for a gift for Marie.

 

Friday, July 16, 1943   4:35p

 

     Brigitte drove to the colonel’s office.  She hadn’t seen Emile since yesterday morning, before school.  He never spent more than one night at David’s, so he should have come home that afternoon.  Marie didn’t know where he was.  No one at his school knew anything either.  Brigitte was cold with terror.  Whatever I’ve been doing, it all seems stupid, if I have to lose Emile because of it.  She wished she could take it all back.  Everything. 

     After Brigitte had taken her seat in front of the colonel’s desk he said,      “What can I do for you Madame?”

     “My son is missing.  Emile.  He’s been missing since yesterday.  I saw him leave for school yesterday morning.  Very often he goes to a friend’s house in the afternoon.  He spends the night there frequently enough that I didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t come home in the evening.  He never spends more than one night though.  He should have come home from school by three o’ clock.

     “This is a matter for the police.  Why haven’t you been there?”

     “I tried.  The police chief said he would look into it tomorrow.  He didn’t see anything urgent. He said, ‘boys will be boys.’  The way he handled it made me think he wouldn’t actually do anything ever.  He was dismissive. He made it plain that he didn’t care.”

     “Perhaps he was just busy and preoccupied.  You should go back and try again.  If I investigate I would be treading on their turf, so to speak.  It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

     Brigitte began to cry.  “I don’t know if I can trust you.  We are in a difficult situation.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Brigitte was now crying uncontrollably and raising her voice almost to a shriek, she said, “My husband has been giving you, you, intelligence almost everyday.  He risks his life and his business everyday for you.  And where do you think he gets the intelligence?  Where do you think he gets it?  Where? Where?”

     Because Brigitte had become hysterical, the colonel knew she would keep talking.  He waited.

     “From me.  I give it to him.  I risk my life just as much as he does.  We’ve done a lot for you.  Anytime I tell him something he passes it to you. We’ve helped you to stop dozens of attempts by the resistance to blow something up.  Now you need to help us.  Help us find our son.  There’s no point in hoping the police chief will help.  I think he believes my husband is a collaborator.  But how could he know?  I don’t know!  No one is who they say they are anymore.  I just want my son back.  Where is my son?”

     The colonel handed Brigitte his handkerchief.  “How do you know what the resistance is doing?  He sensed Brigitte wanted to unburden herself of everything.

     “Marceau and I are lovers.  You know him, Marceau Dupont?  Everyone knows Marceau.  When we see each other he confides in me.  He says he knows he can trust me.  I love him, but he is wrong to think that the Allies will win the war.  Everyone thinks that because America is in the war now and because the German army couldn’t get to Moscow, that it is just a matter of time until they are defeated.  I don’t think it’s that simple.  How much can the Americans do if they are struggling to defeat Japan?  We are afraid of what might happen to us if after the war if we don’t give intelligence to your side.  You must help me find my son.  You must.  Then we will continue to help you.”

     “I told you.  It’s not appropriate for us to search for your son or to investigate his disappearance.  That is a matter for the local authorities.”

     Brigitte pursed her lips and squinted at the colonel.  “We killed two English agents for you.  We made sure their bodies would be found in that ditch, to send a message to the English,” she hissed.  “You owe us.  If you don’t find out what happened to my son, I will contact Berlin, and tell them how lenient you are with members of the resistance who are caught trying to do any kind of sabotage.  Unlike the previous colonel, you interrogate but you don’t torture.  A few beatings may take place, maybe days without food and water, and that’s all you do.  I’m sure your superiors in Berlin would not be happy to hear that and I suspect you’ve been lying to them about it. They will view you as soft on the resistance and a liar.”

     “Madame, I must caution you against assuming you would have much influence in Berlin.  For your own safety, you are better off keeping what you have been doing to yourself.  To prevent you from doing anything that might end up harming you and Francois, I will put together a team of four men.  They will investigate. I will speak with the chief of police immediately.  I feel absolutely confident that he will contribute some of his men to this investigation as well.  We will find your son.  I will make this my top priority.”

     Brigitte began crying all over again.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I will do whatever I can for the Reich.  I will always be loyal.  Thank you.  I can’t thank you enough. Heil Hitler.”

     The colonel walked Brigitte to the door.  The soldier outside would escort her out of the building.

 

Friday, July 16, 1943   4:30p

 

     “Thank you for coming back in.  You’ve had a hell of a long day,” said Gibbons.

     “It’s fine,” said Eric, although it really wasn’t.  He had gone to his hotel, expecting to collect Emile and begin the search for gifts for David and Marie.  Instead, after chatting with Emile for just a few minutes, he received a call telling him to report to Baker Street.  The assistant said that Gibbons and Butterfield were requesting him to report to them for another meeting.  “Hopefully, this will be about more specific instructions,” he had said to Emile, adding, “You can find your way to some shops a short walk from here.”  Eric quickly drew a map covering the blocks around the hotel.  “Just follow these arrows.  If you feel confused, which I doubt you will, anyone will be able to tell you how to get to that shopping area and how to get back.  I will see you in about two hours, I guess.”

     At the suggestion of going out on his own, Emile had lit up.  “Thank you.  I will be sure to be back here in two hours.”

     At the Baker Street office, Eric had waited in a different conference room for an unnervingly long amount of time.  What was going on?  He had learned that in the culture of the Firm, punctuality was like the sun rising in the east.  Any kind of delay didn’t portend well at all.

     Butterfield came in and sat down.  He looked haggard and frustrated. “We’ve had a chat with the man above us.  We can’t tell you his name, top secret and all of that.  He isn’t sure you can be trusted.  He thinks you may actually be working for the Nazis.  They may actually have turned you.  So tonight you will stay put and tomorrow meet with some people from his office.  If you can pass muster with them, you go back.  If not, you stay in England, under close watch.”

     Panic overwhelmed Eric.  Will I never see Marie and David again?  He hadn’t considered this possibility at all, not for one second, that his contact with the colonel might cause anyone to believe he had become a traitor.  Waves of regret hit him with force.  Why did I come back?  Why didn’t I just stay?  I could have fooled the colonel into thinking I took a flight back.  That would have been easy.  How can I get back?  How can I get back?  Wildly unrealistic ideas raced through his mind.  I’ll get to Gibraltar, then to Spain and find a guide to take me across the Pyrenees.  Or I can walk to Tempsford, crawl onto the grounds and bribe someone to put me on a plane.  I’ll sign up for military service.  They’ll send me to Sicily and I’ll find a way to France.

     The sound of Butterfield’s voice crashed through Eric’s panic.     “Everyone who is asked by the Germans to spy for them goes through questioning.  Be sincere.  I can tell you right now, if you look this shaken up tomorrow, you won’t be going anywhere outside of the country.  Chin up.  Hide your fear that you might not be allowed to go back.  Remember, you are a spy, for God’s sake.”

     After a pause during which he stared out the window for what seemed like a year to Eric, Butterfield continued. “For some reason, people who survive the training required by the Firm usually feel quite strongly about going back to France if they are brought back to England for any reason, be it a break, a de-briefing, recovering from an injury…even those who are burnt want a new look, a new identity, whatever it will take, to make it feasible for them to go back and continue their work.  When their loyalty to the Crown is questioned, it hurts.  Weather this hurt, my boy, weather this insult to your loyalty, if that’s how you are taking it, and do your best.  And your best will include putting the young lady and her son out of your mind before you go in tomorrow.  Out of your mind!  Do you hear me?”

     “Yes, sir.”  The two of them stood up and shook hands.

     Out in the street Eric walked without paying much attention to where he was going.  Tonight would be spent in the close confines of a stuffy little hotel room, instead of on the runway at Tempsford smelling jet fuel and hearing the aircraft’s engine.  He wouldn’t fly over the channel and then the French countryside in summer under a mostly full moon.  He wouldn’t land and roll on the ground of France and then make his way to Marie’s house, a house he might never see again.  The relative safety of London seemed oppressive now.  He wasn’t free to go where he wanted to go.

     Eric’s only comfort lay in the certainty that Emile would take this in stride.  Emile wouldn’t fuss.  Emile wouldn’t worry.  If Emile wished to go back without Eric, it could easily be arranged.  Well, thought Eric, now Emile and I can have night out in London. 

 

Saturday, July 17, 1943   7:30a

 

     Emile and Eric sat in the hotel’s sunny dining room eating eggs, bacon, and toast.  Eric smiled as he watched Emile load up his toast with thick slices of butter and heaping knifefulls of strawberry jam.

     “I will give you ten pounds to spend while I am at the meeting if you can take a bite out of that toast without anything falling off.”

     “Watch,” said Emile.  He grinned at Eric and took a small bite off the corner of the triangle of toast.

     “That’s not a bite,” said Eric, “that’s a nibble.  No deal.”

     “Did you say how big the bite had to be?” asked Emile.

     “No, I did not.  I remember you saying that you want to be a barrister.  That’s why you read so much.  That move with the toast was pretty smooth.  I can see you doing quite well in court.”  Eric laid ten pounds down on the table.

     “Thank you.  I don’t mean to be greedy with my food, but in the past three years, I’ve learned that food won’t always be there.  If it’s in front of me to eat, I should do so, because in a few seconds it could be gone for a long time.”

     “Agreed.  I wasn’t thinking you were being greedy.  What is toast for, other than to transport butter and jam into one’s mouth?”

     “If I can go to school for the law, I hope to help people somehow.  Francois is always trying to put one over on someone.  I want to do everything I can not to be like him and to bring people like him to justice.”

     “Yes, Francois is an interesting contradiction.  He does seem to be rotten to the core, yet he generously feeds people, any person, out of that bakery.  I admit, I admire that,” said Eric.

     “I do as well.  Still, for too long I let his generosity with the bakery affect my opinion of other things he does.  It took me a while to learn that I shouldn’t excuse his pandering to the Germans just because he charges low prices in the bakery and gives people free food if they need it.”

     “That’s an important distinction to make, but it gets exhausting to have to keep making it doesn’t it?” asked Eric.

     “I refuse to let Francois tire me out, regardless of what silly stunt he is into.  He can’t vanquish me.”

     Emile’s sudden seriousness and determination had brought a somber tone to what had been a light-hearted morning, in spite of the day ahead.  It was time to change the subject.

     “Now, what will you get up to while I am gone?”

     “I looked at the map we bought last night.  I think I would like to try to see Buckingham Palace and then just roam about a bit.”

     “Don’t feel that you must hurry back.  If I am allowed to return to France, the soonest I can do that will be late tonight.  If they won’t let me go, I’ll send a message to the hotel.  Everyone knows your circumstances.  You will be properly taken care of.”

     Emile looked at Eric with a slight frown.  “Should I be deciding whether I want to go back without you or stay here?”

     “It wouldn’t hurt to ponder all sides.  Today you will not be under pressure to make a decision.  That is sometimes the best time to consider your options.”

     “Good luck,” said Emile.  “You are not a traitor to the Crown, so I don’t see how they can possibly mistake you for one.”

     “What you say makes sense, however, when you’ve had disappointments in life, you can become a person who can only foresee the outcome of a situation being disappointment.  It’s a nasty habit to fall into.  Sometimes I find myself stuck in thinking that things can only be disappointing.”

     “It was a miracle that Jacques and Juliette found your pigeon and brought him to Marie’s.  Then you ended up at Marie’s too.  That’s a miracle.  Have faith.  We will go back together.”

     Because they had been talking, the triangle of toast loaded with butter and jam had stayed on Emile’s plate.  Trying to make Eric smile, Emile rapidly brought it to his mouth and took a huge bite.  Everything cascaded off the toast and landed on the plate.

     Eric laughed.  “Very nice, Emile.  Very nice.”

 

Saturday, July 17, 1943   10a

 

     Butterfield’s assistant walked Eric down a hall and pointed to a door.  “Please knock.  He will tell you to come in,” she said.

     When Eric opened the door after hearing a loud voice bellow, “Come in,” he was surprised to see a thin man of medium height wearing a raggedy, old sweater under an equally raggedy tweed jacket.  The man’s thoughtful, gentle demeanor didn’t match the bellowing Eric had just heard.

     They shook hands.  “Please sit.  I can’t tell you who I am.  You may think of me as Mr. Smith.”

     Eric sat on the sofa opposite Mr. Smith’s desk.

     “I know you’re not a traitor because your mother and I were in the same class when we were six.”

     You’re fucking kidding me, Eric thought to himself.  That’s the way things are decided around here?

     His consternation showed on his face.  Mr. Smith laughed.  “I did know your mum, but still I must discuss what’s going on over there with you.  Your answers about the operation will tell me what I can expect in terms of your loyalty to home and country.  The best double agents can fool me, I’m sure.  I can only listen and do the best I can.  Now tell me, is it true that you are in the act of kidnapping someone’s child to try to smoke out a leak, you’ve got pigeons hanging around waiting for their messages instead of making a beeline for home like any sensible messenger pigeon is known to do, and you’ve managed to enlist three civilians in the great game of espionage, those three civilians being a young woman and two eleven year old boys?  Sounds like a typical operation to me.”  Mr. Smith smiled at Eric.  “Did I get any of that right?”

     Still afraid of saying the wrong thing, Eric said politely, “Yes, sir.”

     Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and glared at Eric.

     “Don’t you ‘Yes, sir’ me.  You don’t know me, I barely know you, but the two of us are here to solve a problem.  You must be frank and forthcoming.  Any sign of reticence when answering my questions will not be taken as a point in your favor.  Again, what is going on over there?”

     Eric found Mr. Smith’s intensity easier to trust than the jocular manner Mr. Smith had displayed in the first few minutes.  Eric could now see that this was a man who cared.  This man might actually provide some help and guidance.  Eric gave a lengthy explanation about his suspicion that Brigitte might be the person leaking details about sabotage operations planned by the resistance, the fact that the British pigeons had been consistent in waiting for their messages, and about how smart and trustworthy Marie, David, and Emile had been thus far.  He concluded with a short summary of the German colonel’s expectations and Butterfield’s and Gibbons hope that the decoy pigeons could be used to fool the Germans in some way.

     Mr. Smith listened.  Then he made some notes.  Then he faced his chair towards the window and stayed lost in thought for at least five minutes.  Eric found this refreshing.  At least this isn’t someone who speaks without thinking, he said to himself.

     Mr. Smith turned and faced Eric.  “I know it’s only three people, but that feels like a lot of people who have plans and hopes for these German decoy pigeons.  Do I have this right: the colonel wants you to send them out with bona fide intelligence about what the Allies are actually planning on doing and Butterfield and Gibbons want you to send the decoy pigeons out with fake intelligence to send the Germans down the wrong path?”

     “Yes.” 

     “I had a fencing coach at school,” Mr. Smith said.  “He always would tell us to ‘kiss it.’  Kiss was an acronym that stood for keep it simple stupid.  I would be inclined to say that to you when it comes to these decoy pigeons.  Think about this.  When they arrive at the home loft, how is anyone to know what is real intelligence and what is fake?   These pigeon messages can only be used for one thing and that one thing must be conjecture, meaning things you’ve heard about operations in their planning stages.  Understood?”

     “Yes I do sir.  The colonel asked me to dig up details about plans for the invasion of the continent.  The key thing is, he won’t buy what’s in the messages unless he knows I am flying back to London every month.”

     “I had this idea before you came in and now I think it may work, given your ability to understand this convoluted mess with pigeons who are real and pigeons who are decoys.  I am going to speak with other people who I believe I can find a way to provide you with intelligence that will mislead the Germans about where the landings will take place.”

     Tonight you go back with the boy.  Every third night of the moon period go to a pick up zone for your transport to London.  If the weather is not suitable you will hear so on the BBC.  Be ready to go out the next night  I will make you a calendar and a rotation for the pick-up zones.  Memorize it and then burn it.”

     Even though he should have waited for Mr. Smith to signal the end of the meeting, Eric stood up.  He had spent enough time in offices and conference rooms over the past two days.  Fortunately, Mr. Smith was not one to stand on ceremony.

     “Glad to see you are enthusiastic to get after it.  Good luck.  There’s a lot to be done before we win this war, but with men like you in country, it’s just a matter of time before we prevail.

     They shook hands, each man being keenly and sadly aware of how time would play a part in determining the number of people who would die before the war ended.

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   2:10a

 

     As the Dakota made its way across the French countryside, something happened which Eric had not anticipated.  Perhaps because this was the route he and Peter had taken in April, he began to have flashbacks of the sickening experience of the branch stabbing its way between his chest and the strap holding his pigeon container.  Before he could stop it, his mind relived the pigeon container being ripped off its strap, hurtling through the air, and landing with horrifying force on the ground.  Even though Eric had known his pigeon for only a few hours, Blue, his pigeon, already represented home and communication and survival and hope.  Eric remembered how he had silently screamed, “No, no God, no” as the pigeon container tore away from him.  Even amidst the vibration of the plane he was on, Eric’s body shook all over again with the vibration of his pigeon container hitting the ground.

     “I think we’re almost there,” said Emile.  “How soon will we see the torches?”

     Thankful that Emile had stopped him from thinking, Eric said, “The pilot will circle.  If everything is in order, you will see the torches then.  Sometimes they light the torches if they hear the plane in the distance.  It all depends.”

     “I can’t wait to get back,” said Emile.

     “Me as well,” said Eric.  He had a fleeting wish that Blue might somehow be coming to France soon.  A bond had been formed.  It seemed that something more should come of it.

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   2:20a

 

     Blue and Linda sat, awake, a few inches apart in Blue’s cubby.  Shortly after they had arrived at the loft, Frank had said to them, “I know I should separate you, so that you don’t end up with eggs, but after what you’ve been through, I just don’t have the heart.”

     “What do you want to do,” Linda asked Blue, “Be cooped up in a breeding loft in the African desert or take a chance again with snipers and hawks and the channel, if we go back to Argentan?”

     That was the choice Hollingswood had put to Frank earlier that day.  “Do you have a plan for what these two pigeons will do next?  They have proven themselves as fliers and would make great breeding stock in any breeding loft in North Africa.  Thousands of pigeons will be needed for the invasion of Italy.  Will you send them with the next batch for Africa or will you be holding them here for whatever comes up next?”

     “I don’t usually send pigeons back on the same route.  Yet given the complications in Argentan, maybe it would be good to have a couple of pigeons involved who understand they must wait to be given a message before they fly back.”

     “I would hazard a guess that every pigeon in this loft knows what to do should they be sent to Argentan.  The two hens came back with messages.  So did Richard and Scarlet.  Still, something seems right about sending Linda and Blue over there again.  Can’t tell you why.  It just seems right.”

     “I will be getting the next order for breeders to go to Bizerte tomorrow.  That order may decide for me where Blue and Linda end up,” said Frank.

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   7a

 

     Marie stood in the kitchen making breakfast.  Eric was upstairs.  David and Emile were taking the water dishes out of the pigeon loft and cleaning up any overnight poops.  In the distance she heard a motorbike turn off the road and onto the driveway. 

     Marie went to the front door.  The colonel came into view on the motorbike, slowing to a snail’s pace.  He parked about thirty yards from the house and walked towards the porch.

     Marie went out onto the porch as the colonel reached the top of the steps.  “Good morning, Madame.  I’m here about the British agent you’ve been harboring.”

     When Marie agreed with Marceau that she would let agents and pigeons stay on her property, she told herself, do it with joy.  You cannot live in fear.  Feel proud of what you are doing every day and should that day come when you are caught, know that it is happening because you did something for France.  Know that you are being caught because you dared to stand against the Nazis.  Feel brave and joyful on that day.

     Now it was that day and all Marie could see was David being led away by someone in a Nazi or a German army uniform.  The thought of it sent her into a dizzying spiral of fear.  Stop it, stop it, you said you would be brave on this day and feel proud.  But she didn’t.  All she felt was the icy grasp of terror squeezing her whole body as over and over again the image of David being touched and pulled away from her by a uniformed German raced through her mind.

     Little David, always gentle and kind but always displaying that steely determination and grace which made his diminutive size seem incongruous.  David was someone to be reckoned with, everyone could sense that about him, even though he was small and his gentleness was just as apparent as his strength and determination.  They can’t touch him, she screamed inside.  They can’t take him away, she screamed hysterically, as she stood there, in front of the colonel, falling, falling in a horrifying spiral of fear.

     The memory of the day David’s grandmother, Paul’s mother, had given David his dove sweater stopped her fall.

     They had gone to visit her on Sunday, as usual.  And, as usual, she and David sat on the porch and threw corn, millet, and peas out on the grass for the collar neck doves.  David loved the doves as much as his grandmother did, so several times a week, since he had turned four in 1936 and until his grandmother died in 1938, Marie took him to the house and he sat with his grandmother while they visited with the doves.

     On that Sunday in the summer of 1938, once all of the doves were eating, Paul’s mother said, “David, I’ve made something for you.”  She pulled the sweater out of her bag on the table.  It was just like her dove sweater, knitted with grey merino wool, except that hers was a cardigan and David’s was a pullover.  Both sweaters had a thin line of black wool knitted into their neckbands.

     Marie had never seen David look happier.  “Thank you, Grandmother.  May I put it on?”

     “Please do.  I made it a bit big, hoping it will fit you for a few years.”

     David took off the sweater he had on and put his head through the dove sweater.

     “Now I want you to take some of the food mix out to those doves perched on the wood fence at the edge of the yard.  Scatter the food for them and when you return, tell these doves that they don’t have to fly off.  They can keep on eating.  I want to see if they will listen to you.”

     Marie watched through the open window onto the porch as David scattered the food mix.  When he was twenty feet away from the doves near the porch he said in a quiet voice, “Doves, you can keep on eating.  I’m going around to the side of the porch.  You can stay where you are.”

     A few doves looked up for a second and then went on eating while the rest never stopped eating.

     “See, David, they know they can trust you.  They listened to you.”

     The colonel’s deep voice jolted Marie out of her memory.  “Madame, did you hear what I said?  Are you listening?  I’m Stefan Jacobsen, British Secret Service.”

     Marie couldn’t think of anything to do but ignore this claim.  “Would you care to come in for some breakfast?”

     “I will come in because we must talk, however, you should save the food for your family.  We have plenty at headquarters.

     Once in the kitchen they heard Eric coming down the stairs.  He had heard the conversation through the open window upstairs.

     The colonel stuck out his hand as Eric entered the kitchen.  “Stefan Jacobsen, British Intelligence.”

     Eric raised his eyebrows.  “Show me something.”

     “I’m in the field.  I have nothing to show.  You should know that.  What I can tell you is that the pilot who crashed made it home alive partly because I made the search less effective.  On the day f the crash I told my men to search every home and farm in Argentan in one day, thus limiting the thoroughness of each search.  The day after, I ordered them to expand the search east and north.  No one was to go west or south.  I hoped that would give him time to be on his way to Lyons or Paris.  Through channels, I heard he flew transport out of Lyons a week later.  His name is Bunny Rymer.”

     Eric nodded.  “Crack on then. What are you doing here?”

     “Brigitte is your leak.  She confessed to me on the sixteenth.  She sleeps with Marceau.  He tells her during their pillow talk about what the resistance is planning.  Then she tells Francois, so he can tell us, us meaning the Germans.  Brigitte is afraid Germany will win. She wants to stay on the Germans’ good side. 

     I’m not going to be specific about what happened to the previous colonel.  He had to be gone so that one of our agents could take his place.  Once I was in and had the trust of the Germans around me, my task was to find someone to pressure to give us information about the resistance.  Francois seemed the obvious choice because bakeries and cafes are so often gathering places.  He knows everyone and everyone trusts him because he gives free food to anyone who needs it.  The Prime Minister doesn’t want the resistance to become too unified or too organized.  If it did, Britain would be less able to control what happens in France after the war.  The Americans are onboard with that too.  My job has been to prevent anything from getting organized here.”

     “You motherfucking son of a fucking bitch,” said Eric.

     “That’s exactly right.  That’s what I am and I can’t do it anymore.  I’m out as soon as I can get out and tonight, so are you.”

     “Out?  What do you mean ‘out’?  I still have work to do with the pigeons.  They are part of a deception plan I am coordinating with London. And you probably know the Colonel Jacobsen at Fort Driant.  He wants me to use German decoy pigeons to send him intelligence.  That puts me in the perfect spot to deceive him as well.  I’m not going anywhere.”

     The colonel laughed and shook his head.  “Jacobsen is renowned for saying he will do something and then not doing it.  Or he says he won’t do something and then he does it.  He delights in fooling people and then torturing them in some of the worst ways I’ve ever heard of.”

     “He stopped one of this guards from raping me.”

     “He abhors homosexuals.  He didn’t do you any favors.  In one moment he could have himself and you believing that yes, he does want intelligence from those decoy pigeons; I don’t even really understand what a decoy pigeon is, but never mind, anyway, he thinks he wants it, he tells you he wants it, and then totally on a whim, he will decide you must die.  And I ‘m one hundred percent sure that if he decides your time is up, that Emile, David, and Marie will be taken as well.”

     “What makes you such an expert on him?” asked Eric.

     “He’s my half-brother.”

     “Incredible.   Now what about the pigeon scheme for London?  You can’t expect me to abandon my post without orders, can you?  Do you?”

     “Are you dealing with Butterfield and Gibbons?”

     “Yes.  How do you know them?”

     “I trained for MI6 just like you trained for the Firm.  You get to know who’s who.  I rather think, that those two have been drinking too much with Millan, that’s why they are pinning their hopes on pigeons changing the course of the war.”

     “Millan?  I don’t know him.”

     “He’s the pigeon man at MI14, the branch of British Intelligence which deals with German espionage and most espionage which uses pigeons.  MI14 acquires pigeons, trains them, distributes them and on and on.  Millan adores pigeons.  Don’t get me wrong, the adoration is justified, but to expect you to be juggling two sets of pigeons from two different countries according to some convoluted instructions from your boss and an enemy who might decide to off you any second, well, I just can’t let a good man like you get bogged down in that sort of shit.  It’s ridiculous.”

     “You are taking it upon yourself to go against two of the top men in British Intelligence, Butterfield and Gibbons.”

     “It’s been a long war and it’s nowhere close to over, although there’s a bunch of people who have been counting their chickens before they’ve hatched merely because the Americans came in.  Just because the Americans are in doesn’t mean a whole lot more people aren’t going to need to die.”

     “Well said.”

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   3:40p  

 

     “What kind of plane will pick us up?” asked Emile.

     “A Hudson,” replied Eric.

     Emile looked disappointed.  We always hear about Lysanders picking up people.  I’ve always wanted to see one.”

     “That’s because in 1942 Lysanders were the only planes used for pick ups.  The RAF had to add Hudsons in 1943 to accommodate the larger and larger number of people who needed to be picked up at one time.  Lysanders still do quite a lot of pickups, but the RAF uses Hudsons too now.”  Eric wished he could bring himself to promise Emile a flight in a Lysander once they returned to England, however, many hours remained until they might all be safely on British soil.  He just couldn’t hold that out as a possibility to Emile.

     In the morning, after Emile and David had come in for breakfast and seen the colonel, he had relented and sat down with everyone for breakfast, although he would only accept coffee.  “These are growing boys.  They need their food.  It’s my day off from headquarters.  I can go home after this and get something together for myself.”

     As everyone ate, the colonel explained how he came to work for British Intelligence.  “After my mother died from pneumonia when I was a baby, my father married again and my brother Wilhelm was born.  As soon as Hitler appeared on the political scene, my parents instantly disliked him.  My father began lobbying for a transfer to London so that we could get out of Germany.  I was twenty-four when the three of us left in 1934. 

     Wilhelm stayed.  He had joined the Nazi party and was barely on speaking terms with our parents.  He and I saw each other fairly frequently before I left.  We would go out to drink and hear music or see some sort of sporting event.  We were just brothers to each other and didn’t let politics get between us.  After my parents and I left, he and I drifted apart.  We occasionally exchanged brief letters.  We sensed that now politics did divide us and neither of us wanted to be the one to make a formal break. 

     From the day he was born Wilhelm was always dishonest and loved to fool people.  It seemed as if he just couldn’t help himself.  Tricking people seemed to make life worth living for him.  When he was six he would steal flowers from the graves in the cemetery and bring them home to our mother, saying that he had worked to make the money to buy them.  One day she ran into someone he had said he was working for and she found out he had been lying about the flowers for months.  It broke her heart.  I could tell he didn’t care. 

     When the Germans invaded Poland, my parents offered their services to the British government because they were bilingual.  They came over to my flat that night and told me it might be the last time I saw them.  They gave me a name and an address and told me that if I wanted to help I should go see the name on the paper.  The next day, I did.  About two weeks later my training started.”

     “What happened to your parents?” asked Eric.

     “I don’t know.  Sometimes cryptic remarks were made to me that led me to believe they are in Berlin posing as diplomats.  I rather guess they are gathering intelligence and communicating it to London somehow.  They can travel to and fro, so maybe they are couriers too.  I’m not sure.  When the bombings of Germany started, I almost had a nervous breakdown.  I couldn’t manage the thought of them getting killed by a bomb.”  The colonel held back tears and blew his nose.  “I hate this war.”

     Eric, Emile, David, and Marie had spent most of the day carrying things into the woods and burying them.  The brown dove knew something was up.  She flew back and forth with Emile and anytime he was inside, she perched on the windowsill in that room.  Finally, by late afternoon, everything was buried and before walking back to the house, everyone collapsed on the ground in the cool of the woods.

     Eric decided to explain what would happen that night.  “We will need to put out torches to mark the landing zone for the pilot.  When we go back to the house I will show you how to do it.  If something happens to me, then you can still put out the torches, the landing can take place and you will be up in the air in no time.”

     “What might happen to you?” asked David.

     “You never know.  It’s always good to have a back up plan.  The most important thing is that all of us need to be next to the far torch, outside of the landing area.  If the pilot sees anyone roaming around in another area, he is allowed to shoot to kill.”

     David and Emile nodded soberly, their eyes wide, as the seriousness and danger of the pick up became clear to them.

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   4:45p

 

     Marceau and the colonel sat opposite each other in the colonel’s office.

     “Why did you tell her about your work with the resistance?”

     “I thought she loved me.  She complained constantly about her husband.  She showed me the bruises on her legs where he would hit her.  She said he always told her that he hit her on her legs because then no one could see the bruises.  I thought if I shared the thing that is most important to me, my work with the resistance, then she would feel special.  I thought she would take that as proof of my love for her.  I’m not sure why, but I had a feeling I shouldn’t tell her about the drops.  To begin with I only told her about the planned bombings or disabling of transportation and communication systems because that seemed sexier and more exciting.  Then that feeling started.  Maybe I just wanted to keep part of what I was doing entirely for myself.  I feel proud of what I did.”

     “Well, man to man, I want to tell you how sorry I am.  You are free to go,” said the colonel.

     “If you are gong to have me shot, do it now.  I’d rather that than wondering all the time when I will feel a knife or a bullet in my back, or wondering all the time who might be about to poison me.”

     “I can’t explain.  You must trust me.  You are a free man.  And may I have your word that the things we spoke of today will never be spoken of again by you to anyone?”

     “Yes, of course.  But for the record, I don’t trust you.  I don’t believe you.  Vive la France and death to all Nazi scum and their collaborators.”

     Both men stood.  The colonel offered his hand to Marceau.  Marceau shook his head.  Then he paused.  Hearing the words “you are free to go,” instead of being led away in handcuffs, had dissolved some of his fear.  Now he could sense that the colonel was sincere.  Marceau slowly extended his hand to the colonel.  They shook hands,

     “Maybe after the war I can invite you to my home for some French wine and some of our fine French cheese.”

     “I would like that very much,” said the colonel.  “You can count on a ‘yes’ to that invitation.”

 

Sunday, July 18, 1943   10:30p

 

     With nothing to carry, David had told Eric it would be a two-hour walk to the drop zone.  “Let’s allow three hours, then, since we will all be carrying quite a bit more than nothing.  Does that sound right to you?” asked Eric.

     David nodded.  Everyone had packed a rucksack.  The pigeons and the two young rabbits had been packed into their carrier, with cut up sheets and clothing wedged in so that nobody had much room to move.

     “I know they’re uncomfortable,” said Eric, “But if they are able to move around should we experience any difficulties they could get really hurt.”

     “Al and Beatrix are pretty stoical,” said Marie.  “They will probably sleep through everything.  Hopefully the rabbits will be quick learners and follow the pigeons’ example.”

     After lying in bed trying to sleep, at 9:30 everyone was up.  By 10:30 Marie had locked the front door and they set off down the driveway.

     “Are you alright?” said David to Emile.

     “I know it’s for the best but it is harder than I expected to leave the brown dove.  Leaving her is almost harder than leaving everyone else I know here.”

     “She’s smart.  She understands you need to go.  She spent as much time with you as she possibly could, flying back and forth while we were burying everything.  She did that to show you she loves you, even if you are leaving.”

     “I hope so,” said Emile.

     Everyone turned off the driveway and headed down the trail through the woods.  Unbeknownst to Eric, he was walking the trail which Jacques and Juliette had walked when they brought Blue to the house in April.

     David could tell by Emile’s plodding steps that his heart was with the brown dove, even though Emile had every reason to be excited about all of the possibilities which awaited in England.  Quiet from here to the drop zone was mandatory.  Again and again, David asked himself, what can I do to cheer him up?

     Then, above the sound of leaves being crushed, twigs breaking, and the thud of feet hitting the ground, the piccolo-like sounds of dove cartilage squeaked behind them.  The brown dove flew past everyone and alighted on a branch a few yards ahead of David, who was leading the group.  He turned and smiled at Emile.  “I told you she loves you.  She will come all the way with us.  You watch,” he whispered.

     The presence of the brown dove brought lightness to the walk, taking away the heavy torpor of fear that everyone had been trying to ignore.  Sometimes light from the moon made it’s way through the canopy of leaves and reflected off the white feathers in her tail.  Every time she landed on a branch several yards ahead of David, she bobbed her tail and nodded her head, seeming to say, “I’m having fun.  You should too.”  A rhythm took over.  The brown dove flew approximately the same distance each time and after a few minutes everyone had adjusted their walking to her rhythm.

     ‘Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,’ sings out your cartilage, while I take my steps, one, two, three, four, five.  And while you wait, beautiful bird, I catch up to you, one, two, three, four, five.  And now you fly, brown dove, while I take my five steps.  Thank you for making this walk so much easier, little brown dove,” Marie whispered.

     Eric thought he heard Marie say something.  “What did you say?” he said in a low voice.

     “She’s carrying us along,” Marie replied.  Eric nodded, amazed, but bewildered, troubled too, asking himself, what will happen when the plane lands?

 

Monday, July 19, 1943   1:40a

 

     As the plane taxied towards them, Eric saw an uncanny resemblance between his friend Bunny and this pilot.  “Bunny?” shouted Eric as the aircraft came to a stop.  The pilot gave a thumb up and went back to open the door.

     “Good God man, they’ve still got you ferrying people back and forth?  Last I heard you were in the woods a few miles from here.”

     “That would have been me, yes.  How many?”

     “Three, plus me, two rabbits, two pigeons.”

     “Well, from now on call me Noah.  Let’s get ‘em on,” laughed Bunny.

     Everybody stood at the base of the steps leading into the Dakota, looking at the brown dove perched on the handrail for the steps.

     “She can’t fly with us if she’s not in the carrier,” said Marie.  “It’s not safe for her to be out in the aircraft.”

     “Emile,” said David, “Just open the door of the carrier.  She likes you.  Maybe she will fly in by herself.”

     “We don’t want to go without you, brown dove,” said Emile.  He opened the door to the carrier.  Beatrix and Al turned their heads sleepily, looked at the opening, and went back to dozing.

     The brown dove bent her neck down, craning to get a better look at the opening.  She turned her head from side to side.  Emile put his hand on the open door, to stabilize it in case she flew and tried to land on it before going through the door.

     That did it.  The brown dove quickly flapped over, perched on top of the door, looked inside the carrier, and then with a combination hop and swoop, brought herself into the carrier and stood in front of Al and Beatrix.

     Momentum for getting into the plane had ground to a halt.  Everyone stood in stunned silence. Eric hated to ruin the moment but they had to go. “Right.  Let’s all of us get in,” he said.  “Emile, close the door to the carrier.  You go up first, David, then you, Emile, and then you, Marie.”

     As usual, David moved with unbelievable speed up the steps and into the Dakota.  How does he do that, wondered Eric for something like the hundredth time.  He barely moves his legs and suddenly he is yards away.  How does he do it?   

     Emile followed, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. Being tall for his age, he narrowly missed hitting his head on the top of the doorframe.  Marie, although weighed down with a heavy rucksack, nimbly stepped up and gracefully went into the plane.

     Eric jogged around the drop zone, picked up the three torches, jogged back to the plane, and then turning to step up the stairs, he heard a sound which didn’t fit with the slight breeze rustling the leaves and the nocturnal insects doing their nighttime activities.  It was a voice, shouting something.  Eric’s heart sank.  Not a patrol.  Please God, no, not a patrol.  Not this time.  He almost bounded up the steps so that they could fly out but something prompted him to look towards the front of the plane.  In the lights he saw the chubby outline of Francois trying to run with a huge suitcase.  Isabelle loped along easily next to him, holding a bag she had slung across her chest in place, just above her hip.

     A rush of thoughts bombarded each other in Eric’s mind.  First came terror, for Emile.  What if Francois tried to lay claim to him?  That is not happening, said Eric to himself.  Francois is not taking Emile.  Then, a mix of disgust for Francois and the conflicting feeling of sympathy for what would happen to him if he stayed in France.  Both sides have reason to shoot him.  Does Francois deserve to die?  I can’t decide that. 

     What he could decide and did, was that he didn’t want anyone, on either side, to mete out what they thought was justice for Francois.  People were being tortured and shot in rapid fashion all the time.  It was rare for those with the power of life or death over the person they had in front of them to stop and consider that this was a life they held in their hands.  Killing had become normal, something that regular people, those who would never choose to kill, had been trained and required to do, not just in this war, but in the Great War too.  Killing a living thing, whether it was a man, woman, child, soldier, civilian, bird, or animal was no longer an unusual, it was an everyday thing, a thing which could happen thousands of times over in a matter of hours or days.

  Eric could visualize what would happen to Francois.  The people who hated the Nazis would kill him instantly.  They wouldn’t see him as someone who deserved a fair trial.  Tragically and ironically, they would act on the same impulses that drove the Nazis and fueled the perpetuation of the Reich: egomania, hate, and ignorance.

     Then there would be those who would kill Francois because of months and years of bad experiences during the war.  “I suffered and now it’s my chance to make someone else suffer,” would be what those people would say to themselves and to each other.  They would feel qualified to judge and entitled to take revenge because of the decadent and random cruelty they had witnessed or experienced themselves.  I’m not giving anyone the pleasure or the satisfaction of taking out his or her anger on Francois, even though Francois is an ethically vacant, morally bankrupt individual.  I’m not leaving him here.

     Eric beckoned to Francois and Isabelle and then he stepped up so that Bunny could see him and put two fingers in the air.  Bunny nodded and settled back in his seat.  He would wait.

     Isabella and Francois were moving forward at an alarmingly slow pace.  A patrol could pop out of the woods at any second and they would all be arrested.  Eric waved them forward again.  They stopped running.  Oh God, what now, thought Eric.  They need to hurry.

     Isabella grabbed the suitcase and took off at a fast clip, holding it well away from her body.  Now Francois could increase his speed.  In under a minute they were within ten feet of the aircraft.  “Don’t explain!  Just get in!” said Eric.  They did.  Five minutes later the Dakota was flying, gaining altitude, and heading west.

 

Monday, July 19, 1943   2:10a

 

     After the excitement of feeling the plane lift off the ground and the sensation of being airborne had become familiar, the unexpected presence of Francois became a problem.  Emile looked increasingly nervous, while David and Marie seemed to be bristling, preparing for a confrontation during which they would protect Emile.  Francois spoke first.

     “There’s something in my suitcase I want to show you, Emile.”

     “I’ll bring the suitcase over to you,” said Eric.  “If things get bumpy, I’ve had more practice than you at not losing my footing.”

     Eric slid the suitcase along the floor until it was in front of Francois.  Looking around at everyone as if making some sort of final decision, Francois then took out a ring of keys and unlocked the suitcase about four inches revealing that it was full of American money.

     “What do I do with this when we land?  I want to give half to Emile and keep the other half for myself and Isabella.  She wants to go to school.  I know Emile wants to study law and become a barrister.  There’s enough here for him to do that.  Do I need to worry about this money being confiscated when we land?”

     “I can’t make any promises, but I doubt it,” answered Eric.

     “It’s none of my business, still, may I ask, how did you get American money?” asked Marie.

     “Marceau.  He put me on to a friend of his who trades in currency.  He told me the best thing I could do with my earnings from the bakery was to convert them to dollars.  That would be the best way to make sure my money had value.  He also very much wanted Brigitte to be finically secure.  Marceau has her money in a place where supposedly the Germans can’t get it.  I don’t know where it is.”

     “Did you know they were having an affair?” said Marie.

     “Yes, but what can one do?  Stopping love is like trying to stop a freight train.  The best thing I could do was get out of the way.  When it first started it was painful.  Then I decided to just submit to it and let things take their course.  It might not seem like it, yet, yet….”  Francois began to cry.  “It’s been very hard.  I loved her so much.  I understand now that she never loved me.  She didn’t know what she wanted after Emile’s father was killed.  I was there, so she took me.”

     Everyone was taken aback by this openness from Francois.  David, Emile, and Marie thought of Francois as a peculiar mix of three very different people: an abusive monster because of the way he had beaten Emile and tried every second of every day to make Emile feel as if he was stupid and worthless, a Nazi collaborator, and as a stunningly bighearted and generous owner of a bakery who always allowed people who needed free food to have it.

     Isabella moved closer to Francois and put her handkerchief in his hand.  Francois blew his nose.  Silence took over until Eric asked the question he couldn’t think of an answer for.

     “How did you know about this pick-up?”

     “The colonel.  He stopped a the house and told us we should get out.”

     Eric didn’t need to ask anything more.  He nodded, but inside he was smiling broadly and thinking, Jacobsen is brilliant.  What’s the solution to the Francois problem?  Juts remove him from the country.  There’s no bombing of the bakery, no conflict between people in the town if members of the resistance kidnap him or set off their bombs in the bakery.  It’s genius, a beautifully simple plan. 

     Why had no one else thought of it?  Planes were constantly taking good people out of France.  Why not remove some of the rotten apples under some sort of pretext of safety or something?  To Eric, the fact that no one else had thought of flying Francois out delineated clearly that everyone was in a rut, the rut of choosing a violent fix for problems.  Assassinations, bombings, kidnappings, capture and torture seemed to be the way almost everybody’s mind was working. 

     Then, Eric realized, the colonel must have bet that I would let Francois on the plane.  Eric chuckled.  Another brilliant judgment call by that chap.

     “Does Brigitte know?”

     “I don’t think so,” said Francois.  “She wasn’t home, like she’s usually not home in the evening, when he came, thank god.”

     Even better, thought Eric.  Brigitte will be so scared that something horrible happened to Francois at the hands of the resistance or the Germans, she is bound to keep it on the straight and narrow.  Run the bakery, keep people from going hungry, and mind her own business, that’s what she’s going to do, guaranteed.  I hope I cross paths with the colonel somehow, someday so we can have a good laugh about all of this.

     “Can you protect me?” asked Francois.

     “I doubt it.  You see, people in London know you are a collaborator because of a pigeon message.”

     “A pigeon message?” said Francois, his mind racing with fear that one of the British pigeons had made it back to England with a message even though the decoy pigeon plan had been in place.

      “Yes.  You must have heard about the pigeons who are dropped by little parachutes?’

     “Of course. Everybody has.”

     “One of them came back in the summer of 1942 with a message saying the baker in Argentan is a collaborator.  That prompted an investigation into you.”

     “Pigeons,’ said Francois, scowling.

     “What will happen to us?” asked Isabella.

     “It’s hard to say but most likely you will be kept in a camp, maybe an old estate, or maybe an inn, until the end of the war.  They will want to watch and make sure you aren’t continuing to get intelligence to the Germans.”

     Isabella looked as if she might cry.  “That is absolutely not happening,” said Francois.  “I promised I would take care of her and pay for her to go to university.  I want a second chance at being a father.  I want a chance to do a better job than I did with Emile.  I must have that chance, I must.”  Francois started to sob again.  “I’m sorry I hurt you Emile, truly I am.  I was jealous.  Your mother was always going to love you more than she could ever love me.”

     Suddenly Eric’s perspective on Francois and Isabella changed.  Why should Isabella waste away her young years in a camp because Francois hadn’t been able to stand up to the Nazis?  Why should punishing Francois take precedence over his desire to do something loving and kind?  And wouldn’t it be absurd to add to the millions of miserable people in the world by putting these two in a camp?

     “You probably have enough money to bribe the necessary people.  It would be a shame for Isabella to be stuck in a camp, you’re right.”

     “The Germans pressured me to give them information on who came and went in the bakery and what I overheard, who sat with who, who moved with who, and so forth.  I did it because I was afraid for my life and for the bakery.  I didn’t want to lose the bakery.  That’s what they threatened me with.  They said they would take the bakery.”

    “Explain that during your debriefing and explain the commitment you’ve made to Isabella.”

     Francois nodded and seemed to calm down a bit.  Eric didn’t have the heart to tell Francois that he had told the people who would decide Francois’s fate that Francois had cooked up the pigeon scheme.  They knew Francois had deliberately tried to sabotage communications between a British agent and London.  How could he talk his way out of that?  Could he bribe them enough to let him go free?

     “What do you think will happen to Francois?” Beatrix asked Al.  The two pigeons had woken up and listened with interest to the conversation.  The brown dove stayed sound asleep.

     “He will bribe a few people and be on his way. And hopefully, someone will bribe the right person to keep us from being sent to quarantine.  I can’t wait to get free in a country where I don’t have to worry about being shot by overzealous German authorities.”

     “I hadn’t thought about that,” said Beatrix.  “I’ve become accustomed to being wary and watchful all the time.  Now that you bring it up, I realize I’m completely exhausted.”

     “I’m fed up, that’s what I am,” said Al.  “But I know as soon as we get one good flight in, all of that will just fall away.”

     “You’re making me too excited about getting there and we still have quite a ways to go.  Let’s agree to not talk about being at Eric’s cottage until are actually there.”

     “Of course, my beautiful Beatrix,” said Al.  “Of course.”

    

Monday, July 19, 1943   8:40a

 

     Eric watched as Marie, Emile, David, the rabbits, and the birds filled the car that would take them to his deceased mother’s cottage.  Gosh, they look so awfully happy, he thought.  I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that caused so many people to feel that happy.  Even though he was exhausted, Eric suddenly felt elated.  This is what I want.  I want this feeling over and over again, the feeling of knowing I did something to make someone ecstatically happy.  Can I do that as an agent?  Probably not.  Worry about that later.

     Marie waved and smiled.  “Come soon.  Come as soon as you can, will you?”

     “When my debriefing is done, I’ll be on my way.  Best of luck with the drive.  You will adore Mrs. Hastings.”

     The car ambled forward, the driver seemingly taking his time to allow for more waving and “come soons” to Eric.

     After stepping off the Lysander, everyone had been taken to a room with several tables.  Bags had been dumped out.  When they saw the contents of Francois’s suitcase, one of the two officers said, “Is that real?  I’ve never seen that much American money.”

     “Yes,” said Francois.  “Half of it goes to my son here, Emile.  With great ceremony he counted out half.

     “May we have a small bag?  Might you have one around?” asked Marie.

     The other officer picked out a dirty, old small duffle from some shelves of miscellaneous kit.

     “That should do you.”

     “Are we finished?” asked Eric.

     “Yes,” said the first officer, “but the rabbits and the birds must be quarantined here for two weeks.”

     David went from being obedient to displaying his determined stance and demeanor.

     “They will all be in a closed building by themselves.  Can’t we quarantine them ourselves?  They won’t be among any other animals.”

     The officer shook his head.  Emile and David looked at each other and then in unison, each pulled out a packet of hundreds and presented one to each officer.

     The officers smiled and clapped David and Emile on their backs.  “What we’ve got here is two young men who know how to get things done,” said the first officer.  “Now get out of here.  Go ahead,” said the other officer, motioning towards the door.

     David picked up the carrier and was out of the room in a couple of seconds.

     “That boy is fast,” said one of the officers.  “I don’t think I even saw him take a step.”

     Eric took everyone to the dining hall for breakfast and went to phone Mrs. Hastings, his mother’s best friend who cleaned the cottage from time to time.

     “Lovely, it’s just lovely, that you’ve brought them here.  It’s such a beautiful spot.  They deserve a safe, quiet place after what they’ve been through, I imagine.  When Max is due home from the mine, I’ll stop over and see if he wants to cut a door in that little shed for the pigeons.”

     Max was Mrs. Hastings son.  During the call with Mrs. Hastings, Eric had learned that Max had flown birds before the war.  Since 1941 Max had been breeding and training pigeons which he contributed to the National Pigeon Service.

     “Thank you.  Everyone will be anxious for the birds to have an open loft like what they had n France.”

     “When do you expect them to be here?  I’m overdue on dusting and airing out the place.”

     “I’m not sure exactly,” said Eric.  “Why don’t we guess they pull up at around eleven.  But please, Mrs. Hastings, don’t feel you must do everything.  When you meet Marie, you’ll find that she would feel badly if you did all of the work.  I know she would be more at ease if you let her help.”

     “Yes, and since she’s the new lady of the house, she will arrange things the best way for her and the boys.  When do you get free?”

     “I sense there’s another debriefing in store.  Hopefully that won’t take more than two hours.”

     “Right then.  I’ll hope to see you tomorrow, most likely.”

     “Thank you, Mrs. Hastings, and thank you for watching the place while I was gone.  I was always glad to know it would be there if I made it back.”

     As the car with Marie, Emile, and David in it disappeared down the driveway, the man standing next to Eric said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.  I’m Mark Tuck.”

     “I’m gong by Eric, still, until, I’m off.”

     A car pulled up and a few seconds later Francois and Isabella came out of the building.

     “How did you make out?’ Eric asked, as Francois and Isabella breezed past.

     Francois held up one hand rubbing his thumb and first two fingers together to indicate that money had changed hands.   “We’re off to London,” Francois answered as he reached the car.  Isabella called out, “Thank you Eric.”  She blew him a kiss and stepped into the car.  Francois tried to follow but Isabella said something to him.

     Francois turned, walked back to Eric, and tried to give him a wad of American hundreds.  “I don’t want your money,” said Eric.

     Francois nodded and to Eric’s surprise, he looked sad and ashamed.

     Francois stuffed the money into his jacket and held out his hand.  “You saved my life.  Thank you.”

     They shook hands.  “Just do for Isabella what you promised,” said Eric.

     “I will,” said Francois.  He walked to the car, got in, and the car drove off.

      “It’s not exactly ‘off to London’ for him.  He can stay in England if he works as a translator and reports to someone’s office every week.  If anyone in France tries to extradite him, they probably can.  My guess is they go to another country, soon, which doesn’t allow extradition.   Anyway, I was told to tell you to rack out for a while.  Gibbons and Butterfield won’t be here until noon.  They will debrief you.”

     “Gibbons and Butterfield?  I expected to meet with them in London in a few days.  Agents are typically debriefed after they get off the plane.  I did a short one, therefore I sensed I might have to do another bit, but why am I waiting for them?  Why are they coming here?”

     “The perception is that you abandoned post.”

     “Thanks for the heads up,” said Eric.

     “Since you haven’t slept since Saturday night, they thought you might  sleep this morning and then be better able to hold an intelligent conversation about the whole thing.”

     “God, I hope so.  Well, may I have some breakfast before knocking off?”

     “Yes, and then I will take you to your billet where you can sleep until someone calls for you,” said Mark.

 

Monday, July 19, 1943   1p

 

     After a car picked Eric up at he cottage where pilots who flew out of Tempsford were billeted, it was decided that everyone should eat lunch, before starting the debriefing.  Eric felt a flash of white hot impatience.  Is this process ever going to be over?  Why did no one seem to understand that he just wanted to get out of the pressure cooker of being an agent and be on his way to his mother’s cottage?

     “Why did you abandon your post, Eric?  We were both surprised by that,” asked Gibbons.

     “Colonel Jacobsen is MI6 and…”

     Butterfield began shouting hysterically, “MI6!  Those fucking bastards!  Why do they have to control everything?  Why do they have to stick their noses into every bloody thing anyone who isn’t them tries to do?  We don’t need to be babysat.  We could have run that operation just fine without them.  More importantly, why didn’t they say that you being there was redundant?  If they were trying to find the leak in the resistance, why did they let you risk your life working undercover trying to find out the same thing?  They’re selfish.  They’re fucking selfish.  That’s what they are.  Always trying to get the glory for themselves and never caring what the cost of that might be to anyone else.  Fucking bastards.”

     “You could have been captured and tortured, then executed,” continued Gibbons, “for no good reason, while you were doing a job someone else was already doing.  They deserve to rot in hell.”

     “That is how Jacobsen felt.  He didn’t want me to be in the field anymore, for that reason.  He felt really lousy about it.”  Having gotten only four words out so far, Eric recounted the entire conversation with the colonel, emphasizing that Colonel Wilhelm Jacobsen, at the fort, couldn’t be rusted.  “They are half brothers.”

     “I can’t believe it.  There’s actually one man in MI6 who cares about a human life,” said Butterfield.

     “They aren’t that bad,” said Gibbons.  “They may seem as if they don’t care, but that’s the way it is if you are trying to accomplish anything in this war.  It’s easy to look as if you don’t care about people.”

     “Did you tell him about the pigeons?’ asked Butterfield.

     Confused, Eric said, “I must be tired because I thought I just told you about Jacobsen’s apprehensions about using one set of German decoy pigeons to do the bidding of two different masters, so to speak.”

     “Yes, you did,” said Butterfield.  “I meant did you tell him about the pigeons waiting until they had a message to bring back, instead of flying back immediately?”

     “No.”

     “Good.  That’s knowledge we have that MI6 doesn’t have.”

     “What do you mean?” asked Eric.

     “We know that pigeons can be told to wait until they have a message before they fly back.”

     “How do you know they were told to wait?” asked Eric.

     Butterfield paused.  “Come to think of it, I don’t know.”

     Everyone was silent for a few moments.

     “I guess I just assumed,” said Butterfield.  “Because, how else would they know what to do?”

     “Pigeons are perfectly capable of observing a situation and knowing what to do,” said Eric.  As soon as he said that, a rush of euphoria overtook him.  I’m there, he said to himself.  I finally understand what Marie was trying to explain to me on the one night of many that we talked on the porch. 

     That night, all of Marie’s claims about pigeons had seemed like a foreign language, incomprehensible, or like sounds he couldn’t make sense of.  Everything she had spoken about had turned everything he thought he knew on its head.  He remembered how disoriented and uncomfortable he had felt, trying to ascribe intelligence and the ability to communicate with people to pigeons.  Now, today, with Butterfield and Gibbons, the idea of pigeons being able to understand what was taking place in the human world seemed obvious.  Their ability to solve problems and their desire to help seemed as natural and familiar as anything else commonplace in his life.  I know the lines of communication between pigeons and people are open.  I don’t know how, but I know they are open.

     “I beg your pardon,” said Gibbons.  “Are you suggesting that the pigeons came up with the idea to wait around for a message on their own?’

     “I don’t now,” said Eric.  “They must have had some understanding of the necessity of waiting because their instinct and their training is to home.  They went against that, maybe for the first time in their lives.”

     “You’ve changed,” said Butterfield.  “You’ve become mystical.”

     “Maybe.  I don’t know.”  Eric paused.  “I’ve spent several months with two people who treat pigeons as equals.  I guess they rubbed off on me.”

     “I’m having this desperate desire to solve this puzzle.  How did they know?  Why did they do it?” asked Butterfield.

     “Here’s a thought,” said Gibbons.  “Metchley Park is where those pigeons came from.  I spoke with Holingswood several times while you were out, Eric.  He’s a pigeon man. And he believed it was irresponsible to risk an agent’s life sending a radio transmission, if pigeons could  deliver the intelligence.    Why don’t we ride out there now?  It’s on the way to your mother’s place.”

     Eric tensed up.  He didn’t like the idea of Butterfield and Gibbons being near his mother’s cottage.  It would bring the war too close to the sanctuary he had looked forward to for years.

     I can’t mention that, thought Eric.  “What a lovely idea.  But might you drop me in town?  I planned to do some shopping.  I can get the bus out to her place.”

     “Capital idea.  I rather like the prospect of staying in the country as long as possible on a beautiful midsummer’s day.  Let’s finish the debrief in the car, shall we?”

 

Monday, July 19, 1943   4:35p

 

     Frank sat dozing in his chair in front of the loft while some of the pigeons who didn’t fly missions anymore lay on the ground nearby, preening and stretching their wings to dry after splashing about in the bathing tub.  He was fully awakened by the sound of feet coming towards the loft.

     “Frank,” called out Hollingswood, “I’ve got some visitors I’ve invited to meet your pigeons.”

     The pigeons flew up to the roof as the men walked up to Frank.

     “This is John Butterflied and this is John Gibbons.  They go by Gibbons and Butterfield to avoid confusion.  And this is Eric Brown.”

     Grateful that Gibbons and Butterfield had introduced him to Hollingswood using his field name and on the spur of the moment had made up the surname Brown, Eric shook hands with Frank.  Butterfield and Gibbons did as well.

     “These gentlemen were intrigued, impressed, and surprised by your pigeons not returning home immediately and instead waiting for a message.  I told them about the two hens, how I explained the mission to them and told them it would be a chance to honor their fathers, who were eaten by Germans.  The hens set the example and the rest of the pigeons followed it.  I think they remain skeptical about pigeons understanding human speech,” said Hollingswood.

     “I am skeptical about it too.  You are more of a believer than I am,” said Frank.  “Anyway, let’s have a tour and meet some birds.”

     “I’ve never looked at a pigeon close up like this before,” said Gibbons as they stood in front of a pigeon in his cubby.  They do look intelligent, when you actually look at them, instead of seeing them from a distance scuffling around on the ground for food.”

     “As to whether they understand human speech,” said Frank, “It’s difficult to gauge because pigeons also have a sense of humor.  Just when I think they understand me, one or a few birds, or maybe all of them, will act as if they haven’t a clue.  Sometimes I think they’re just having a laugh.  What the hens and all of the pigeons who were sent on that mission did, caused me to be more with Hollingswood on it.  Still, the question really is, even f they understand will they comply with what’s being asked of them?  That’s the real wild card to me.”

     “Good point,” said Butterfield.

     From another section of the loft Eric said, “This is my pigeon and his mate.”

     Everyone walked over to Blue and Linda’s cubby.

     “Yes,” said Frank.  “You’re lucky to see them.  I almost put them on the truck to be taken to the breeding base at Bizerte.  I decided against it because if Blue has the heart and the courage to fly with a recently injured eye, he’s a very valuable pigeon.  I’m considering including them in the batch that leaves tomorrow for the airfield.  Secret business and all that, I’m told, somewhere on the continent.”

     “Why are you hesitating?” asked Gibbons.

     “I would hate to put a bird out on service who isn’t enthusiastic and fully confident.  They’ve both been doing very well on training tosses but an injury is a hell of a thing to get over.  I wish I could just ask them what they want.”

     “Then let’s test whether they understand.”  Hollingswood went over to a stack of baskets and brought one back to the table in the middle of the loft.  “If you birds feel alright bout going on another mission, could you please fly and land on the basket?”

     Linda turned to Blue.  “We talked about this.  You’re still keen to fly missions, right?”

     “Yes,” said Blue.  “I want a second chance.”

     The pigeons flew to the basket.

     “I can’t believe it,: said Gibbons.

     “I can,” said Butterflied.  “Just by looking at them, I can sense they understand everything we are saying.”

     Unexpectedly, Eric panicked.  This might be the last time I ever see Blue, he thought.  Eric wished he could scoop Linda and Blue up and take them to the loft at the cottage.

     “This might seem strange to all of you, but in the short time I knew Blue, I came to care for him a great deal.  If this war ever ends, could I come collect him and his mate and bring them to our loft at the cottage?”

     All four men turned and in a chorus of disapproval let Eric know he shouldn’t doubt whether the war would end.  “We’ve had those Krauts on the run since Alamein.”  “Now that the Americans are in it’s not if the war is won by our side but when.”  “Everyone knows by now that when it comes to military strategy, Hitler is an ass.  Why for fuck’s sake did he try to conquer Russia?  Russia?  Can Hitler not read?  Is that why he doesn’t know the history of attempts to conquer Russia?  “Have faith, man!” was the last thing said and it was said by Hollingswood, who added, “I told you some time off would do you good.  After a couple of months of peace and quiet, your doubts will be gone and you will be ready to get back at it.”

     “I’ll take your word for it,” said Eric.  Turning to Frank he said, “Thank you.  Anytime you feel like having a visit to check on him, you’re very welcome to come see him.”

     “That’s very kind and I will take you up on that.   And I am interested in meeting David.  He sounds like a true pigeon man.  Gentlemen, before you leave would you like to meet a couple of young pigeons, or as we call them ‘squeakers’?”

     Everyone nodded and followed Frank into the young bird section of the loft.  “This is Kensington and this is Paddington, bred from Scottish Lad and Pink Pearl.”

     “Kensington?  Paddington?  How are those names for pigeons?” asked Hollingswood.

     Frank laughed.  “Even in front of company you still criticize my choice of names for the birds.  Chaps, this is an ongoing thing.  Hollingswood almost always finds fault with whatever name I pick for a pigeon.”

     “You pick strange names sometimes.  That’s why.  Kensington actually almost works, now that I’m becoming accustomed to it, but Paddington?  For a pigeon?  It’s too plodding.  No one named Paddington can fly.  It doesn’t fit.  Paddington would be a good name for a German Shepard, an elephant, a moose, or a bear, even a Clydesdale.  Not a pigeon.”

     “I have to agree,” said Butterfield.  “I love Kensington, although I must disagree with giving the name of Paddington to a bear.  That is never going to happen.  No one would do that.”

     “Yes,” said Gibbons.  “Paddington is perfect for a Clydesdale or an elephant, not a bear.  Paddington the bear?  I don’t see it.  But now about these young pigeons, how do they get separated from their parents?”

     “Most pigeon keepers automatically separate at about ten to twenty-one days old.  The birds are banded at ten days old.  I prefer not to forcibly separate them.  They go over and choose a perch on the young bird side when they are ready or if they hang around too long, the parents will fight them off their spot in the breeding loft.  My father taught me that.  He believed it was the reason he had so little young bird sickness compared to the other pigeon racers.  He would always say ‘let the birds manage their own families.  You wouldn’t like it if you were taken away from your parents by someone who thought they knew best, would you?’”

     “Interesting,” said Gibbons.  “I feel lucky that our introduction to pigeons is from someone who doesn’t do things in the traditional way, just because that’s how it’s always been done.  Thank you, Frank.”

     “We should saddle up here shortly,” said Butterfield.  Thank you, Frank.  Much appreciated.”

     Eric shook Frank’s hand.  “Thank you.  God willing Blue and Linda will be together and healthy when the war is over.”

     After everyone walked out, Linda said, “What a relief.  I do not want at all to race when the war is over.”

     “Nor do I,” said Blue.  “And it’s nice to know we can be back with Al and Beatrix.  That will be fun.”

 

Monday, July 19, 1943   8:50p

 

     Eric went upstairs after he arrived at the cottage and saw Marie’s bedroom door open with the light on.  He knocked on the open door and stuck his head around so he could sort of see into the room.  “Hello?”

     “There you are.  We waited to eat as long as we could.  Mrs. Hastings brought an absolutely wonderful dinner and promised to take me to the market tomorrow and around the town.  She is great fun.  I don’t think I have laughed as much in my whole life as I did in the two hours she was here today.”

     “Did her son do the pigeon door?”

     “Yes.  He’s also a wood carver.  The frame is beautiful.  I won’t spoil the surprise by describing it.  He and David talked so much about pigeons that he was still here by suppertime.  He stayed for a bite.  What’s the plan for you?  Did they tell you?”

     “Take two months leave and then decide if I want to go back over or work here as a translator.”

     “What do you think?” asked Marie.

     “What I learned when I killed Pointreau is, if it’s kill or be killed, I can kill, yet I don’t relish it, like some do.  I should be in a job where I don’t have to keep giving myself pep talks about killing people.  It’s too much of a weight.  I’m sure there are thousands of men in the services, on all sides, who feel the same way and they have no choice.  They don’t want to kill, yet being in the military, they must.”

     “You never did seem to me to be like the other agents we had at the house.  They didn’t exactly relish killing.  I guess I would describe them as highly motivated to kill.  They didn’t give it much thought. They were here to kill if need be, and that was the end of it.”

     “Gibbons also said you could have a job as a translator if you want it.  You couldn’t live here.  It’s a choice, Marie.  He knows about the boys.  That’s why it’s a choice.”

     “I lost Paul and I don’t want to lose a second with David.  He will be grown and gone to somewhere before I know it.  I hope I can stay here and maybe get a dress business going like I had in Argentan, or any sort of sewing business.’

     “Good.  I can’t quite believe it yet that we’re all here.  We didn’t get shot down.  We didn’t get captured.”

     “I love it.  I can sit in my bed and be sure no Nazis are about to knock at the door,” said Marie.  “I feel at peace, Eric.  Thank you.”  Marie smiled at Eric.  His heart soared.

     Flustered but full of hope, Eric said, “It’s my pleasure to have the three of you here, and the birds and the rabbits.  Now if you don’t mind, my eyes are closing.  Good night.”

     “Good night, Eric.  Thank you for one of the best days of my life.”

 

Tuesday, July 20, 1943    8:25p

 

     Marie had gone shopping in the afternoon with Mrs. Hastings, but beyond that, no one had done much of anything.  After taking care of the birds in the morning, Emile and David went for a walk with Eric to plan a running route for the next day.  When they came back, everyone fell asleep until Marie returned in the late afternoon with loads of things that needed to be carried in and put away.  Then she unexpectedly fell asleep while she sat on her bed about to change into the new shoes she had bought.  I’ll just lie down for a second, she told herself.

     When he peeked into her room and saw Marie sleeping, Eric felt a rush of excitement.  I’m going to cook a nice dinner for her, instead of her cooking for me as she’s done so many times.

     When everything was ready, Eric said to David, “Could you go and wake your mother and tell her that dinner is ready?’  The look on Marie’s face when she came into the kitchen was a memory Eric would treasure forever.  Surprised but relaxed and happy, Marie exclaimed, “How wonderful!  What a beautiful end to a gorgeous day.”  Brimming with pride, Eric pulled out a chair for Marie to sit in at the kitchen table.

     When they were finished eating, David said, “Let’s go check on the birds before it is completely dark.”

     As they came around the corner of the cottage and turned west towards the shed that was now the birds’ home, Emile said, “Look at the roof.”

     The sun had set and turned the sky from blue to a pale pink and the white clouds to blazing gold.  The two pigeons and the dove stood on the ridgeline of the roof, outlined in gold.

     “How beautiful,” said Marie.  “If only the British pigeon and his mate were here too.  That would be such a poetic tableaux.”

     “Yes, it would be, but to me it’s already an extraordinary sight,” said Eric.  “Those are three very special birds up there.  They helped the British pigeon through what must have been a terrifying ordeal, waiting and wondering if he would ever fly and see properly again.”

     On the roof, the brown dove said to Al and Beatrix, “I’m so grateful to be here.  After my mate was killed in the spring of 1940 by a Luftwaffe bombing, I tried to find another mate but I just didn’t have the courage to fall in love again amidst all the chaos.  I was too afraid I would lose my lovely to some sort of violence or, because food was scarce, he might be caught and eaten.  Now that I’m here, I’m ready to try again.”

     “We’re grateful too,” said Al.  “We’re all lucky that David understands birds as well as he does.”

     “How did you decide to fly with them to the plane?  That took a lot of faith and courage,” said Beatrix.  “They could have let you fly all the way there and then left you behind.”

     “When I was flying back and forth with everyone while they were burying things, I realized how lonely and empty it would be without Emile and David.  I love being a bird but I also love being with Emile.  It doesn’t mater that he is a person and I am a dove.  There aren’t any   barriers because we aren’t the same species.  I just had to try.  What gave me hope was that they were bringing you.”

     “Tomorrow we will learn our way around.  We will find where the doves spend their time.  The perfect dove is here, for you, I’m sure of it,” said Beatrix.

     On the ground, everyone was still admiring the birds.  Talk turned to the British pigeon.  “Did you ask Frank if you could bring the British pigeon and his mate here after the war?” said David.

     “Frank said yes to that.”

     “What fun,” David said.  “They will have a safe place to raise their babies.”

     “Thank you for letting us bring the birds,” said Marie.  “I’m not sure any other agent supervising a pick-up would have allowed it.”

     “Yes, thank you,” said Emile.  “I have so much to be grateful for, but I would have missed the dove terribly.  Thank you for giving her a chance to fly into the carrier.”

 

 

 

1942

 

 

 

Saturday, June 20, 1942   3:30p

 

     Emile and David were walking home after their afternoon run.  They had two routes that they alternated.  One made a large loop and ended up at the swimming pond.  The other cut almost straight from David’s house to the pond.  It was warm enough that they didn’t bother with towels and they walked back to David’s the same way every afternoon.

     After passing through the gate for a field bordered by thick, thorny hedges to keep the cows in, although there were no cows because the Germans had taken them, something caused Emile to look towards the back end of the field.  “What’s that white thing?’

     David turned and saw a white piece of cloth draped over the hedge.  “It looks like a sheet from a child’s bed that might have blown off a line, but it hasn’t been windy and we were here yesterday.”

     Suddenly both boys had the same thought and took off running as fast as they could towards the white thing.  When they got closer, they saw that it was what they had hoped it would be, a parachute attached to a small, wooden cage on the ground.

     When they reached the cage, David knelt down to check on the pigeon while Emile used the pocketknife his father had given him to cut the cords.  “You are going to be alright.  We are taking you to a safe place and tomorrow we will let you go,” said David to the pigeon.  They set off waling as fast as they could without jostling the pigeon.

     In the woods they saw several rocks under which they could hide the parachute.  They still had a mile to go but as they covered yard after yard the possibility of being caught by a German patrol became more and more frustrating.  “We’re so close,” said David.  “It’s going to break my heart if we don’t get there.”

      When they finally saw the house, David said, “Will you tell my mother?  I want to hide the pigeon in the aviary immediately and then I’m going to break up the cage and scatter the pieces in the woods.”

     When he was finished, David went back to the house and into the kitchen.  Marie and Emile were sitting at the table while Emile was painstakingly writing out the message in tiny print on a piece of the rice paper that had come in the cage.

     “We didn’t wait for you because we decided Emile should write the message.  He has the smallest and neatest writing of the three of us.  We only have about thirty minutes until I must drive him home or Brigitte  will be upset.

     “Are you telling then about Francois?  About how he is a collaborator?” asked David.

     “Yes,” said Emile.

 

Sunday, June 21, 1942   4:45a

 

     David’s alarm went off.  He had slept in his clothes because every second would count.  If the Germans were searching houses, they tended to do it early in the morning when people were still sleeping.  He put on his shoes and went to knock on Marie’s door until she answered.

     Out in the aviary, the pigeon flew down from her perch and landed on the shelf that ran along one wall of the aviary.  Al and Beatrix had already gone outside.  They know the routine so well, thought David.  He attached the message and went out to the yard.  Marie was standing there in her bathrobe.  She nodded and David opened his hand.  The pigeon took off as did Al and Beatrix from where they were perched on the roof.  Instead of warming up for thirty or so laps like they usually did if it was just the two of them, Al and Beatrix took the pigeon around eight times and then headed west.

     “We had to get out of the yard before someone came.  We will fly some more laps over the woods.  That way if a hawk comes we can drop into the trees.

     As they flew, Al and Beatrix kept up a steady stream of chitchat to try to put the pigeon at ease.  The talk turned to the future.  “Do you want to fly more missions after this?” asked Beatrix.

     “Very much, but honestly, I hope it’s not another one being dropped in a cage.  I felt so alone and so afraid that I might never be found and would just die there,” said the pigeon.

     “I don’t like it,” said Beatrix. 

     “It stinks,” said Al.  “One of the pigeons here a few months before you told us they are working on a cage pigeons can peck out of.  Let’s hope he’s right.”

     Al and Beatrix resumed their chitchat, pointing things out along the way and telling stories.  After a half an hour of flying, the pigeon saw a church with a tall steeple up ahead.

     “Here’s where we turn back because we are old,” said Al.  “We will keep you in our hearts.”

     “Best of luck,” said Beatrix.

     Out of respect for Al and Beatrix, the pigeon had flown at their speed.  Now she increased it to sixty miles per hour.  She didn’t need to wonder if she was going in the right direction.  She knew that she was, therefore, her thoughts could go in any direction.  Only one thought entered her mind repeatedly, the same thought had by the many who had unselfishly served their countries during times of conflict.  That thought was, I’m glad I’m going home.

 

 

 

Twenty-First Century

 

2011

 

 

Saturday, April 20, 2011   10:20a

 

     Why am I doing this, Eddie thought to himself.  He and seven other pigeons had completed about 480 miles of a 500 mile race.  His owner, Mr. Wen, had an import-export business in Shanghai that served as a cover for Mr. Wen’s involvement in the heroin trade and international child sex slave trafficking.  Eddie had placed in the top five for Mr. Wen in at least a dozen races, had placed first in two 500 milers and first in a 600 mile race.  Lately though, winning had become almost meaningless.  He didn’t feel the same sense of accomplishment.  When Eddie saw a father pigeon sitting in his nesting bowl keeping his two little yellow baby pigeons warm Eddie wished he was that pigeon.  Racing felt lonely.

     Two years previous, after a lunch spent resolving difficulties in the heroin component of his business with one of his business partners, Mr. Yi, Mr. Wen saw Mr. Yi’s pigeons for the first time.  Even though the sun had set and the pigeons were dozing off, Mr. Yi flipped the lights on.  Grey feathers gleamed under the lights.  Green and purple feathers shimmered as if they were encrusted with thousands of tiny jewels.  Mr. Yi picked up one of the pigeons.  The pigeon appraised Mr. Wen with intelligent, thoughtful eyes.  This bird knows something, thought Mr. Wen.  This bird is the ultimate in cool.  In spite of having ordered the killing of anyone who crossed him, Mr. Wen felt intimidated, clumsy, and inferior in the presence of this pigeon.  He wanted this pigeon’s poise.  He wanted this pigeon’s wisdom.  He wanted this pigeon’s cool.

      At the end of his next meeting with Mr. Yi, Mr. Wen asked, “Do you have a few minutes to give me some tips on how to begin acquiring pigeons?  How to care for them?  How to find a loft manager?”

     “It is the mystical nature of the universe that causes you to speak those words on this, one of the saddest days of my life.  It is a day when my heart breaks with sadness, because tomorrow I tell my two loft managers that I must create a smaller pigeon operation.  Joe is in his late sixties and after years of service, I owe it to him to let him continue.  It might kill him not to be around pigeons.  Frank is only in his early forties and he knows how to win.  But if he loses his job with me, he will have an almost impossible time finding a job with another flier.  Frank will not kill birds who aren’t flying well, or old birds.  Most pigeon fliers would require him to do that.  Now that you have made your interest known, I would like very much to give you forty of my sixty pigeons, on two conditions.”

     “Go ahead,” said Mr. Wen.

     “Please offer Frank a job and please don’t kill my birds or any birds.  Can you do those two things?”

     Mr. Wen and Mr. Yi had met when they were the only Chinese kids enrolled at a very prestigious and very expensive private grade school in London.  “Do you remember when we were nine and on a school trip we went to a museum near the Tower of London where some jewels belonging to the Royal Family were displayed?”

     “Yes.”

     “When I saw your pigeons, they reminded me of those jewels.  How could anyone kill such a beautiful creature?  And how could anyone kill a bird who obviously has so much intelligence?  I could never kill a pigeon and I would be thrilled to have Frank as my manager.  I would be very disappointed if he refused the job.”

     “You have always been a good friend to me, Wen.  Today you turned a sad day to a happy day.  My construction company is about a month away from being able to dedicate twenty-four men and a foreman to building your lofts.  I suggest several, because pigeon theft is a major problem.  I will put you on our schedule for a month from now, although you can set up meetings with our architect as soon as you want.  May I tell Frank he can talk with you tomorrow at two after our meeting at ten?  He is a “let’s do it now” kind of guy, therefore I’m guessing he would like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

     “Yes and if that time doesn’t work for him we cold do it the following day in the morning or early afternoon.  I don’t feel comfortable giving him my contact information just yet.  Can he pick a time and will you pass it to me?”

     ‘That’s fine.  I feel as if you saved my life.  My pigeons are my life.”

     “You are helping me just as much.  I didn’t feel I could be happy without my own pigeons since I saw yours.”

     “Well, in that case, let’s go out to one of my lofts for a visit.  If we run into Joe or Frank, don’t hesitate to chat with them.  They love to talk pigeons.” 

     Mr. Wen and Frank met the next day.  By the end of an hour, they had agreed that Frank would start work with Mr. Wen in a month.  The lofts were scheduled for construction a week later.  Two months after Mr. Li’s forty birds had been moved, one of the two breeding pairs he had given Mr. Wen laid their first eggs in their new home.

     Mr. Wen didn’t try to hide his excitement.  In the morning after breakfast he would visit the loft to check on the female pigeon.  In the late afternoon he would sit in his chair in the loft for about twenty minutes visiting with the male pigeon.  Ten days after the baby pigeons hatched, Mrs. Wen named them Edwina and Edward.

     Both birds did well in their first racing season.  Edwina won a three hundred mile race and Eddie placed in the top five of all of his races.  In the last race of the season, Eddie took fist place, flying five hundred miles a full ten minutes faster than the second place bird.

     That evening, Frank went out to the loft later than usual to do his final check of the pigeons for the night.

     “Eddie, Mr. Wen has decided you are to race a third season before I can let you choose a mate.  I’m sorry.  I know it doesn’t make it any easier, but Flash and George will be held back from having a mate for another season too.  I’m sorry, Eddie.  I don’t agree.  I know you can fly just as well whether you have young birds to look after or not.”

     On that night, Eddie didn’t mind Mr. Wen’s decision.  He loved to see the expressions of pride and admiration on Frank and Mr. Wen’s faces when he did well.  Eddie looked forward to race weekends.  He could meet other pigeons and hear their stories.  He loved the camaraderie he had with the pigeons he thought of as his racing buddies.  Those were fun times he wouldn’t have traded for anything.

     Eddie’s love of racing continued through his second season. He won a race every month, including a 500 miler and a 600 miler, and he never came in below the top ten finishers.  But at the beginning of his third season, Eddie began to understand why Frank had said, “I’m sorry.”  An emptiness had begun to creep in.

     The eight pigeons sped along.  In a couple of miles they would come to several cornfields with irrigation canals on their perimeters.  At harvest time all of the pigeons whether on a race or a training toss, stopped to eat the fresh corn on the cobs left behind by the harvesters.  Eddie never did, even on a training toss. The other pigeons always tried to get him to stop.  “You’ve never had fresh corn.  It’s so much better than the dried corn we get at the loft.”  “Eddie, you must stop with us and eat and drink and have fun for a change.  Please will you?”  “We’ll slow down after we split off so you can be sure to come in first place if you try some corn, Eddie.” 

     Peaceful Sunrise, a red pigeon with two shades of pink on her neck, always said the same thing.  “We’re worried about you, Eddie.  You never let yourself be a pigeon.  You only do what makes people happy, never you.  Please stop with us Eddie and be a pigeon.  Just once, please stop, and then we’ll never ask you to again.”

     Because it was long before harvest time, Eddie didn’t expect to hear anything about corn.  He was wrong.  Henry said, “Eddie you’ve won races and finished in the top five and the top ten many times.  This fall you deserve to try the fresh corn.  Will you promise me you’ll try it?”

     Then Major Bartlett spoke.  “All of us in this fastest group of pigeons who all win for our lofts love you very much.  Our love for you comes before any competitions.  Every pigeon I’ve met on te circuit respects you.  They are in awe of you.  The young pigeons aspire to be like you.  You have more than earned the right to take some time to do something pigeons do, to forage and get food from the earth.  That’s our heritage.  Please don’t let another harvest season go by, Eddie.”

     Instead of saying what she had said several times before, Peaceful Sunrise said simply, “Promise me you will take some time, just a few minutes, to be a pigeon when harvest time comes.”

     To everyone’s surprise, Eddie said, “I will.  I promise.  I wish there was corn today.  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I haven’t ever let myself be a pigeon because I’ve been so intent upon winning.  I love all of you too, very much.  Like you said, competition means nothing compared to my friendship with all of you.”

     Sleeping River called out, “Hooray!” and did a tight playful circle next to Eddie.  All of the other pigeons chimed in with their congratulations as they made a fast descent to one of the canals.

     In less than thirty seconds they were all flying again.  In a mile four of the pigeons would split off for their lofts.  In a couple of miles afer that Henry and Sleeping River would go their ways.  Peaceful Sunrise would fly with Eddie for another five miles and then Eddie would begin the final sprint, alone.  This was the part of the race he had come to dread.  He hated being alone, because he was so much more vulnerable to hawks.   When it was all about winning, he hadn’t minded.  Now he felt resentful and lonely.

     Eddie landed on the trapping platform.  He looked around.  Had Frank seen him?  Yes.  Eddie went through the door and straight to his cubby to rest before eating.  All he felt was sadness.  He had no feeling of accomplishment.  All he could think about was that tonight he would spend another night, alone.

     About an hour later, Mr. and Mrs. Wen, Frank, and all of the guards who weren’t on duty crowded into the loft to congratulate Eddie.  “First bird by twelve minutes, Eddie.  You are the greatest!” said Mr. Wen.

     The guards stood around, remarking on Eddie.  “This bird, so strong.”  “A pigeon with the heart of a champion.”  “I hope my son grows up to be strong and a winner like Eddie.”

     Eddie wasn’t listening.  He had resolved that this would be his last night alone.  He had a plan.

     A pigeon who had been born a year after him flew on all of Eddie’s training tosses because Frank liked to fly the young pigeons with the more experienced pigeons. Her name was Little Raindrop.  They always flew together, playing flying games, talking and laughing.  Eddie liked her a lot and it seemed to him she felt the same.  When they had to go to their separate lofts she would say, “I hope I see you tomorrow Eddie,” and look at him with her beautiful, gentle eyes.

     Every loft had a small door that Frank closed in the evening with shutters on the inside.  These doors were just big enough for a pigeon to squeeze through, but not a predator bird.  Frank always opened the doors an hour before first light.  This was something Frank had learned from his grandfather, who trained pigeons for use in the services during the Second World War.  “If your birds are free to come and go like regular pigeons would, they will always want to fly home, because they will love home and you,” Frank’s grandfather would say.

     As soon as Frank opened the doors, Eddie planned to fly into Little Raindrop’s loft and ask her if they could spend the day together.  The day after a race there was no training for anyone.  In his heart, he knew she would say yes.

 

Sunday, April 21, 3:40a

 

     Bullets sprayed the loft.  Sleeping pigeons, suddenly awake, flew frantically from wall to wall and to the trapping door over and over again, hoping by some miracle that it would be open.  When the shooters finished shooting out the windows, bullets ricocheted inside the loft, killing pigeons rapidly.  Then, abruptly, the shooting stopped, but the last shot fired was an incendiary round into the storage room end of the loft.

     Flames filled the loft with smoke and although the sprinkler system came on, pigeons struggling with life threatening injuries now had to gasp for air while the few pigeons who hadn’t been hit began to suffocate.

     In seconds, one of Mr. Wen’s armed guards ran to the loft and flung open the large carriage house style doors at the front.  He leapt to the latch that closed the door into the pigeon area, flipped it up, yanked the door open, and covered his face with his two bent arms to shield himself from the pigeons flying through the door.

     Eddie knew he had been hit.  The pain was immense and the muscles that connected his wing to his back felt like they were on fire.  Still, he took off and slowly made his way up and joined the group of pigeons flying in loops and serpentines above the trees that bordered Mr. Wen’s yard.

     As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stay up.  He kept drifting down.  Marlene flew along side of him.  “You must land Eddie, before you just drop to the ground and hurt yourself even more.  Please listen to me.  I want you to follow me to the ground.”

     Grateful for her concern, Eddie flew behind Marlene as she made a gentle, slow descent.  As soon as they were on the grass she brought herself as close to Eddie as she could.  “I’m going to try to keep you warm by sitting on one side for a while and then the other.  I’m not leaving you, Eddie.  Frank will find us and then he will fix you up as good as new.  Believe me, Eddie.  You are going to make it.”

     In spite of Marlene’s warmth, the grass, wet with dew, made Eddie feel as if he was almost frozen with cold.  As Marlene kept encouraging him, her voice became farther and farther away.  Eddie knew he was dying.  His consciousness and his ability to form thoughts seemed to be shattering into thousands of broken pieces.  With what little cognitive ability he had left, Eddie ached with sadness as he thought to himself I’m never going to have a family.  I’m never going to have my little yellow birds, my little yellow baby pigeons.  I will never see their beautiful, curious, innocent, little faces.  My baby pigeons…my baby pigeons.

 

Sunday, April 21, 2011   9:30a

 

     As Eddie slowly woke up, he heard the sound of ocean waves breaking on rocks.  He opened his eyes, expecting to see hospital walls in a hospital near the ocean.  Instead he found himself sitting on a grassy plateau facing the ocean.  When he looked to his left, the plateau went on for miles until it descended into a white sand crescent beach.  When Eddie looked to his right, he could see that the plateau was atop rocky cliffs that dropped steeply to the ocean where waves broke against the rocks sending giant plumes of spray into the air.  Where the plateau ended gentle hills reached the ocean.  These hills turned into rugged, forested mountains.  Eddie looked behind him and saw the plateau begin to slope upward becoming the same sort of hills that became mountains.  All kinds of animals grazed on the hills.  Eddie looked left and right again and this time, rather than looking into the distance, he looked at he plateau itself.  Wide swaths of yellow, purple, lavender, and orange wildflowers interrupted the grass frequently creating a breathtaking mosaic of color.

     Eddie realized he wasn’t hungry but he was terribly thirsty.  He stood up, stretched each leg and each wing and took off, flying bigger and bigger circles trying to spot a brook leading to the ocean.  He didn’t see one.  I might as well fly towards the beach he said to himself and picked up speed. 

     In a few seconds four pigeons flew into his field of vision.  One of them called out, “Eddie, we’re here to welcome you. Keep flying towards us and we’ll take you to water.”

     When they met up, the four pigeons surrounded Eddie, flew past him and looped around so they were all flying abreast of him as they introduced themselves.  “I’m Teddy.  I’m the one who called to you.”  “I’m Nicholas.  Welcome to heaven.  The brook is past the beach, about twenty minutes away.”  “I’m Snowy.  I am a very distant relation to a war pigeon named Whitedart.  Many of the war pigeons choose to stay here rather than go back.  You may run into some of them.”  “I’m Lily.  We’re going to fly to the brook and Teddy will explain things.  For now, all you need to know is that in heaven, there are no predators and no prey.  No hawks!  Let’s go!”

     All of the pigeons burst forward with explosive speed.  From time to time one of the pigeons would fly close to Eddie and point out an animal or a bird.  “Eddie, those are elephants off to our left,” said Teddy.  “See those little bears eating berries from the bushes?  Those are koala bears, and the white bears alongside of them are Polar Bears,” said Lily.

     Snowy added, “You will see animals and birds from all kinds of climates living outside of their natural habitats on earth.  Let’s say you decided to take a trip to Antarctica while you are here.  You wouldn’t have any trouble surviving and you would likely see lots of creatures from the desert or the tropics visiting there too because it’s their only chance to do so.  When I was there I saw a group of crickets off on a junket.  They sang their songs at night even in spite of being on ice in subzero temperatures.”

     As they flew over the beach, Nicholas named some of the birds in or near the water.  “Eddie, those are flamingos, snowy egrets, you’ve got several different kinds of owls, pelicans, peacocks, macaws….and truthfully, lots of birds I can’t name.  You must be so thirsty.  We’re just about there.”

     In a few seconds, the brook appeared.  After a long drink everybody sat in the sun.  “How did it feel to be able to just fly, without worrying about how much time you were taking?” asked Lily.

     “Wonderful, thank you.”

     “None of us were racing pigeons,” said Lily.  “I can’t imagine what it would be like to be in a loft most of the time and when you’re out, you’re expected to fly home immediately, without taking time to do any pigeon things, like forage, meet other pigeons, or just perch and do nothing. You must have missed so much.”

     Eddie went from looking happy to looking very hurt.

     “Eddie, Lily didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Nicholas.  She meant to be sympathetic, didn’t you Lily?”

     “Yes.  Eddie, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry,” said Lily.  Turning to Teddy, Lily asked, “Teddy, will you tell Eddie about being a pigeon guide and how if he does that, he can go back as a pigeon?  Please?  He can’t sit here in such misery until Black Panther comes.”

     “Who is Black Panther?” asked Eddie.  “What does Lily mean by ‘go back as a pigeon?’  What is a guide?”

     “Black Panther is in charge of the animal side of heaven.  He meets with all of the pigeons who come in to discuss being a guide.  He’s the one who is supposed to explain this to you but, like Lily said, I don’t want you to feel sad for any longer that you will never have a second chance to do all of the things you wanted to do as a pigeon.  A guide counsels the animals and birds who come in on who they want to be when they go back to earth. If they want to be a person, they are transitioned to the human side of heaven.  The great thing about being a guide is after you’ve served for eight years, you can choose to go back as a pigeon.  The pigeon guides are the only group that has this option.  Well, there are a few exceptions.  You will learn about those during training.”

     Snowy had flown up to the plateau to watch for Black Panther.  “They’re coming.  Why don’t you fly up so they can see where we are?”

     Teddy said, “What I was supposed to tell you, instead of telling you about being a guide, is in heaven no one reproduces and we will be your first pigeon group.  You will train with us.  After your training you can choose another group or another place to be.  You will only be talking with Black Panther for a few minutes.  He doesn’t like long meetings.  We will wait for you.  Let’s fly up, Eddie.”

     Eddie expected to see just one Black Panther coming towards them.  What he saw made him smile.  Three black panthers trotted towards the pigeons, flanked by four White Siberian Tigers.  They were followed, sort of, by a group of gleaming white lambs who insisted on stopping to jump and play with each other every few feet.  One of the White Tigers had to repeatedly go back and herd the lambs forward.  As soon as the tiger went back into formation, the lambs began their games all over again.

     Eddie laughed.  “I see what you mean about ‘no predator, no prey.’  Those lambs could care less about those big cats.  I’m sorry I’m laughing but it’s just so topsy-turvy compared to earth.”

     “You ain’t seen nothing yet, my pigeon brother,” said Nicholas.

     When they were a few yards off, everybody but Black Panther laid down on the grass.  Black Panther walked up to Eddie.  “Welcome.  I can’t tell you how terribly sorry I am, how sorry we all are, for what happened to you.”

     “Can you tell me what happened?  I don’t know.  And are you… can you…do you know how Little Raindrop is?”

     “She’s fine, although very, very sad you are gone.  As far as what happened, two pigeon fliers were angry that you and other birds from Mr. Wen’s lofts kept winning and doing really well in every race.  They pooled their resources to hire surveillance drones.  The monitoring by the drones showed the two fliers which loft was yours.  They paid some kid from the United States close to half a million dollars to hack into the security system. Last night, on the guards’ shift change at 3:15, he disabled the sensors on both side of the wall around the main part of the property.  Three commando types scaled the wall and crawled through the woods to near your loft.  As soon as they began shooting, the searchlights came on and the snipers in the guard towers laid down a barrage killing all three.”

     “How did they get over the wall on the perimeter of the entire property?  It’s about three miles away from the lofts.”

     “The kid disabled the sensors there too.  He threw up a fake GUI on everybody’s computers to make it look as the sensor system on the outermost perimeter was up and running. The shooters carefully made their way through the fields and the woods until they were in position at the wall near your loft.” 

     Eddie stood silently, trying to absorb everything Black Panther had told him.

     “I’m so sorry, Eddie. It’s a terrible thing to find out.   Some of the pigeons from your loft will likely be in your training group for being a pigeon guide.  I’m assuming the pigeons who met you spilled the beans about being a guide?”

     Eddie hesitated, unsure if an honest answer would cause some kind of trouble for Teddy and everybody else.

     Black Panther smiled.  “It’s ok.  We don’t have punishments here and Teddy, Nicholas, Lily, and Snowy didn’t do anything wrong.  They know just as much if not more about being a guide than I do.  You are going to find that I don’t strictly abide by all of rules here in heaven, Eddie.  Yes, my role is to introduce you to the idea of being a guide.  Honestly, it doesn’t make much difference if I’m the first one to tell a new pigeon, or if the welcome group tells the new pigeon.”

     “When do I start?” asked Eddie.

     Everybody behind Black Panther began cheering and clapping.  The lambs jumped up and down and spun in circles.  “Thank you, Eddie.  Not every pigeon says yes and we’ve been short-handed with guides for roughly ten years.”

     “How? Why?”

     “The increased pace of growth by people has killed a lot of animals and birds.  Taking habitats to make room for agriculture and to allow logging are the biggest reasons.  Hunting is still a huge reason.  You will counsel quite a few animals and birds who were poached.  It won’t be  easy.  Teddy probably told you I don’t like long meetings.  He’s right, but whenever you have any questions or want to discuss something, I always make time for the pigeon guides.  You are all very smart.  If you weren’t able to figure out a solution to something by yourselves, I know the problem you’re trying to resolve with a bird or an animal is complex.  

I’m always available to serve as another mind, another point of view, when dealing with the difficult cases.”

     “Understood.  I just have one question.  If Little Raindrop dies, will I see her here?”

     “I wish I knew, Eddie.  My guess is she will live for a lot longer than the eight years you will be a guide.  This is why I believe that.  Mr. Wen is utterly destroyed by you and the other pigeons being killed, but especially you.  He’s given up racing.  I don’t know if you know this, but one of Mr. Wen’s favorite sayings is, ‘The wise man knows when to retreat.’  He told Mrs. Wen and Frank, “I am retreating.  No more racing and my property become a sanctuary for injured birds and past their time racing pigeons.  He sent a letter to the racing federation this morning.  Little Raindrop is likely to live a long and healthy life.”

     Eddie nodded, feeling a strange mix of happy and sad.

     “Thank you for being a guide, Eddie.  You will do well and please, let’s get together whenever you want.”

     The pigeons flew over and surrounded Eddie.

 

 

2019

 

 

 

Sunday, April 28, 2019   1:40am

 

     Bill shut off the lights.  Like he always did before leaving for work, Bill opened the sliding glass door to make sure the pigeons who slept on his porch were ok, especially the mother pigeon.  Her toes on her left foot were permanently curled up, probably from some kind of nerve damage.  This made walking a struggle for her but she gamely pushed off from her curled up toes each time she took a step with her left leg.  Dipping before taking off to fly was no problem.  Amazingly she could land on the thin edge of a cardboard box full of half read magazines, grasping the box with her right foot and balancing on her left.  Bill had watched and applauded her many times when she landed on the edge of the box and leapt from side to side, showing off to Bill what she could do.

     On day Bill went out to the porch and without realizing the mother pigeon was inside the box, tossed several magazines into it and turnred away.  Immediately came a loud flapping of wings.  Bill sprung back to the box and pulled the magazines off of her.  She flew out and landed on the floor of the porch. 

     Horrified by what he had done Bill said, “I’m so sorry, are you ok, are you ok?”  She immediately flew over to Bill and hovered in front of him, flapping her wings, showing him she could fly.  Bill let out a huge sigh of relief.  “Thank you, bird.  I was so afraid I had hurt you.  Thank you.” 

     Bill’s girlfriend, Belinda, couldn’t understand why he didn’t just shoo them off.  “They’re going to poop on everything.  They’re dirty birds.  You could become quite ill and die if you are around them.” 

     “They never do their business on the porch.  Never.  And what’s your source for your claim about diseases and how pigeons can make people sick enough to die?”

     “Everybody knows it.  I’m surprised you never heard that.”

     Bill tried to explain.  “Both of them are going around on one leg.  They’re getting it done with one leg.  They need a place to shelter and raise their family. I feel compelled to help them.  I’m not sure why, exactly.  I must help them.  I just have to do it.”

     “Well, I’m not sure if I we can keep seeing each other, if that’s the way you feel.  One of these days I might ask you to make a decision, them or me.”  Bill wasn’t worried.  He knew he would choose the pigeons.

     Bill took a quick look at the pigeons, went into the other room to get his bag, and left to go to the park and run.  By 3:45a he would be on duty in the radio station’s control room.

 

Sunday, April 28, 2019   3a

 

     When he came to the bottom of the hill, Bill turned right off the road and into the park.  As usual, four or five jackrabbits were eating on this stretch of grass.  As soon as Bill was among them, they loped along beside him.  It had taken two years for them to feel comfortable with Bill and to playfully give him this bit of fun and camaraderie.  When he and the jackrabbits reached the main ramada, the jackrabbits broke off and circled around to their next eating spot.  Bill smiled.  Running with the jackrabbits made every day special.  If work was frustrating or the ways of the world seemed absurd, Bill would always say to himself, at least I got to run with the rabbits.

     Bill stopped and did a few stretches before walking the forty yards to his car parked on the quiet street bordering one end of the park.   He replaced the sweaty clothes covering his upper body with dry ones, put on his down jacket, retrieved his water bottle from the back of the car, and walked back into the park. Before he would leave the park for the radio station, Bill would always tank up on at least forty-eight ounces of water.  If there were a lot of technical problems at the job, getting a chance to drink some water might not happen for several hours.

     Every morning Bill gave himself a few minutes to admire the cottontail rabbits and the enormous jackrabbits who came out of the desert to eat the grass between 2:30 and 5 every morning.  Portly jackrabbits with giant haunches ate contentedly in one place, rarely looking up.  The more slender jackrabbits ate differently.  They nibbled a bit, paused to look around, loped a couple of steps to a new spot, and resumed eating.  The cottontails interrupted their eating by chasing each other in circles until they faced off, springing high into the air opposite one another.  Bill had been going to this park almost every morning for six years to run before going to work.  When he first started coming, easily fifty jackrabbits and twenty-five cottontails packed the main grassy area.  As each year went by, the number of rabbits dwindled, until on most mornings, he saw only twenty jackrabbits and only ten cottontails. 

      Time was up.  Bill walked to his car, got in, and headed for the freeway.  As he drove, Bill thought about the new automation system a team from the manufacturer had spent the previous week installing.  It was pretty simple to operate but the installers hadn’t been willing to answer Bill’s questions about troubleshooting.  “You won’t need to know that,” was the answer given in a variety of ways throughout the week.

     Bullshit, thought Bill.  When I’m here on the weekends, by myself, I will need to know everything about this system because the two engineers are at least an hour’s drive away.  I’m not going to let you make me into a dumbass so that the station ends up being off the air for god only knows how long. So Bill took the manual home and read it for several nights.  No one noticed it was missing.

     Bill had learned that it was best to learn as much as possible about every piece of equipment and every type of software in the control room when he first started working in college radio station control rooms.  He had stuck to that practice for thirty years.  Most engineers loved it, because then they didn’t have to come in, and a few hated it, because it made them less important.

     This drive to learn everything about the radio equipment was fueled by more than necessity.  Something Bill couldn’t identify pushed him, almost frantically, to learn.  The only thing comparable was the compulsion he had felt to learn about how the American POWs did everything they did on the television sitcom “Hogan’s Heroes.”  At the age of eight, Bill watched that TV show about the Americans being held in a German prisoner of war camp during World War II as if it were a training film.  He tried his hardest to figure out how they pulled off the schemes that fooled the Germans over and over again. 

     Bill’s most desperate need to know came whenever the character named LeBeau set up the radio and used it to transmit a message.  How does that radio work?  How does LeBeau put it together?  How does he know how to transmit?  How does the signal get through?  Why isn’t the signal detected?  How did the American POWs have a radio in a camp?  Did they smuggle it in?  How? 

     Bill would ask questions which were never answered by the script.  At the end of every show he felt exhausted.  It was as if his life, and the lives of others, depended on him learning how to work that radio.  All these years later since the 1960s, Bill knew that same desperation caused his interest in all of the gear in the control rooms.  He knew lives didn’t really depend on him knowing everything about the equipment.  Yet on some level of consciousness Bill couldn’t identify, it felt to Bill as if peoples’ lives did actually depend on him having total knowledge of the radio equipment. But why?    Bill couldn’t make sense of it. 

     Even though Bill could laugh at himself when he remembered the rapt attention he paid as a little boy to a stupid sitcom with the goofy name of “Hogan’s Heroes,” he found it troubling that he couldn’t explain his emotions about the show and why he couldn’t explain why it was so important to him that he know absolutely everything about every machine in the control room.  It left him feeling that he didn’t know himself.  It was profoundly disconcerting, if he allowed himself to dwell on it.  Bill felt a bit like a puppet on a string, the string being some kind of intense connection to the Second World War and radio use during the war in particular.  Bill had to concede that he would never understand and conceding didn’t feel good at all.

     Since knowing the little dove who could jump and fly like the speed of light into the tree in the gym parking lot, Bill had asked the same question.  Why am I so affected by that dove?  Why does he pull on my heart like no one ever has?  Why does the little dove lock his eyes with mine with such intensity, sometimes for almost two minutes, and then show off what a great flier he is?  Bill had to admit that he had never felt such a strong, almost mystical connection with anyone.  What is it about?  What does it mean? Why is it happening?  Why is the little dove doing his jumps for me after standing in front of a giant car with its motor running and refusing to budge?  How does he know I won’t hurt him or run him over?

     After going round and round with those questions for days, Bill gave up. Just enjoy this beautiful little bird.  Just be grateful, he told himself.

 

Sunday, April 28, 2019   2:30p

 

     Bill walked out of the gym towards his car.  Now that his workout had woken him up after a sleepy day at the station, he decided to walk around the parking lot for a few minutes instead of going right home.  It was too nice a day for that.

     Bill started a lap around the parking lot, enjoying the magenta of the hydrangea flowers and the sound of the breeze rustling the palm tree and beech wood tree leaves.  As he came back around to his car, he saw one of the feral cats who frequented the parking lot crouched in a hunting position under the car.  This wasn’t unusual.  The cats would hunt and the birds would elude them.  Bill figured the birds knew the cat was under the car but in spite of that he said, “Hey birds, watch out for the cat under the car.”

     After another lap Bill came around again towards the car. His heart began pounding.  Terror froze his body.  The cat was gone.  All of the birds were several yards away from the car on the gravel median, except for one dove.  As Bill came closer fear and anger overtook him.  The little dove, Bill’s favorite, the dove who could jump and fly and be on the branch of the beech wood tree in less than a second stood helplessly next to the passenger side front tire of Bill’s car.  One wing hung by his side.

     Shame and regret poured through Bill.  No, no, no, not the little dove.  Not him.  Why does it have to be him? Why didn’t I shoo the cat away?  Why did I keep walking?  Why did I leave it to the birds to keep away from the cat?  As he came closer to the little dove, Bill said over and over again, please fly, please fly, please, be ok.  Nothing.  The little dove stood.  Helpless.

     Bill looked around.  The cat was nowhere to be seen.  Those cats knew Bill’s routine as well as the birds did.  That cat knew full well that Bill would leave and then the cat could come back and kill the little dove, uninterrupted, at this end of the parking lot where Bill was usually the only one who parked.  That cat will probably play with the little dove before he actually kills him, thought Bill in despair.  I can’t leave him here.  But if I take him to get help, he’ll be away from the other birds.  What should I do?  Should I leave him here with his friends?  He won’t want to be caught.  Would he rather be here, even if it means being killed?

     No matter how Bill thought about it, he knew the cat would be back.  The little dove couldn’t fly.  I can’t leave him here.  Bill took a few steps towards the little dove and tried to pick him up.  He couldn’t put much force into his attempt because he didn’t want to grab the little dove.  He didn’t want to squeeze him anymore than was necessary.  The little dove took a few steps out of Bill’s reach.  Bill tried again, haltingly, and the little dove stepped just out of reach again.  I hate this, thought Bill.  The little dove must be so scared and humiliated.  He can’t fly.  “I’m sorry, bird.  I need to pick you up.  I know you don’t want me to, but if you stay here, the cat will get you.”

     Bill tried again.  The little dove hopped up onto the median, but fell forward on his chest.  This is just awful for the dove, thought Bill.  The little dove was now completely vulnerable.  I know he’s scared and angry and frustrated and embarrassed that he can’t just pick up and fly off.  “I’m so sorry, little dove.  I’m so sorry to do this to you.”  Bill bent over again, and again the little dove pulled himself just out of reach.  Unable to walk now, he had dragged himself forward using his wings.  “I don’t want to do this to you little dove.  I am so sorry.”  Bill bent over. Exhausted now, the little dove couldn’t move. Bill picked him up, gently folding his wings to his body and holding him under his stomach.  The little dove struggled to get free.  “I’m sorry, little dove.  Please don’t struggle. Then I just have to hold you tighter.  The little dove held still as Bill walked rapidly to his car.  He opened the passenger side door and put the little dove amidst the soft blanket Bill always kept on the front seat in case it was so cold he needed to cover his legs.  Once the little dove was on the blanket, he relaxed, seeming to understand that Bill wasn’t going to hurt him.

     As they drove off, one of the pigeons said to the little dove, “He will keep you in a safe place.  I know you want to be here, but that cat is going to get you if you stay here.  Do your best.  We will be thinking about you.”

     All of the other pigeons murmured their agreement.  The little dove looked at the other doves. Their sorrowful faces made him know it was over.  His time with them, the three happy months they had spent, were over.  Worst of all was looking into the eyes of his father.  His father couldn’t speak, but his eyes brimmed with horror and sadness and shock.  They held their gaze for as long as they could, the little dove and his father, knowing these would be the last moments they would have together.  The little dove started to cry.  In their last second together, his father said, “I love you, son, I love you.”

     A few minutes after leaving the parking lot, the little dove gave into  despair and exhaustion.  He fell asleep.  In his dream he wasn’t stuck on a blanket in a person’s car.  He, his father, and some of the other doves were speeding across the city, taking a few strong flaps and then zooming high above streets, swooping up and over power lines, diving to fly along side bushes on the perimeter of a park.  He was flying, with the wind and his own power holding him up just as well as the ground would once they landed.

     He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping, but he was jolted awake by Bill’s voice.  What was happening? Why was he on a blanket, in a car?  Then, without mercy, his mind played back the awful truth of what had happened. As the cat came towards the birds, the little dove was trapped between the wings of the slower and heavier pigeons.  He couldn’t get through to go up.  The thing he was best at doing, elevating faster than any of the other birds, he had been unable to do because he had been too close to the pigeons.  The frustration of being trapped by the wings of the pigeons next to him and then the feeling of the overpowering weight of the cat’s horrible paw slamming down on his back grabbed him and threw him against the truth.  It had really happened and here he was, unable to fly, alone, in someone’s car. 

     The anger and the tears started again.  I don’t want this.  I don’t want this.  This can’t be my life, the little dove said to himself with desperation and rage.  Would Bill do anything to help?  Was there anything Bill could do?  What would happen next?

     Bill walked away from the car.  As the little dove sat on the blanket, he could sense the presence of doves in the trees nearby.  For a second, his mind automatically pictured himself flying with them.  For a second, he wasn’t alone. But then the second ended.  Being stuck on the blanket and knowing those doves were able to perch on the branch of a tree, caused him to feel completely alone, again.

     Bill came back.  He opened the door and said, “I am going to bring you in and then you can stay on the porch while I call around to see where we might bring you.  I know you don’t want to be picked up.  I’m sorry.”

     Bill carried him a few yards.  As they went down some steps, Bill tightened his grip on the little dove.  It was too much.  The little dove struggled.  “Please don’t, little dove.  I’m sorry.”  Bill loosened his grip.  Thankful, the little dove squeezed Bill’s finger with the foot he had wrapped around Bill’s finger after Bill picked him up.  It was the only way he could communicate to Bill that the grip now was ok.  Before it had felt like Bill might mistakenly crush his little ribs.  What will happen?  Where are we going?

     They went inside.  It was awful to be in.  I hope I don’t have to stay in here.  If I could at least be outside, maybe those doves will come around.

     Bill stepped out onto the porch, bent over, and put the little dove next to a box turned on its side.  “I’m going in now, so you can have some peace and quiet.  I won’t be bothering you unless I can find a place to bring you, little dove.”

     The little dove sighed a heavy sigh of disappointment.  This was it?  This was all that could be done?  Am I really stuck here by myself?  The little dove noticed the bowl of water and the seeds Bill had put out.  If you eat, you might feel better.  So he did.

     Bill had no hope of finding anyone because it was Sunday.  He tried the Wildlife Rehab Center.  It was closed.  They had a note on their website advising people to take animals to the animal hospital a few miles away.  Bill called the hospital.

     “We don’t care for wild birds or animals.  We only hold them until someone from Wildlife picks them up on Monday.”

     “When do they get picked up?”

     “We never know.  That center is all volunteers.  It just depends on who shows up for work.  Sometimes the animals are picked up right when we open.  Other days they sit until mid or late afternoon.  I hate it, them waiting, hurting, dying, and nothing can be done.  You’re better off keeping him with you.”

     “There’s no vet on duty now at your hospital?  I will pay the bills.  I’m not looking for a freebie because he’s a found bird.”

     “They aren’t allowed in the facility.  They could bring disease and contaminate all of the other birds and animals.  Our first priority has to be to our customers.”

     Bill’s stomach turned to knots.  He had not anticipated this kind of answer at all.  He had been sure that if any place was open, they would tell him to bring the little dove in.

     “Can you suggest any hospital which treats wild birds?”

     “Your only option is Wildlife.  But I must warn you.  Their policy is if they can’t do something to make the bird or animal releasable into the wild, they euthanize them.  You should know that.  And unfortunately, I’ve never heard of any hospital in this area taking a wild animal.  They especially don’t like the wild pigeons.”

     They hung up.  Bill’s head was spinning and then he put his head in his hands.  The window to the porch was open.  The phone had been on speaker.  The little dove had heard the whole conversation.

     Out on the porch, the dove fought back tears.  Nothing could be done for him.  The pain in his back, his shoulder, and his leg was getting worse.  If there’s nothing to be done I wish I would just die now.  The little dove wished he would die so desperately that he slowly and painfully pulled himself to the very edge of the porch, praying a hawk or a raven would see him.  That was his only hope.  He remembered all of the times he and the other birds had flown away from hawks.  I can’t believe I’m wishing for one to kill me now.  Father would be so ashamed of me.  Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

    Over and over again the little dove beat himself up with the same question.   Why did I let that happen?    Why did I let myself be so close between the pigeons?  Wave after wave of shame washed over him, as the pain made his heart beat faster and faster and his breathing became more and more difficult.  Please someone come and kill me.  Please.

     It had been a beautifully warm day but soon it would be too cold for the dove to be on the porch.  Bill hated to bring him in.  He knew the little dove didn’t want to be inside.  The little dove had been so friendly and charming with his jumps into the tree.  Now he did nothing but glare at Bill every time he walked past the door to the porch.  When the sun had dropped to behind the opposite building, Bill had gone out to bring the dove in.  The little dove had recoiled and even though he could barely move, had tried his hardest to move away from Bill.

     “Ok, little dove, I’ll leave you here,” said Bill.

     Now he had to try again.  Because he had been trying to leave the little dove in peace, Bill hadn’t gotten a good look at him for hours.  His heart sank.  It was undeniable.  The little dove wasn’t going to make it.  Now that he had turned himself towards the front of the porch, Bill saw him in profile.  His back up swollen up.  His wing on the side facing Bill hung at a terrible angle.  The little dove seemed to be trying to lean to his right to take the pressure off his left side.  His left eye was half closed.

     I can’t bring him in.  The best thing I can do is let him be where he told me he wants to be.  The disappointment, the sight of the dove, the absence of any hope suddenly was all too much.  Bill felt like he was going to faint.  Everything seemed far away.  Get to your bed and lie down, he told himself.  But where is it he asked, looking around.  Nothing seemed familiar.  He didn’t know where he was.  Then Bill recognized his bedroom doorway.  It seemed to be way of in the distance.  He tried to walk towards it.  

      The little dove fell and fell and fell.  He swirled and fell as if something was pulling him down.  He wasn’t flying.  He was falling.  It was awful.  It wouldn’t stop.  He had no wings, no feet, no shoulders, no feathers, no head.  Nothing was left of him except his mind.  With his mind he missed his father, his sister, each dove he knew, each pigeon he know, every branch he had ever perched on, all the routes he had flown around the neighborhood, the yellow flowers of spring, the crack of seeds in his beak, the rainwater puddles in the parking lot.  He fell and fell and fell and each memory pierced him with pain.

     Then suddenly, he had feet and they were grasping a branch.  He felt the warmth of another bird next to him.  It was a pigeon.   

     Eddie and the little dove were perched in a cypress tree at the edge of a seemingly endless park, dotted with trees from all kinds of climates.  Under and around palm trees, blue spruces, dogwoods, bristlecone pines, kabobs, and eucalyptus, animals and birds mingled as if they had never been predator and prey on earth.  Elephants ate from trees alongside hyenas.  Pumas and gazelles stretched out next to each other in the sun.  Coyote pups chased each other and occasionally faced off against cottontails springing high into the air, the cottontails always jumping higher than the coyote pups. 

     A stream burbled and gushed past the cypress tree.  It widened into a river about half a mile off.  The little dove could see hippos, moose, and grizzly bears enjoying the water and finding their food.  Although the little dove couldn’t hear any talking, everybody seemed to be conversing.  Puffins and penguins stood in a group while several squirrels stood in front of a male lion.  One squirrel offered an acorn to the lion.  The lion stuck out his tongue and the squirrel stuck out his tiny paw and put the acorn on the lion’s giant tongue.

     “I’m Eddie and you’re in heaven.  It says here that the guy who had you called you ‘the little dove.’  Should I continue with that?” 

     The little dove was sad.  He missed everybody and didn’t care about anything.  “Yes.” 

     “Actually,” said Eddie, “you need a name which is more nimble.  We know what a great flier and a great jumper you were.  How ‘bout L.D.?”  The fact that someone seemed concerned about him woke the little dove a bit from his despair.  “OK,” he said. 

     “Here’s the deal.  After the two of us are finished deciding how you will go back, you’re going to have 7 to 10 days to fly with other pigeons and doves.  You can’t be hurt by anything and you can’t sustain an injury.  We find that everybody goes back with a little more confidence and less of an axe to grind if they have that time.  Then you will go back.  You won’t know when you go back and you won’t know you are back.  Every now and then something might seem significant in a way you don’t understand or you may feel like something is familiar.  You may feel like you have some kind of knowledge yet you won’t know how you got it.  That’s all the explanation I can really give you because it’s very complex and everybody is different.  How do you want to go back?”

      L.D. said brightly, “As a dove.  As me.” 

     Eddie cringed.  He didn’t want to disappoint the dove.  The dove had spirit, determination, and courage.  He obviously liked being a dove.  Insisting he go back as someone else made no sense, but the rules were the rules.

     “I’m sorry but it doesn’t work that way.  You can’t go back as a bird. You have to go back as an insect, or an animal, or a person, a reptile, etc.  Everybody rotates through those categories as they live their lives.” 

     L.D. returned to feeling the same sadness, self-hatred, frustration, and despair he had felt since he had died.  He stared straight ahead, full of resentment towards Eddie.

     “May I make a suggestion?” asked Eddie.  L.D. perched, silent, inconsolable. “You would make a great doctor.  You died by being overpowered and then a person took you.  Those are two extreme examples of being at the mercy of your circumstances.  Many doctors come from relatively privileged backgrounds.  If they haven’t had the experience of being hurt in an overpowering or violent way, either in a previous life or in their current life, they can’t empathize with their patients therefore they sometimes inadvertently, or deliberately, do things that hurt their patients.  Then there is the reality that they are in a routine.  It’s the same, repetitive grind day in and day out.  They lose sight of the significance of what they are doing and inevitably, they make a mistake.  You would make a great doctor or veterinarian because you would be more able to empathize with your patients.  The experiences you’ve had would always keep you mindful of how each patient and each procedure is tremendously important.  Then you have the doctors who are just unabashedly greedy.  They see every patient and the patient’s insurance as their personal ATM.   You wouldn’t do any of the things I just described, L.D.  Do you have any questions about what it’s like to go back as a doctor?”

     L.D. started to cry.  He felt completely alone.  He had never been without the company lf doves and now this pigeon, Eddie, seemed to have gone off into a another world, talking about things and people L.D. had never heard of.

     It was all too overwhelming. “I know you’re trying to help but I don’t know what a doctor is and…and…I just want to go back to where I was.  I just want to go back and see everybody.  I miss them so much, the doves.  I hardly got to be a dove.  I want to see them and be a dove and be where I was as me.”  L.D. cried more.  “As me!  Me!”

     “Wait a second.  You just said ‘you hardly got to be a dove.’  What did you mean?  Thirteen months is a pretty long time.”

     “I’m only three months old.  It’s not fair.  I’m a good flier.  The other birds, even the pigeons, would tell me I was one of the best fliers in the whole group of pigeons and doves.  My first flight into the country I kept up with the adult birds easily.  I know I made a mistake by being too close to the pigeons.  Do I have to pay for that by not being allowed to be a dove?  Do I?”  L.D. looked like he was about to break down again.

     “No little dove, I’m sorry, I mean L.D., please don’t cry.  Please try not to cry.  There must have been a mistake by whoever did your paperwork.  It says you are thirteen months old.”

     L.D. shook his head.

     “Now that I’m looking at you closely, I see how young you are.  You still haven’t filled out like doves who are a year old would have done.  I’m sorry.  I should have been looking at you more than the paperwork.”

      Eddie paused, thinking about how to explain what could happen next for L.D.  You have to get this right, he told himself.  If you screw up, you will hurt the dove even more than he is now.

     “I’m very happy to tell you, L.D., that you can go back as a dove.  There’s rule that says any young animal or bird, less than three months old who died because of a mistake they made can have the option to go back as the same species, but they won’t know it’s them.  They won’t know they are themselves.”

     “Why can’t I know I am me?”

     “Because you would know too much.  I have spent many hours here, trying to figure that one out.  All I could come up with is, if everyone knew what they did and learned in all of their previous lives, they would have too much power, too much power for those who are in charge to feel comfortable about.”

     ‘Who is in charge?”

     “I don’t know.  All I know is people in power usually don’t like to feel threatened from those below them.”

     “OK, I’ll go back as a dove.  Thank you, Eddie.  But I am going to know I am me.  I am.  I’m not going to let anyone or anything prevent me from knowing I am me.  If I try my hardest I’m sure I can do it.”  L.D. paused, his determination wavering.  “No, I’m not sure because…because I’ve never done this before.  I have to admit, I don’t know if I can do it.  But I must try.  It’s so hard to believe that if I try my hardest to know that I am me that I won’t be able to.”

     “Everybody’s experience is unique,” said Eddie, “so please don’t take this to mean I am saying you are like anybody else, however, almost everyone believes they will know they are themselves.  Dung beetles go back as horses and they believe they will know they are themselves.  Raccoons go back as piranhas and they are sure they will know they are themselves.  Any animal who says they want to go over to the human side of heaven and go back as a person believes they will know they were a, for example, giraffe, in their previous life.”

     “Why does anybody want to go back as a different species?  Aren’t the alligators happy being alligators and so they want to go back as alligators?”

     “Hardly ever.  That’s why the rule was made that in general with some exceptions no one can go back as the same species.  It was found, over and over again, that everyone wanted to be something different.  With this rule, it kind of gets everyone off the hook.  They don’t have to feel obligated to go back and do a better job as the same creature, or, put up with the things they didn’t like about being that creature.”

     “It’s hard for me to understand because I loved being a dove so much.  Thank you Eddie.  I’m excited to go back now. And, somehow I just know, I can find a way to know that I am me.  I’ll be a dove again, as me.”

     “Good.  I feel better too, L.D.  You are a very impressive dove, very determined.  Best of luck to you.  Now please fly to that heavy branch in the dogwood tree over there.  Feel free to sleep until the birds arrive to collect you.”

     The next thing L.D. knew was that he was waking up perched on the same branch Eddie had told him to fly to.  On either side of him were pigeons and doves.

     “Hi, L.D.  I’m Ben,” said the pigeon to his left.  “We are going to take you around until you go back.  If a bird is injured and will be going back as a bird, we want that bird to fly and fly and fly, without needing to worry about hawks, falcons, vultures, cats, hunters, cars, or anything else.  After a couple of weeks you should have your confidence back.  Soon after that, you will find your self in your next life.  I don’t quite understand how that part happens, but it will.”

     L.D. nodded.

     “Let’s go,” said Ben.

     They flew for the rest of the day, stopping here and there for something to eat.  In the late afternoon, the birds came to a stream with a couple of pools sheltered from the current by rocks.  Everybody took turns sitting in the pools, splashing and flapping their wings.  L.D. finished his bath and stood on the bank of the stream, cleaning his feathers meticulously.

     “Where are you from?” asked a pigeon who flew over to him.

     L.D. told her.

     “My name is Sandy and I’m from New York City.”

     L.D. looked at her politely.  “What is New York City?”

     “It’s one of the biggest cities in the United States.  It’s good for pigeons because it has lots of parks and lots of people who drop food or don’t mind tossing things to us pigeons.  In the winter, it’s a bit harder to find enough to eat.  Still, even in the snow, we would go to Battery Park, Prospect Park, the banks of the Hudson River, and Central Park. Did Eddie talk to you much?  What did he ask you?”

     L.D. recounted his conversation with Eddie.

     “He talked to you way more than he talked to me.  He asked me how I wanted to go back.  I said, ‘As a kangaroo.’  He said, “No problem’ and then he said ‘I noticed you were a New York City pigeon.  What did you spend your time doing?’”

     “I told him all the places we went and as soon as I said, ‘We watched them play chess a lot at Washington Square Park’ he stopped me and asked did I want to have a game.  That turned into several games.  Eddie told me his loft manager and a buddy would play chess in the loft or just outside.  Eddie always wished he could play but of course no one is going to believe that a pigeon could play chess.  When our meeting time was up he thanked me over and over again.”

     ‘What is chess?”

     Sandy didn’t answer for so long that L.D. said, “If you don’t feel like talking about it, it’s OK.”

     “No, I’m sorry.  I couldn’t think of a way to explain chess in a simple way.  The best I can do is to tell you it’s a game about power and it’s really kind of a sad game because most of the pieces can only make one move.  The queen can make all the moves and two other pieces have a couple of options at certain times in the game.  Otherwise, each piece is profoundly limited.  Think about it this way.  What would happen to you if a hawk came after you and you could only fly on a diagonally.  You couldn’t swoop, go up or down, fly straight, dart from side to side, twist, none of that.  What would happen to you?”

     L.D. said, “The hawk would get me, no question.”

     “Right.  When we would watch chess, time after time, we would hear the players say something like, ‘You’re gonna get my rook.  There’s nothing I can do.  This is fucked up.’  Their piece would be completely boxed in.  Yet many of the same people came to play every day, especially on the weekends and in spite of the frustration they loved it.  Chess is funny that way.  It’s a torturous kind of fun for humans.”

     “I don’t understand why Eddie wanted to play.”

     “I guess after all those times watching the game, he was keen to see how he could do. Plus, he hasn’t competed at anything since he raced.” He did well.  I won the first game.  He won the second two.”

     Ben came over to Sandy and L.D.  “Is Sandy filling you in on what’s to come?”

     “She just taught me about chess.”

     “That’s a city pigeon for you.  They know a lot about a lot of things.  You hang with Sandy, L.D., and you will receive quite an education.  Anyway, your time here is meant to be fun.  That’s all I had to tell you.  Just enjoy everything.  If thoughts come, that’s ok.  We’re here to chat whenever you want, and if that’s never, that’s fine.  We’ll be picking up and flying for another couple of hours to where we spend the night tonight.  See you there.”

     Sandy said, “Ben is real cool.  He means it when he says, ‘Have fun.’  That’s what I’ve been doing, savoring every second.  I’m looking forward to being a baby kangaroo, in the pouch, but I know kangaroos have quite a few enemies.  It’s going to be a challenge.”

     L.D. didn’t know what a kangaroo was and before he could ask, Ben sent all of the birds the cue to fly.  In less than a second they took off, did a few warm up laps, and then flew off with the sun behind them.

     Everyday the L.D. flew through all kinds of climates.  He saw penguins on ice and then boa constrictors in jungles.  Every bird told L.D. again and again, “You will never see this on the earth.  Here in heaven everything is jumbled together, which would be impossible on earth.  You can learn about how other birds and animals live which is supposed to help you when you go back.  You won’t remember everything you saw, but you will have the knowledge.”

      Bit by bit, L.D. felt more confident.  He could still remember being attacked by the cat, yet he didn’t have the paralyzing terror and despair and self-hatred and shame he had felt immediately afterwards.  All that he was during those hours in Bill’s house was a dove who had messed up and now was dying because of his mistake.  He wasn’t smart anymore.  He wasn’t a good flier anymore.  He no longer had his parents, his sister, and his friends who he loved so much.  All he had was his mistake.  He wasn’t even a dove anymore.  He was just a failure.

     Now, after the happy times he had experienced with the other birds, free of fear and full of plenty of distractions to prevent him from dwelling on his mistake, his failure to get away from the cat wasn’t all that he was.  The birds were right.  Constantly flying, seeing the many ways animals, birds, and insects lived their lives, and being free from any threats gave L.D. room to learn and to think. 

     “There is one thing I have to admit I like better about heaven,” L.D. said one day to Ben.  “When I was alive on earth, all of our minds, all of us doves and pigeons, were constantly taken up mostly with fear.  We had to be afraid or, wary you could call it, to survive.  I’m seeing that without needing to keep the possibility of a hawk strike on my mind, I can think more freely.  The things I learn I can ponder.  The conversations I have, I can participate in more completely.”

     “You can train your mind to live without fear,” said Ben.  “Not everyone can.  You can, dove, you can.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Like you just said, being afraid of hawks became a habit, a routine, like seeing the sunrise.  I’m not going to give it all away to you, dove, because I know you can figure it out.  You can figure out how to live without fear dominating your consciousness.  You can.”

     L.D. looked doubtful.

     “Do you remember the advice your father gave you about what to do if a hawk separates you from the group and is bearing down on you?”

     “My father said, ‘don’t think about the hawk.  Think about what a great flier you are, focus on your strength, your speed, and your ability to make that move which will shake him off.  Think about everything you are.  Don’t think about the hawk.’”

     “Yes.  Your father told you the same thing I’m telling you, just in a different way.  Do you understand, L.D.?”

     “Yes.” 

     This talk with Ben caused L.D. to want to get back and be a dove more than ever. He wanted to see everybody.  He wanted to be in the parking lot, in the Palo Verde tree or on the ground in the shade of a bush in the sometimes uncomfortably hot Arizona summer.  He wanted to prove himself.  L.D. wanted to go back and be one of the best fliers, meet a mate, have a family, and teach his young birds just like his parents had taught him.  He had noticed that in heaven, nobody had a family.  That was the something no one was allowed to have.

     One day everybody stopped to drink and bathe at a brook running through a field at the edge of a forest of deciduous trees.  It was an overcast, muggy day, warm enough that cooling off in the water felt really good.  While he and Sandy were spreading out their wings to dry in the sun, he saw a group of pigeons on the opposite bank.  There was something different about them.  They looked tough.  They carried themselves with a unique blend of humility and pride.  They looked watchful. L.D. sensed that these pigeons were hyper aware of their surroundings because they had experienced constant threats.

     “Who are those pigeons?” he asked Sandy.

     “They are some of the war pigeons, probably the World War II pigeons.”

     “How can you tell?”

     “By the time of the Second World War, pigeon racers knew more about feeding and training.  You can usually tell the World War I pigeons from the World War II pigeons because the World War II pigeons tend to look a bit more fit.  Not always though.  Some of the First World War pigeons are terribly fit and just gigantic.  They always go around in their own group.  You rarely see one war pigeon with other pigeons.”

     “Why?” asked L.D.

     “Because some of the stories they tell and the things they talk about are truly horrible.  They want to be able to talk freely without sharing the miserable things they experienced with other birds.  They are just trying to be kind.”

     L.D. wanted to talk them, even if their stories were frightening.  The pigeons in his group back home sometimes told stories about their ancestors.  This might be his only chance to hear stories from the birds that flew missions during the war.

     “You should go over and introduce yourself.  They do like to meet other birds, even though they mostly stick together,” said Sandy.

     L.D. stood up and flew across the brook.  He landed next to a grizzle who seemed a little more approachable than most of the other pigeons.

     “Hello, little dove.  We heard about you.  How are you doing with getting over your injury?”

     “Pretty well, I guess.  I want to get back and prove that I can be a good flier even in dangerous circumstances.  The pigeons and the doves in my group called me L.D.”

     “During the war, I went by Gustav.  I delivered the first news of the D-Day landings, after flying for three years delivering messages for the Belgium resistance.”

     “Yes,” said L.D.  “There’s a grizzle in my group who thinks he might be descended from you because of the stories he’s heard during his lifetime.  You look very much like him.  What was it like on D-Day?”

     “Mostly it was noisy. And even though it was hard to know much of what was happening, I knew that many, many men were dying.  When I worked for the resistance, I heard about individuals being arrested, tortured, and executed, or groups of people being shot because of something the resistance had done.  They were shot as a random punishment.  I’m not saying it was easier to deal with.  It was awful.  But it wasn’t a slaughter like the landings on some of the beaches were.  Do you want to meet some of the other pigeons?”

     L.D. nodded.  By now, all of the pigeons had moved in closer to listen to Gustav and to meet L.D.

     “This is Dogface.”

     “Hello L.D.  I carried many messages during the battle for Cassino in 1944.  One day my beak was shot away from my face.  I made it back with my message even though blood covered my whole head.  I couldn’t eat or drink.  Luckily, my handler, Corporal Langowski, got a glass tube from the evacuation hospital.  It tapered at the end so he was able to feed me a mix of corn and water.  After about a month I was flying missions again.  He fed me everyday that way.”

     The pigeon next to Dogface spoke next.  “Hello, L.D.  I’m Searchlight Pied.  Everybody calls me ‘Pied.’  I’m the pigeon who flew to the light.”

     Embarrassed, L.D. stood there wondering what to ask next.  What did she mean, ‘flew to the light?’  Pied had said it as if everyone in the world knew about the pigeon who flew to the light.  L.D. felt young and clumsy. Why didn’t he know something everybody else seemed to know?

     One of the pigeons laughed.  “Don’t worry, L.D.  Pied always does that because she is modest.  She doesn’t like to go on and on about what she did in the war.  Very few people, insects, animals, or birds know what she did, because it was highly secret.”

     Another pigeon, a large male pigeon, began laughing too.  “You’re the same way, Sal.  You never explain your work either.  L.D., this here is Anzio Sal.  After the Allies chose to entrench in the beach area at Anzio, in Italy, the Germans set up strong defensive positions with artillery aimed directly at the beachhead.  In spite of the almost constant barrage of artillery fire, Sal carried dozens of messages during the battles at Anzio.  She is regarded as one of the most legendary American pigeons who served in Italy.”

     “I don’t like to go into detail because Anzio was a slaughter,” said Anzio Sal.  “So often, too often, as I flew, I saw young men, terribly young men, boys really, just dropping, or being blown backwards or sideways by the force of an explosion.  Men were catching fire.  Body parts came off.  Men’s organs exploded all over the place.  It didn’t matter how many messages I carried.  It seemed as if I could never do enough.”

     The pigeons stood silently, heads bowed, burdened by the heavy load of Sal’s story and by the weight of their own memories.

     “I’m sorry, everybody,” said Sal.  “We were having such a nice time talking to this beautiful and thoughtful young dove.  Let me get on to what Pied did, because it was so remarkable.  Her handler saw something in her that made him believe she could be trained to fly to a particular type of torch.  His hope was that, after being dropped from a plane, she could deliver a message to someone from the resistance who would hold that type of torch.  He trained her using many types of torches until he felt sure she would fly only to the one type of torch.  Then the person who received her would attach a message to her leg.  She carried those messages back to her home loft in Staines.”

     Searchlight Pied sat, modestly, saying nothing.  “Why were you the only pigeon who was trained to fly to the light?” asked L.D.

     “I don’t know.  It makes me sad, when I remember that part of it.  Any pigeon can differentiate between types of light.  We do it all the time.  He could have trained hundreds of pigeons, I think.  Then so many thousands of pigeons might not have been dropped in containers for Columba.  Too many of those pigeons were never found.  They died alone in those containers.  Thinking of that is too much for me,” said Pied, softly.

     “Columba?  What was Columba?” asked L.D.

     The large male pigeon answered, “The British had to find other ways to get intelligence out of occupied Europe, because operating a wireless was dangerous for the operator.  Couriers had such a long way back that by the time they reached London, the intelligence was just about useless.  The British figured if they dropped pigeons in small containers attached to small parachutes, that people would find the pigeons, answer the questionnaires sent with the pigeons, and then free the pigeons to fly to England.  It worked, but Pied is right.  Too many pigeons died.  In my opinion, it was a waste of thousands of champion birds.  They died in a stupid, inhumane, and senseless way.  Their lives were wasted.”

     “Even in those early years of the war when almost everybody in Britain believed an invasion of their island by the Germans would happen any day, someone should have pointed out it wasn’t an effective operation because too few pigeons were returning.  But people were desperate, understandably, to uncover any bit of intelligence at that stage of the war.  Even so, I believe Columba should have been stopped,” said a small brown pigeon.  “My name is Sandalwood.  I just missed the war, being born in 1944.  I trained to be a two-way pigeon but the war in the European theatre ended before I could serve.  The stories I heard while I trained and for years after the war made me know, Columba was cruel for pigeons.”

     The male pigeon who had described Columba said, “I apologize, L.D.  for not introducing myself.  I’m Monkeyface.  I flew 62 missions for the Americans.”

     “That was the most missions flown by any American pigeon,” said Dogface.  “One thing I learned about Columba when I got here was that any pigeon who died in a container had the choice, when they got to heaven, of going back as a healthy pigeon.  They bent the rules a bit to give those pigeons another chance.  I thought that was very kind.”

     “I never heard that.  Thank you for telling us.  It makes me feel a little better,” said Searchlight Pied.  Still, the thought of those thousands of pigeons dying alone, trapped in small cages and containers, hardly big enough for them to move at all, caused everyone to go silent.  How many days did it take for them to die, the little dove wondered.  How many times did the pigeons see the light and feel the warmth of the sun and know another day was passing and because they had no food or water, they knew their time left to be alive was dwindling?  The little dove and the pigeons pondered the painful question of how the pigeons coped with those long days going by, knowing they were getting closer to death and having no way of knowing if they would be found in time.  Like Anzio Sal had said about the deaths at Anzio, the little dove found thinking about the fate of many of the Columba pigeons too much to bear.

     More than a fifteen minutes of silence took place, as the little dove and the pigeons felt the breeze and the sun and thought about the Columba pigeons, each bird at some point feeling grateful that he or she was not enclosed in a container, unable to move, maybe ever again.

     Monkeyface broke the silence.  “I need to fly.  We’ve been sitting here long enough.  My wings feel stiff.  Come with us, little dove.”

     Immediately everyone took off.  L.D. had never flown with just pigeons before.  He usually flew with the doves or with everyone, doves and pigeons together, when a loud noise, a threatening person, or a hawk made getting into the air the necessary thing to do.

     What had it been like, he wondered, to fly with a message container just on one leg?  How did they keep their balance?  How heavy were the containers?  How did they take off and land with the container on their leg?  What had it been like to carry a message, to have so much responsibility, to have the fate of peoples’ lives depending on their ability to get the message through?  Why did they do it?  Why did they choose to help? 

     The longer they flew, the more L.D. began to understand how generous the pigeons had been.  Just this little bit of flying they were doing took energy.  They weren’t flying through shelling and gunfire, vulnerable to snipers, hawks, and falcons.  They were flying in the safest of places, heaven, and still, the enormity of carrying a message during a war became etched on the little dove’s mind.

     After about twenty minutes they landed.  A few of the pigeons went to the brook and drank.  The rest resumed sitting and standing on the grass.  A black male pigeon broke the silence.   “Are you going to tell him?” he asked Searchlight Pied.

     Pied went from looking serene to looking anxious and tense.  “Might it be a burden?  Is it too much for a little dove to know?  How would he go back to his friends and his family?” said Pied.

     Knowing what, the little dove wanted to ask, but it seemed better to be patient.

     “You’ve never been much of a talker about the war, Pied.  That’s ok.  I’ll tell him,” said the black pigeon.  He turned toward L.D.

     “I’m Black Magic, although most of the time the American pigeoneers in North Africa and Italy called me ‘Little Black’ because, like you, I am small. I hatched at Fort Houston, Texas.  Then they shipped me to Bizerte.  I was assigned to the combat team of Sergeant Frank Budio.  He didn’t think I would do well, because I was small, but he began to like me after he learned that I was quick to acclimate myself to new locations.  He could send me off in any direction from a new location and I could find my way back.  That was in North Africa.

     “Our team was among those selected to serve in the invasion of Italy.  Two weeks into the invasion, I was the first American pigeon to carry a message from the African rear echelon to the Italian mainland.  Months later, in the early part of 1944, Sgt. Budio, Cpl. Jorczyck and all of us pigeons were assigned to work military intelligence on Corsica.  That was sometimes some tough flying because the Corsican winds can be quite strong.

     “I don’t know the contents of the message, but I heard afterwards that a message I carried on March 4, 1944 was one of the most important messages carried by an army pigeon during the entire war.  What happened was a spy and a submarine took me to the coast of France. After a few days they sent me off with the message.  I made it across the water to Corsica.  Then a hawk started following me.  I kept clear for as long as I could until he made his move, came down, grabbed me and stuck his beak in my chest.  Even though I have played that over and over in my mind, I still don’t know why I got free.  I twisted and pushed and he let go.  It seemed like a miracle. 

     “With difficulty, I flew to a street in Bastia, Corsica.  Someone named Major Carter from the Signal Corps Headquarters saw me limping down the street.  They collected the message and then took me to the hospital.  A doctor, who had never sewn a pigeon, sewed my wound. 

     “After that they put me on stock duty.  All of my babies were black.  Through the grapevine I heard they were all excellent fliers.  I still wonder what was in that message.”  Black Magic frowned, concentrating, as if somehow the words in the message might come to his mind.

     “Anyway, I told you all of that to prepare you for the story of how you knew Searchlight Pied during the war.”

     L.D. looked at Black Magic, feeling like he as falling through space and time, even though he could still feel his little toes on the ground.

     “How could I know her?  From the way the pigeons I know talk about it, the war was years ago.  I wasn’t alive then,” said L.D.

     “You were a boy named David.”

     The little dove again pushed on the earth with his toes.  He puffed up his feathers.  He stretched his wings trying to imagine what it would be like to have arms hanging by his side, bare arms, instead of feathered wings folded against his sides.

     “I feel like I’ve always been a dove.”

     “You would.  You are supposed to feel like that.  Yet the truth is, you were an eleven-year old boy named David when Searchlight Pied carried a message written by a British agent who was staying at your house.  The pigeons who the British dropped to the agent were being let go by a Frenchman who needed money.  He replaced them with decoy pigeons.  The decoy pigeons were pigeons marked by the Germans to look like British pigeons.  The Germans attached counterfeit rings and message containers to those pigeons’ legs.  Those pigeons flew back to German lofts. This prevented communication from taking place between the agent and England.

     “Back in England, they didn’t know about the decoy pigeons but they decided they had to get a message to the agent.  The situation demanded that it be delivered by a pigeon who could then fly back with the agent’s message.  That’s why Searchlight Pied did it, because they knew she could.  She flew to the torch you held and then you held her until you let her go with the agent’s message. 

     “You were a boy who loved pigeons very much and you knew how to handle them.  Your father adored pigeons as well.  He trained you.  That message ended the problem of there being no communication between the agent and England.  You were there for that.”  Black Magic smiled at the little dove.  “That is something to be proud of.”

     L.D. and the pigeons could hear Ben calling out to L.D. that they had to go.

     “Some might say you know too much, now, L.D.,” said Dogface. 

     “We know different,” said Monkeyface.  “We know you can handle it.  Please enjoy knowing who you were before you were a dove.”

     “Thank you for coming over to talk to us,” said Searchlight Pied.  “This has been very special for me, to meet you.  Thank you.”

     L.D. looked at the pigeons, wanting to say so much, yet completely at a loss for words.  After what seemed like forever he said, “Thank you.  I can never thank you enough.”

     “It’s OK,” said Anzio Sal.  “You best get a move on, dear.  Good-bye for now.  You will always be in our thoughts.”

     “And you in mine,” said L.D.

     Days of flying went by and each day flying seemed to L.D. to be all that he had ever done.  It didn’t seem real that he had ever been hurt. He could remember not being able to push off but it was as if those moments of helplessness and being confined to the ground were part of another life. It didn’t matter anymore that the cat had succeeded in swiping him.  It didn’t matter that he had been too close to the pigeons and been trapped beneath them, unable to elevate as he had been so good at doing.  He didn’t need to reprimand himself anymore for having made that mistake.  Instead of feeling a bit timid with the other birds, he enjoyed hearing their stories and he felt free to express his opinions and ask questions.  He no longer felt that he had to remain quiet as a way of atoning for his mistake.  L.D felt happy.

     Then one day, while he was zooming through the air alongside the other doves, nothing happened.  Nothing happened and then he found himself curled up, squeezed inside of a dove egg.  He knew it was a dove egg because he remembered when he had been inside of one before.  There had been no transition, no interim between flying and being inside of the dove egg.  He was just there. 

     L.D. knew he was back.  Everything felt sharper, more vivid, more dangerous.   L.D. gave himself a moment to feel it. I’m back.  As me.  Me.   And I know I’m me.  Thank you, Eddie.  Thank you.  Now I’m going to get out of this egg.

 

Monday, May 20, 2019   1:30p

 

     Eddie stood in front of Black Panther.  From time to time Black Panther met with the guides to review how well they were helping everybody make the transition from their previous life to their next life.  Black Panther had made it known immediately that Eddie had misused his power as a guide. 

     “Why did you let L.D. go back as himself and worse, knowing that he was himself?  You know that isn’t what is supposed to happen.”

     “It can happen.  I sent him back under the rule that if somebody dies in an accident before they are six months old, they can go back as the same species,” Eddie replied.

     “You’re correct about the rule but if someone goes back as the same species, they can’t know they are themselves.  More importantly, well, maybe of equal importance, L.D. didn’t have an accident.  He made a mistake.”

     Eddie smarted at hearing Black Panther speak in such a harsh, condemnatory way about the little dove.  “L.D. was special.  He deserved a second chance to do better as himself.  He was so overwrought and full of shame and self-hatred for making the mistake of being too close between the pigeons that I felt he deserved to go back as himself.  He didn’t need to be taught anything by living another life as someone else, being driven by a mistake in a previous life, a mistake that he would never be able to identify.  He would have spent his entire life carrying the weight of that mistake.  That weight would have caused him to do things and behave in ways that he would never be able to explain.  He would have hated himself too much to be of any good to himself or anyone else.”

    “You’re missing the point, Eddie.  That’s the whole deal.  In a life after a mistake, the person or creature is supposed to learn to manage whatever negative repercussions they are experiencing from the mistake.  If they know everything about their previous life, it’s too easy.  They don’t learn.  They don’t need to think or become self-aware.  They don’t need to discover who they are.” 

     Black Panther believed what he was saying yet he sensed Eddie couldn’t be convinced.  He could see that L.D. had made an impact on Eddie. But exactly what kind of impact?  Why had Eddie, who had been a very good guide, suddenly departed from the rules and come up with a completely different philosophy about moving from one life to the next?

     “Black Panther, you aren’t thinking enough about the circumstances of his death in the context of what the little dove could do.  He was a naturally gifted jumper.  He was an extraordinarily good flyer for his age of only three months.  He could elevate so fast that from a standing position he could be in a tree in much less than a second, seemingly without even flapping a wing.  It was incredible what he cold do.  The fact that he was prevented from getting up in the air by the wings of two pigeons is too cruel a fate.  True, he shouldn’t have been so close to the pigeons but all of those birds were close to each other.  None of them paid attention to the cat under the car just a few feet away. 

     “My guess is that they had all become a little cocky, a little arrogant about their ability to fly away from an attacking cat.  A cat had never caught a bird there.  They were complacent, I suspect. Why should the little dove be forced to battle with making sense of something in his next life, something that wasn’t entirely his fault? 

     “Out of all of those pigeons and doves, why him?  I bet the man who admired L.D.’s jumping abilities had the same question.  I just couldn’t stand the idea of such a good flyer and such a good jumper paying a price for failing to get up in the air fast enough because some other, more experienced birds were close to him.  Why don’t you consider the fact that they shouldn’t have been so close to him?  Why are you putting all the blame on the little dove?

     “After almost eight years I must have guided at least seven hundred birds, animals, and insects.  Only L.D. truly loved being himself during his life.  Everyone else had one thing or another they found annoying or frightening or they were bored or whatever.  Working with them to choose another way of life was helpful to them.  Taking away L.D.’s life would have been cruel, not helpful.”

     “I understand now.  I have to admit, I felt inspired by the little dove too and I didn’t even meet him, I just heard about him.  All I can say is, if I were you, I might have done the same thing.  I see that now that you’ve said what you said.

     “Yet, I can’t have guides who bend the rules.  If I let you do it, how do I say no to someone else?  You’re going back in the next twenty-four hours, Eddie.”

     “As a pigeon?”

     “As I remember, you wanted to go back as a regular pigeon, no racing.”

     “Yes.”

     “Good.  In a few seconds you will find out that I have a surprise for you.”

     Eddie’s heart leapt.  Was this about Little Raindrop?  No, don’t hope, he told himself.  Then you will just be disappointed.

     “Look,” said Black Panther, his head tilted up at the sky behind Eddie.

     Eddie turned his head and saw a small pigeon flying towards them.  He knew she was Little Raindrop.  But what rules would Black Panther have in place about them being together?  Was she going back soon too?  Eddie’s heart felt like it was being twisted and squeezed.  He could barely breathe.

     Black Panther smiled at Eddie.  “It’s going to be OK, Eddie.  You are going back together.  Little Raindrop will hatch to another pair of pigeons in your parents’ group.  When the two of you are young pigeons, being taken around by your fathers or when you’re on your own, that’s when its up to you to find each other. And, when I told you L.D. affected me too, I meant it.  You and Little Raindrop will know you are yourselves.  I decided I just want you and her to pick up where you left off.  Something about L.D.’s questions, his courage, his determination, and his love of being a dove, all of which I heard about from the other animals and birds who met him, all of his attributes has put me into a mood to just want everyone to be happy.  No harsh lessons…no confusion…I don’t have it in me right now to bring that into anyone’s world.  Like you said, most of the time creatures happily choose to go back as a different species.   I don’t guess that three birds knowing who they were during their previous life is going to discombobulate the universe too much.  Right, Eddie?”

     Eddie nodded as Little Raindrop coasted in, flapped her wings a few times to slow herself down and stuck out her feet so that she landed inches away from Eddie.  Both pigeons were too shy to engage in any display of affection in front of Black Panther.  They smiled at each other and Eddie found himself falling into Little Raindrop’s beautiful, gentle eyes like he had years ago.

     “You are as beautiful as ever,” he said.

     “Thank you.  I’m so happy to see you.  Thank you, Black Panther, for letting us be together.”

     Black Panther said, holding back tears, “This is so much better than making the two of you struggle to find each other in your next life.  Thank you, Eddie, for what you did with L.D.  It taught me something.”

     “I wish we could thank L.D. for being who he is,” said Little Raindrop.

     “Who knows,” said Black Panther.  “Maybe you will have that chance.  Now the two of you go and enjoy your final hours of a predator free existence.  Just because I have a plan, doesn’t mean hawks, cats, and ravens can’t interfere.  Fly, have fun, because you will be up against those guys all too soon.”

     The two pigeons nodded at Black Panther and took off.  The lambs began jumping and running along the ground as the birds flew.  “Goodbye, best of luck,” they called out.  The pigeons picked up speed and soon the lambs were just bright white dots amidst the green grass and the mosaic of colorful wildflowers.

 

Tuesday, August 20, 2019   11:30a

 

     “It is time for you to find a new place in the world, son, your own place, apart from us.  Your mother is going to hatch two eggs in a couple of weeks.  She and I will be taking care of those birds.  You can take care of yourself now.  You can and you will do a fine job at it.  You are of age as a young dove.  It’s time, today, for you to go.  You can always come and visit if you want, but it’s tine for you to make your own life.”

     L.D.’s parents had told him a couple of weeks ago that two new birds were on the way.  His mother had stopped feeding him.  He spent most of his time flying with his parents and their dove flock.  They had taken him around to show him where he might go to find other doves when it was time.  Today, it was time.

     “We love you,” said L.D.’s mother.  “You are a great flier.  I know you will find a lovely mate.  Please come back sometime with your young doves.”

     “I will.  I love you too,” said L.D.  They looked at each other for a few more seconds and then L.D. bent his legs and took off.  This was the moment he had been waiting for since being in heaven and pleading with Eddie to let him go back as himself.  His parking lot was only three miles away.

     In just five minutes L.D. had arrived at the apartment complex near the beech wood trees in the parking lot.  He perched in the thick foliage of one of the trees next to an apartment building.  Peering through the leaves he could see everyone.  His father, all of his father’s friends, and the young doves they had with them.  Most of the doves who had been L.D.’s age when he died were there.

     How do I explain?  Four months have gone by.  The doves who were three months old when I was three months old are all six months old now.  What should I say?

    He didn’t know.  Just go, L.D. told himself.  He flew the fifty yards over to the trees and perched in the tree opposite his father.

     “Son.  Is that you?”

     “Yes, Father.  They let me come back as me.”

     L.D.’s father flew over to him.  “Son, I hoped and hoped that when you came back, I would somehow know you were you.  Whether you were a person, a ladybug, or a horse, I hoped with everything I had, that I would recognize you.  What do you mean by ‘they let me come back as me?’”

     “Usually no one can come back as the same species.  Because my pigeon guide, Eddie, believed I made a mistake and because I was only three months old, I was allowed to come back as a dove.  He said they never let anyone go back knowing they are themselves.  I pleaded with him.  He wouldn’t agree, but somehow, I knew, I would be back, and know I was back as me.  I’m so grateful to Eddie.”

     “Thank you, Eddie, wherever you are, for giving me my son back.  Thank you.”

     L.D. and his father stood in silence wishing Eddie could see them together and know the happiness he had brought about.

      “Son, I think Eddie could see your poise and your determination.  I don’t think you realize how determined you are.  It’s a great strength.  I’m sure Eddie picked up on that and concluded that, whatever came your way, you would handle it.  And I also suspect he could see that you would be grateful, as opposed to taking it for granted, or feeling entitled, to come back as yourself.  He could see that you are humble, but determined.  I’m proud of you, son.”

     L.D. looked at his father.  He didn’t know what to say.  To know that his father felt proud of him meant everything to him.  All he could do was look his father in the eye and hope his father understood.

     “May I make a suggestion?” asked L.D.’s father.

     “What is it?”

     “That you let the man who you used to do the jumps for know you are ok.  Do a jump for him.  Make him know you are here.  Just go right up to him.  He’s been devastated, so sad, not the same as when you were alive before.  It seems like all of the joy went out of his life.  Ill you do that?  Will you ease some of his pain?”

     “I was thinking the same thing over the past few weeks, but I wanted to ask you.”

     “He may not believe it’s you.  Please don’t be hurt.  In the human world, anybody coming back to life, well, that’s not something most people believe can happen.”

 

Tuesday, August 20, 2019   2:50p

 

     Bill left the gym after his workout and turned right towards his car at the far end of the parking lot.   When he would get to the gym after work, he would be too tired to feel much of anything.  After being revived by the workout Bill’s sadness about the little dove was always a gut punch as he walked towards his car and where the little dove had been hurt.  Day after day, the sadness kept a hold on him, squeezing him, making it impossible to enjoy anything.

     When Bill reached his car he squeezed the handle on the back door of the hatchback and opened the door, pushing it up above his head.  He opened the rear passenger door on the right side and took out a gallon of water.  The pigeons had emptied both containers, by drinking and bathing, so some would appreciatively gulp the fresh water as Bill was pouring it out.  He stood up and turned around.  He froze.  Everything stopped. “No,” he said out loud.  There was a small brown dove perched on the top of the car’s hatchback.  The doves never perched on his car.  The pigeons always did.  Never once had a dove perched on his car.   Everything he knew fell out of his body and his mind and was replaced by knowing that this was the little dove.  It was him, the tiny, compact athlete who in less than a second could be up and flying, spinning, diving, twisting, effortlessly.  He stood there looking at Bill, with his sturdy, confident stance, feet perfectly aligned, head proudly atop his diminutive self. 

     Bill walked toward the car.  The little dove made the short flight to the top of the passenger door and waited for Bill.  Face to face, Bill felt the little dove’s steady, piercing gaze.  Only the little dove had that look, that look that saw into Bill’s mind like no one else ever had.   Bill said, “I know it’s you but still, will you do something so I can be sure?  Us people don’t believe anyone can come back.  I want to be sure.  Will you show me?”  The little dove looked at Bill until Bill felt embarrassed and said, “OK, I’m sorry I asked.  I can believe it’s you.  You don’t have to prove it to me.”  Immediately, the little dove lifted up, turned and flew into the tree in less than a second.  “It is you!  Thank you for showing me!”

     Bill stood there realizing everything he had known had changed.  Everything was different now.  How, he wasn’t sure.  All he knew was that the little dove had shown Bill he was alive.  He had made it possible for Bill to be happy again.  “Thank you dove.”

     Looking around, Bill saw the pigeons and the other doves looking on benevolently.  “You birds know so much we don’t know.”  Bill stepped into his car.  He backed out of the parking space and as he went to pull forward, the little dove flew and landed, blocking Bill’s way.  They looked each other in the eye, just like they always had months ago, and then the little dove did his lift, twist, fly and land in the tree in less than one second move.   Unbelievable, thought Bill.  Do I deserve to know this?  Do I deserve to know a dove came back to life?

 

Friday, August 23, 2019   6:50p

 

     That afternoon, L.D. had done a second jump into the tree starting from in front of Bill’s car.  It is him, Bill said to himself.  It is the little dove.  Bill turned off his car’s engine, got out, and leaned against the side of his car facing the doves in the tree.

    “I’m sorry I doubted it was you, little dove.  Thank you.  You could probably tell that I was in agony, wondering.  Not anymore.  And if you don’t feel like doing the jumps anymore, it’s OK.  I sensed over the past couple of days, because you didn’t do them, that you had changed… how, I didn’t know.  But whether you’ve decided to change or not, whatever you do, I will always be grateful I know you, little dove.  Thank you for changing me for the better.  Hopefully I will see you tomorrow, birds.”

     Bill drove away.

     “How could he know I had decided to be more humble and do less showing off?” L.D. asked the doves.

     “I don’t know,” said Jerry.  “But please don’t think of doing your jumps and spins and fast flying as showing off.  We love you for it.  If you want to be less showy, that’s up to you, yet you can’t let yourself think you were showing off.  You were having fun and finding joy in what you can do.  There’s nothing wrong with that.”

     “Maybe too, doing a jump reminds me of my old life and how it ended.  That might be the real reason I don’t feel like doing them so much anymore.”

     “Very understandable,’ said L.D.’s father.  “We should keep on talking somewhere else.  You probably noticed the landscapers cut off many of the tree branches while you were gone.  It’s been cloudy for the few days you’ve been back so we were able to spend the whole afternoon here.  Now, today, with it being sunny, we’re about to lose our shade.”

     The doves took off at a leisurely pace.  “We’re going to a park you’ve never been to before, L.D.,” said Amber.  “We love it because it has a man made lake.”

     As they flew, every time he saw something he hadn’t seen before, L.D. said thank you to Eddie.  If I thought I loved being a dove before, now I love it even more, Eddie.  Thank you so much, thank you.

     Feeling light and free of sadness and doubt for the first time in months, Bill decided he would go out to his favorite hang-out for a while.  He had the next day off, so he told himself, whatever happens…just go with it.

     When Bill pulled into the parking lot of Russell’s Bar and Grill, he smiled.  He had forgotten that Friday night was classic car night.  Before going in, Bill strolled among the cars admiring how people had managed to redo the interiors in the same colors as the exteriors.  Even a hot pink car had hot pink leather seats, a hot pink steering wheel, and a dashboard with everything hot pink.  If I had to sit in that car for more than one second I would go insane, Bill said to himself.  Still you have to admire the effort.

     The only empty seats at the bar were two seats next to a slender woman wearing jeans, old, square toed leather boots, and a flowered blouse that looked like it had been bought at a vintage clothing store.  Bill sat one seat away from her.  To his right sat a bunch of gearheads, arguing about where the cheapest car parts could be purchased.  Walking past them carrying two bottles of beer in each hand, a man shouted out, “Why y’all always going online and all that shit?  The junkyard is still where it’s at, baby.  The junkyard.”

     One of the gearheads shouted back, “I bet if I break into your house, Freddie, and look at the history on your computer, it will be revealed that you are buying your shit online just as much as us.”

     While everybody laughed and a woman told Freddie he could pass for one of the members of ZZ Top, Russell appeared in front of Bill with a glass of ice and a carton of orange juice.

     “Brother Bill!  Glad to see you’re still upright.   Where you been?”

     “Workin the job, not too much else.”

     “I didn’t bring the grenadine to go with your OJ.  You still into that?”

     “Yeah, when you get a second.  It’s jammin in here, man.  Are Lucas and Doug here?  You’re not flying solo on a Friday are you?”

     Russell nodded towards a table.  “There’s Doug, working his magic for those big tips he somehow always gets and Lucas is in the back helping Darnell with some prep.”

     “Good.  Glad to know you haven’t regressed back to trying to do everything your self, like when you first opened.”

     Russell had enlisted to go to Vietnam in 1966 voluntarily because he had grown up hearing stories about his grandfather’s service during the Second World War.  Russell’s grandfather, who everyone referred to as “Grampy,” had been killed while on operations. After seeing the pain his passing caused his wife, Russell’s grandmother, Russell’s father chose not to continue in the family tradition of military service.  Russell’s mother believed Grampy’s sacrifice should never be forgotten, therefore she kept his memory alive and supported Russell’s decision to join the army.

     Russell returned from Vietnam disillusioned and angry.  He asked to go on leave and spent six months at his friend’s goat farm near San Diego.  His commitment to serving his country became revitalized and he served all over the globe, retiring when he turned sixty. 

     Not knowing what to do with himself, but knowing he needed to be around people because he missed the camaraderie of army life, Bill purchased a stand alone building which had been a bookstore at the end of a street of stores and businesses.  During the remodeling before Russell’s Bar and Grill opened, Russell hung a banner over the door that read, ”Russell’s Saigon Bar and Grill opening soon.”  The telephone never ceased to ring with excited calls from Vietnamese men and women who wanted to work at the new Vietnamese restaurant as cooks, servers, dishwashers, cleaners, anything.  They offered to share their family recipes and to bring things from their homes to decorate the restaurant.  Regretfully, Russell realized his mistake and changed the banner to “Russell’s Bar and Grill opening soon.”   He told everyone who called it wouldn’t be a Vietnamese restaurant but they could come in and fill out an application.  Many did, so in the first few months Russell did everything with some help from a staff who didn’t speak much English.

     One day a wiry African–American man in his early forties who looked to be about five foot two inches and maybe a hundred pounds stopped in for a beer.  “Where’s your grill at?”

     “In the back.”

     “How come I don’t smell no food cooking?”

     “Because none ain’t cookin,” said Russell, laughing.

     “I’ve been a cook most of my life, except when I went over for Desert Storm.  Even there I showed everyone how to cook on the top surface of catalytic converters.  I got a concept now.  It’s perfect for your place,  simple, cheap.  You wanna hear it?”

     And that’s how Darnell joined up with Russell.  The Grill in Russell’s Bar and Grill consisted of a toaster, a toaster oven, a flatiron grill, an old refrigerator from someone’s house, and a deep, double stainless steel sink someone had lifted during the demolition of another restaurant.

     Darnell’s concept included Darnell’s Down on the Bayou Burger, Darnell’s Uptown Harlem Renaissance Burger, Darnell’s Don’t Try To Ear It on the A train Sloppy Joe, Darnell’s Mother’s Unforgettable Grilled Cheese Sandwich, Darnell’s All American Black Power Club Sandwich, Darnell’s Sister’s Pigs in a Blanket, and Darnell’s You Ain’t Never Had It Like This Hash Browns. 

     The reason Darnell had a toaster oven and toaster was because Darnell didn’t think toast was true toast unless it came from a toaster.  One slow Tuesday night a heated argument about toast started up at the bar.  

     “Let’s settle this crap once and for all,” said Russell.  He brought out the toaster and the toaster oven to the bar.  Many slices of bread were toasted in both appliances.  Darnell’s opinion carried the day. 

     “So why do you have the toaster oven at all?  That’s the unanswered question,” said Freddie.

     “To keep my buttermilk biscuits warm, among other things,” said Darnell.  “No customer of mine is eating a cold biscuit.  Why go to the trouble of making them from scratch if you then serve them cold?  That’s messed up.”

      Looking at Bill with a twinkle in his eye, Russell said, “Darnell’s added something new to the menu, the Double Darnell.  Would you like to try it?”

     Bill said, laughing, “I’m not sure I want to know what a Double Darnell is, but what is it?”

     “Two three ounce ground sirloin burgers with grilled onions, two slices of bacon, lettuce, and tomato, and instead of a bun, an oversize buttermilk biscuit sliced in half and grilled in butter.”

     “I’m in.”

     “OK.  I’ll put that up and grab your grenadine.”  Russell turned towards the woman Bill had noticed when he came in.  “May I interest you in a Double Darnell, Miss Penny?”

     “You’re a peach, Russell, but Timothy and I are going out to eat.  He’s meeting me here.”

     For a split second Russell seemed to Bill to have been made uncomfortable by Penny’s answer.  It was a fleeting impression that disappeared as soon as Russell said, “Of course.  Just let me know when you need a refresher.”

     Penny turned towards Russell and said, “Well, now you know my name, what’s yours?”

     “Bill,” said Bill, with a slight feeling of disappointment as he noticed the diamond wedding band on Penny’s left hand.

     “What’s your story?  Why are you here tonight, if you don’t mind my asking?”

     “My girlfriend dumped me because I have pigeons nesting on my porch.  She said I would get sick and die and she couldn’t watch that happen.”

     “I beg your pardon?” said Penny, trying not to laugh.  “What kind of pigeons are these?  It sounds like she thinks they are pigeons sent by the Chinese or the Russians to infect all of us Americans so those folks can take our land.  Does she think like that?”

     “No.  She’s just like a lot of people who think pigeons have diseases that can be transmitted to humans.  The truth is, she spent enough time with me to figure out I will never be a rich man.  I don’t aspire to that.  She does.”

     “How long were you together?”

     “Exclusively as a couple, only about three months.”

     “At least she didn’t waste a whole lot of your time.  Timothy and I are lucky because we mostly agree on how to spend money.  We both love old things, nostalgia, antiques, museums….I’ve almost finished doing our house over as a sixties house, except for the refrigerator and the oven.”

     “What kind of work does your husband do?”

     “Timothy’s in the army.  He went to Iraq for the surge.  I wish he would come home because he’s done several tours but bringing freedom to the Iraqi people has become very important to him.  He loves the country, the people, their customs.  Before the surge we were stationed in Germany.  I loved the army wife life.  Iraq is too dangerous, still, he says, for me to be there with him.”

     “Twelve years is a long time.  Every time he’s home on leave must be so precious,” said Bill, feeling worse and worse about Penny’s situation.

     “Yes.  Our second to last night we always go out and our last night we stay home.  Right now he’s playing pool with some buddies.  He should be here any minute.”

     Russell plopped a shot glass full of grenadine on the bar.  “Anything I can get you, Penny?”

     “No, thank you Russell.  Timothy and I should be leaving soon.”

     Someone at the other end of the bar shouted at Russell, “Get your fat black ass over here.  People are thirsty.”

     “I love Russell,” said Penny.  “Even though I wasn’t alive, I can appreciate the significance of the war in Vietnam because of what he’s done in here.”

     Bill nodded and they both turned in their seats to look at the myriad of photos of Russell in Vietnam, photos in camps, next to guns, in various cities, boarding airplanes and waving from the steps, sitting with his legs dangling from a helicopter, and photos with seemingly everyone he met along the way, regardless of their nationality.

     “I’ve always liked that one of him with the Vietnamese woman who is one third his height and Russell is crouched way over so that he can get his arm around her for the picture,” said Bill.  “Look at the big smile on her face.”

     “I like the one where he’s offering two handfuls of cigarettes to the air force guy to try to get to use the air force shower.”

     “Yeah, that brings the reality of life during the war right down to the basics.  You had thousands of guys out there risking their lives every second with no showers for months.  Maybe because I’ve never served I have this stupid train of thought which is imagining being killed when you are feeling your worst, no real sleep for days, weeks, or months, you’re lightheaded and dizzy all the time from being dehydrated and hungry, you’re clothes are covered with mud or dirt, your skin is broken out in rashes, biting or bloodsucking insects rule your world, you’re feeling like shit in every possible way and then you get killed.  It’s always made me white-hot pissed off that conditions aren’t better for our men and women in the military.  Oh, I forgot to mention, they also deal with old or crappy equipment or maybe worse, new gear that hasn’t been sufficiently tested.  It’s unbelievable.  I can never get my head around it.  And we don’t learn.  I’m no military historian but from the little I’ve read it’s been going on for hundreds if not thousands of years.  If the powers that be want to win the war, why aren’t they giving the ones fighting it proper food, water, gear, meaningful money and everything else?”

     “I brought that up with Timothy a long time ago.  I said, ‘don’t you think they should treat you and your fellow soldiers better?  Why must things be miserable for you?’  He didn’t see it that way.  Timothy said, ‘we sign up knowing we won’t be sleeping on expensive mattresses and eating shrimp cocktail.  I feel proud of the life we live.’”

     Bill turned his whole body around and faced Penny from his barstool.  “Timothy is a great man.  Our country is lucky he is willing to sacrifice, but I can see you miss him.  I hope he decides to come home soon.”

     Although Bill liked Penny, her situation was getting to him.  He wanted to help her but what could he do?  Bill felt relieved when she stood up and said, “Thank you.  I’m going to head out because I think Timothy must have gone home to meet me, instead of here.  I guess we got our signals crossed.  Nice talking to you, Bill.”

     “Nice talking to you too, Penny,” said Bill as he stood up out of courtesy.  He watched her walk away.  All of the good ones are married, Bill said to himself. 

     Doug put Bill’s plate of food down on the counter along with a set of silverware rolled up in a paper napkin.  “Pretty isn’t she?” said Doug.

     “Yeah,” said Bill.  “But even if she wasn’t married she’s a little young for me.”

     “Don’t rule out the young ones, Bill.  Sometimes that’s what an old guy like you needs to put a little pep in his you know what.”

     Bill laughed.  “A little pep never hurts, regardless of how you get it.  I haven’t seen you in a while.  Who you going with these days?”

     “A lady I met at a car show named Marjorie.  Real down to earth.  No bullshit.  Calm as hell too.  I dropped one of her grandmother’s ceramic bowls the first time she had me to dinner and she didn’t flip out at all.  Tell me not to screw this one up Bill.”

     “Doug, do not screw this up.  Anytime you feel like whipping it out with someone other than Marjorie you call me.  Hear?  Anytime, day or night.  Or better yet, just get out of there, wherever there is.  You can do that, can’t you Doug?”

     “Thanks, bro.  Eat up.  I don’t want to listen to Darnell bitch and whine about spoiled, decadent Americans who don’t realize there are people starving all over the world if food comes back on your plate.”

     ‘That won’t be a problem.  Darnell done good with this burger biscuit deal.”

     “Have a good night, Bill.  Great to see you in these parts again.”

     After Bill finished eating and laid a twenty on the counter, Russell came over with the carton of orange juice.  “This one’s on me.”

     “Thanks.  Halfway will do.”

     “What did you think of Penny?”

     “Couldn’t be sweeter.  I can’t believe her husband is on leave and lets her sit here waiting for him while he’s with his buddies.  Even though it’s none of my business, does he take her for granted?”

     “There is no husband.”

     The glass of orange juice dropped out of Bill’s hand.  Russell grabbed it before it fell over.

     “Jesus Christ.  I totally believed her.  And you’re telling me the nicest woman I’ve met in years is crazy and delusional.”

     “Penny has become like a little sister to me since Timothy died, therefore I wouldn’t want to put it that way, but yeah, I guess it would be accurate to say delusional.  Well, actually because I’m not a psychiatrist I don’t know what terminology they would use to describe her.  I just feel bad for her.  I don’t need to label her and put her in a box.”

     “Me neither.  All I meant was she seemed so together and grounded.  If you had asked me how she would respond to Timothy dying I would have said, “She’s strong. She’ll handle it.”

     “Timothy was killed in action, in a roadside bomb attack near Kirkuk.”

     “When?”

     “Three days after he arrived, in 2007.”

     “That means everything she said about him loving the country and the people and believing in bringing freedom to the Iraqi people is horseshit?”

     “Pretty much.  Timothy spent some time with me before he went over.  I know his father somewhat.  His father was never on board with anything the Bush family did.  I think he hoped if Timothy heard my views on Vietnam, about how it was a civil war and not a fight against communism like the way it was sold to everybody as being, that Timothy might figure out there is more than one way to analyze a conflict.”

     “Well, I don’t intend to disrespect Timothy’s father, I don’t know the man, but I question how he can expect his son to bail out on his commitment to serve his country at the eleventh hour?”

     “You’re right.  He should have talked to Timothy about things the moment Timothy said he would be joining up.  Me talking with him couldn’t do much of anything at that point.”

     Russell paused.  “I didn’t meant to try to run your life by telling you about Penny.  It’s just that she’s become like a little sister to me.  I only want people to be gentle with her.  There was a guy in here one time who knew Timothy had left us and instead of just shutting the fuck up, he kept questioning Penny about where was Timothy and what was he doing and why wasn’t he in here with her and on and on.  Finally I told him he had to leave.  She was almost destroyed by all those questions.  I know you’re not an a-hole to women or nothing like that but if you see her again, just be gentle with her, will you?”

     “Don’t sweat that.  She’s got another older brother in me if that’s cool with you.”

 

     Russell stuck out his hand for the black power handshake.  “Welcome to the family, my man.  We’re going to be one big happy family.”

     After they shook hands, Bill looked around.  “It got so quiet.  Is that the pattern most nights?  Super busy and then nothing?”

     “On Friday night classic car nights it is.  Those guys hit the hay early so they can get on the road before sunup to make the drive to some car show somewhere.  They love it.”

     “Do you have time for me to ask you something I’ve always wanted to ask you?”

     “We can talk until Darnell rings the ship’s bell.  Then I’ll be doing closing stuff.  What’s on your mind?”

     “You have all of your great photos from Vietnam on the walls and then there’s one, just one, which isn’t from Nam.”  Bill nodded his head towards a black and white photo of two young men nattily dressed in suits, ties, and hats, looking as if they were going to a special event.  “It looks like it was taken in the thirties or forties.  Why did that one make the cut?  Why did you include it on these walls with your Vietnam photos?”

     “That’s my Grandpa Pete and his friend Eric.  They met while training to be part of a group called the Special Operations Executive, or SOE.  They didn’t know that was its name at the time.  To them the group was always identified as ‘the firm,’ because of the highly secret nature of its work.”

     “What exactly was its work?”

     “The agents were to engage in acts of sabotage which would make life difficult for the Germans such as blowing up transport hubs, trains, power stations, communications facilities, factories, and vehicles moving important Germans and Nazis from point A to point B.  They also distributed arms to member of the resistance and trained those people and any civilians who wanted to be trained in how to fight.  The goal was to have a force ready on the ground for when the invasion of the continent took place.”

     “Holy shit,” said Bill.  “I had no idea about any of this.  How did the arms get into the countries where the Germans had control?”

     “Dropped by parachute and you might be interested to know, since now you are housemates with a couple of pigeons, so were pigeons.  They used the birds for sending messages back when wireless would be too risky.  Who knows?  Maybe those two pigeons’ ancestors floated down to the soil of France in a container attached to a specially made pigeon parachute.”

     “The mother pigeon has such a tremendous amount of guts, the way she goes about with only one fully functioning leg, that I wouldn’t doubt that pigeons acquitted themselves very well, regardless of what they were asked to do.  Did your grandpa survive the war?”

     “No.  He was killed while on operations.  Eric saw it happen.  A Frenchman who was the owner of a supposedly safe house Grandpa Pete and Eric were in to send a radio transmission, shot him in the back of the head.”

     “Christ almighty.  What a way to go.  You have no time to defend your self.  One second you you’re operating a radio and in the next second, you’re gone.  I’m gonna guess Eric blamed himself.”

     “Decades later, yes, he still hated himself for what happened.   My mother heard him tell the story.  After this French guy shot Grandpa, Eric sliced his throat.  He jumped out the second story window, went down an alley and out onto the street, not knowing where to go.  The leader of the resistance in that area, drove up and convinced him to get in the car.  He took Eric to another safe house.  I left out an earlier thing that happened.  As the two men parachuted down, a gust of wind blew Eric towards a tree.   A branch got between the strap holding his pigeon container and Eric’s chest.  The strap broke and the container flew off and hit a rock.  The poor pigeon inside was badly injured.  Grandpa Pete insisted on leaving it behind because it couldn’t carry back a message.

     “They left to continue on to town but Eric couldn’t get over it.  He had to go back and try to save the pigeon.  He retraced their steps and found his pigeon gone.  When my mother tells the story of hearing Eric tell the story to my grandmother, some months after the Official Secrets Act expired, she says Eric broke down and sobbed about being responsible for Grandpa Pete’s death.  He just cried and cried, saying over and over again, ‘It was my fault.  If I had known about wireless I could have been the one sitting in that chair with my back to the door.  Peter had you and the children to look after.  His death brought you so much sadness.  I didn’t have anyone who needed looking after.  No one would have felt sad if I was gone.  Why did it have to be him?  Why not me?  Why did it have to him?’

     “I don’t know how long he went on like this.  My mother says it seemed like forever and nothing anyone said made him feel any better.  But at some point he suddenly collected himself and went on with the story.   My mother says when he told about being brought to the second safe house by the leader of the resistance Eric went through this dramatic change and looked like it was the happiest moment of his life.  What do you think happened?”

     “They were the ones who found the pigeon.”

     “That’s right.  My mother never fails to express her amazement that such a strong connection could be made between a person and a pigeon in those few minutes they had together when he was issued the pigeon in the barn at the airfield.  Me, I can understand it completely, even though I don’t have any special fondness for pigeons, because I’ve gone into combat.  I’ve tried to explain to her that in combat every member of the team matters, whether it’s your horse, like in olden times, a dog, the mules carrying your gear, every man, no matter how minor his role may seem.  They all matter.  And your equipment matters just as much.  Every helicopter, every aircraft, every gun, every belt of ammo, every hand grenade is a member of the team.  They almost become like people because of how you depend on and work with your different kinds of gear.”

     “When did you first hear this story?”

     “My mother has been telling it for as long as I can remember.  She wanted my brother and I to know we had an ancestor in Grandpa Pete who did incredibly brave work undercover behind enemy lines.  She would sometimes say if we complained and said something was too hard to do, ‘No, its not too hard for you because you are made of the same stuff as Grandpa Pete.’  I’m grateful to her for holding us to a high standard but I’ve got to be honest, my desire to be as brave and self-sacrificing as Grandpa probably made me more susceptible to the pablum we were spoon fed about Vietnam in the early days.  I wanted to be a courageous man, like Grandpa, so I joined.  I didn’t think.  I just mindlessly wanted to be able to say to myself I was as good as he was.”

     “A lot of guys have that in their family, Russell.  Don’t beat yourself up.   What happened to Eric?  Because your grandpa was killed wouldn’t Eric have been in a lot of danger too?  His cover had to have been blown.”

     “In those days the term they used for blown cover was ‘burnt’ and he was, however, other players on the German side wanted him alive for a while because he could be useful to them.  He didn’t know that until he was captured.  A German colonel told him he had to give intelligence to the Germans or he and the family he was staying with would all be killed.  Luckily, the German colonel in Argentan, that’s where Eric was, had been placed there by the British Secret Service.  He had a British plane pick Eric and the family up in the middle of the night and brought to London.”

     “That’s a hell of a close call,” said Bill.

     Russell looked around.  “What time is it?  I didn’t hear a bell.  Did you?”

     From a few seats away Nick said, “Darnell saw you talking to Bill and it’s been so dead for the past hour he and Doug have been able to do everything for closing.”

     “Cool,” said Russell. 

     “You should tell Bill your theory about him and Eric,” said Nick.

     “You have a theory about me and Eric?” said Bill.

     “It’s kind of heavy.  I’m afraid I might trip you out.  Why did you have to say anything, Nick?”

     “Because I think it has validity and I am not the one who did hundreds of hits of acid in the sixties and seventies.  My take on things has credibility.  I was just trying to help out.”

     “How much acid did you actually do, Russell?  Do you have any idea?” asked Bill.

     “Nope and I prefer to think of it as how many consciousness raising experiences did I have.  A man can do a pretty good amount of that stuff and still be an intelligent, functional human being.   The real issue right now is, if Nick thinks my theory about you and Eric is legit, does that really make any difference to you?” said Russell, laughing.

     Bill looked at Nick and said seriously, ignoring Russell’s attempt to make fun of Nick, “Yeah, yeah it would.  I respect Nick.”  Turning back towards Russell, Bill added, “And unlike you, his brain isn’t half fried from hallucinogenic substances.”

     “Well, then Nick, why don’t you explain it to Bill.”

     “Russell and I believe that you were Eric in one of your previous lives.”

     “You believe in that?” asked Bill.

     “Yeah, how else do you explain some of the stuff people do.  Everyone gets so intense about their particular things.  For example, one guy is a freak for football while the next guy spends his food money on buying music.  One woman is up to her eyeballs in debt from buying clothes and her friend wears hand me downs and doesn’t care about fashion at all. Why?  If you ask them, they’ll say something like, ‘I don’t know.  I just love football,’ or ‘I don’t know, but beautiful clothes and outfits inspire me.  It’s not a good day unless I create the perfect ensemble.’  Or think about people choosing a career.  How does that happen?  Why do people make the choices they do?  You will hear things said like, ‘I don’t know.  It felt like a calling,’ or ‘it just felt right.’  Why did you go into radio, Bill?”

     “My friends asked me to help them with their radio show during college.  The first time I was in the control room, I knew that’s where I wanted to be and you’re right, I can’t tell you why.  That’s just the way it is.”

     “Exactly,” said Nick.  “Russell and I think you feel the need to be in there and to know everything because you’re trying to atone for feeling responsible for Grandpa Pete’s death.  There was one night you were telling a story about a boss you once had who didn’t give a crap about the station.  You said, ‘he comes into the control room and tells me he doesn’t want to be here, he’d rather be at home on the couch scratching himself.’  That guy made you crazy.  Thank God your next job was with people who cared enough to keep you from going ballistic.”

     “After that story,” said Russell, “we didn’t connect you to Eric.  It was after you had the pigeons staying on your porch.  When they built the nest and you were going on and on about how happy you were to help them have a safe place to raise their babies, we both started to catch a vibe on you having been Eric.”

     “I hope we haven’t said anything to creep you out.  It’s not like we’re in here constantly analyzing your behavior.  Bits and pieces just sort of came together and when I suggested it to Russell he said he had been contemplating the same thing.  Do you mind?”

     “No, but I have to admit, I’m surprised you would believe in something as mystical or cosmic, or however you want to describe it, as reincarnation.  I always thought of you as down to earth, pragmatic people.”

     “My whole family is into it,” said Nick.  “We once spent most of Thanksgiving dinner discussing what animal everybody thought they had been in a previous life.  My uncle was the only one who didn’t buy in.  We told him he must have been an anteater because in this life he’s in the habit of sticking his long snout into other people’s affairs.”

     “You never thought about reincarnation, Bill, ever?” asked Russell.

     Without hesitation Bill said, “No.  I take each day as it comes.”  Bill had no interest in sharing what the little dove had done with Russell and Nick.  It was too special and he wasn’t interested in hearing anything  they had to say about the little dove.

     Bill stood up.  “Thank you, though for telling me.  It’ll give me some way of thinking about things from now on.  I’m going to hit the road.  I’ll see you next time.”

     “You seem upset,” said Nick.

     “No, really I’m not.  It’s just a lot to digest all at once, that I was alive and a spy and killed a man during the Second World War.  It’ll take getting used to, is all.”

     Russell and Bill shook hands.  Nick came over and shook hands with Bill.

     “See you ‘round the campfire,” said Nick.

     “Have a good night, guys,” said Bill as he walked off.

     As Bill drove home, he realized that something about Russell and Nick’s beliefs had made the dove coming back to life less believable.  Frustrated with himself, Bill said out loud, “You decided you were going to believe the dove came back.  If you doubt it, then you aren’t respecting what the dove did to show you he was back.  Why are you questioning it all over again, because of Nick and Russell?”

     After unlocking his door, the answer came to Bill.  Russell and Nick didn’t seem to take any of it seriously.   To them it was speculation, or something theoretical to toss around, or a kind of a parlor game.  They had no emotion invested in it.  Bill reprimanded himself.  Your way of approaching these things is just as valid as theirs.  Don’t doubt what happened because you feel a hell of a lot more emotion about the dove than they do about you having been Eric.  Why do you always believe you have to be like everybody else?  Why do you always feel like your way of looking at things isn’t acceptable?

     As Bill fell asleep he had the same ugly realization he’d had before.  You can’t let yourself believe the little dove came back because you don’t believe you deserve to have that kind of knowledge.  And, you don’t believe you deserve the love the little dove gave you when he showed you he was back.  Bill slept a sad and painful sleep, dreaming he was a pigeon struggling to keep his message laden leg tight against his body as he flew through smoke, schrapnel and clods of dirt thrust into the air by bursting artillery shells.

 

Friday, January 24, 2020

 

     Bill came home after work and found a small manila envelope stuck between his front door and the frame.  He recognized Russell’s handwriting on the front of the envelope and although they hadn’t spoken about Eric since that one night, Bill felt sure this envelope had something to do with Eric.

     After doing a few things, Bill went out on the porch.  In the left corner of the roof over the porch the father pigeon sat happily on his first pair of eggs for this nesting season.  After saying hello to him, Bill sensed movement in the back right corner of the porch on the diagonal from the father pigeon. He turned and saw a female pigeon assiduously weaving twigs into a tightly woven nest, a weave much tighter than the nests by the other two pigeons.  Wow, thought Bill, I wouldn’t have guessed the pigeons would be willing to share this little area.  I wonder if the mother pigeon knows.

     Hearing the sound of pigeon feet landing on the iron railing, Bill spun around.  A male pigeon he had never seen before and the mother pigeon stood side by side.  “I should have known you guys would have it all figured out,” said Bill, laughing.  “I shouldn’t have wondered.  When am I going to learn, birds, when?”

     What Bill couldn’t know was that Eddie and Little Raindrop had met Sunny and Dale, as the mother and father pigeon were known by their flock, in the strip mall parking lot a few weeks ago.

     “When you’re ready to have your first nest, come have it where we have ours,” said Sunny.  “We would love that.”

     “We would,” said Dale.  “This is the first year we’ve ever invited anyone.  Before we never would have allowed another pair of birds on our porch because it would attract attention, from people and from hawks.  Now with nesting sites dwindling in the city, we felt we should do our part to help other birds.”

     “All that we ask,” said Sunny, “Is that if you see a hawk or people near the porch, don’t fly to it.  Fly somewhere else and wait until you can fly in without being noticed.  Do you know what I mean?”

     “Yes,” said Little Raindrop.  “Would you mind showing us where you fly to if you have to wait?”

     “We will, and soon, because we’re hoping to have our first eggs by the end of January,” said Dale.

     Eddie flew up to Little Raindrop to give her the twig he had carried back.  “Do you still like him?  Do you mind having our little yellow pigeons near him?”

     “Sunny and Dale have been on this porch for a long time.  If they like him, I think I do as well.”

     “I liked him right away, but please, if you change your mind, we can look for another place for our nests after this one.  Do you need a break?”

     “Yes, I would like to fly for a bit.  I’ll see you soon.”  Little Raindrop flew off as Eddie took up his spot on the nest, testing out its dimensions.

     Bill opened the manila envelope.  Inside was a note from Russell and a black and white photograph of a serious looking man, a very pretty dark haired woman with a dazzling smile and a small boy standing in front of them.  Instantly the boy reminded Bill of the little dove.  He had the same upward tilt of his head, the same black eyes, the same serous, penetrating gaze, and although he was obviously small for his age, the same determined, brave way of standing as the little dove.

     The note read, “Bill, I was going through some stuff and found this photo.  The man is Eric, the woman is his wife Marie, and the boy is David.  My mother would always say, when she told the story of Grandpa Pete and Eric, that Eric and David took a liking to each other on the day Eric arrived at the house.  When Eric visited Grandma, he mentioned many times how David had given him an appreciation for pigeons and doves and all birds, really.  Eric would say, ‘I learned from David to treat the pigeons and the doves as equals and from there, I went on to think of all species as being equal to man.  I owe David a great debt of gratitude for teaching me that.’  This photo is yours to keep.  I hope you don’t mind me dropping it off.  I take some comfort that Grandpa Pete died in the service of ridding the world of tyranny and that his friend Eric learned such a valuable lesson from a small boy.  God Bless.  Best, Russell.”

     Bill smiled.  Now he understood.  I’m going to have to think of a way to thank Russell, thank him for helping me to understand why the little dove meant so much to me.  Thank you Russell.  Now I have peace about the little dove.

     Bill went inside to put some food together.  He had leftover take out barbeque and corn from a few nights ago. Being too hungry to heat it up, he took it out to the porch.

     As he ate his corn he looked up at the new father pigeon.  Why is that bird looking at my corn like that, he wondered.  Bill cut some of the corn off the cob, put it on a napkin, and laid it on the floor of the porch.  The pigeon zoomed down to the corn.  As he was eating it, Little Raindrop flew back and landed on the railing.

     “Eddie!  You’re finally having fresh corn!  That’s so wonderful!  Is it as good as we told you it is?”

     “Yes.  I love it.  Please come have the rest of it with me.”

 

 

Twentieth Century

 

 

1946

 

 

     Blue watched as the sun made a dazzling path of moving light on the ocean waves.  He was sitting on his second pair of eggs by the sea on the west coast of England.  He had come to love watching the light change if it was a sunny day or the clouds gathering and scudding across the sky if a windy storm was on the way while he spent the day keeping his eggs or his baby birds warm.

     One day in May Linda said, “We decided that after Al and Beatrix had two nests here at Marie and Eric’s cottage that then we would choose whether to raise our little yellow pigeons here or not.  Have you decided?  What have you been thinking?”

     “I love Eric, David, Emile, and Marie but I keep remembering the life the pigeons had on the coast of France in the fresh sea air, away from towns and without any obligation to ever consider whether they had a duty to people.  I want to know what it’s like to live as a pigeon who makes decisions which don’t involve people.  My whole life has been governed by what is good for people, by how people need for me to help them.  I’d like to try something different but only if you will go too.  If you want to stay here, my love, we will.”

     “I’ve thought of those pigeons too.  They had a freedom we could never have if we stay here.  My great-great grandmother carried messages from the trenches during the First World War.  After three flights she was shot.  She spent the rest of her life going about on one leg.  Flying, yes, but walking and getting about on the ground caused her tremendous pain.  What she said to her children was passed down to each generation.  ‘If there are people, there will always be war.  And if you are a pigeon fed by people, they will expect you to carry messages.  You will have no choice.  It will always be like that. So my greatest hope is that my offspring will break free.  Just go.  You can make your way.’  No one ever did though and I think it’s because no one ever witnessed a pigeon living a life of freedom.  The loft life is all we knew.  We saw that life and then we continues to serve people, carrying messages in the Low Countries and then for the Middle East Pigeon Service.  We never disappeared on a training toss when we easily could have.  We did our job.  It’s time for us to do what my great-great grandmother wanted.”

     The pigeons in the neighborhood told them where to go on the coast.  Al and Beatrix gave them nest-building tips.  But how could they say goodbye to Eric and everyone else?

     In the summer of 1945 Eric and the boys had built a wooden roof adjacent to the cottage.  It half covered the stone patio they had built be fore the roof.  “It’s so nice to be able to be outside withut worrying about an Allied plane dropping a bomb in the wrong place that I wish I never had to go in.  Not to sleep, not to eat, not ever,” Emile said soon after they arrived in England.

     “So let’s build a partly covered area where we can sit even if it’s blowing and raining,” said Eric.

     As they all sat eating lunch in the mid-afternoon on a Sunday, Linda and Blue flew over and perched on the table.

     “They’ve been around us in one way or another all day,” said Eric.  “What’s going on?”

     “They’re trying to tell us something,” said Marie.  “When Paul let his pigeons go free bit by bit in 1939 before each pair left they were underfoot the day before.  I think it’s their way of saying goodbye.”

     “I think you’re right, Mother,” said David.  “They’ll be gone tomorrow.  I’m not really surprised because they’ve had two months to build a nest and they haven’t built one.  They have a plan.”

     Eric turned toward Blue and Linda.  “You’ve done your time.  You deserve your freedom.  We love you and wherever you are, we wish you the best of luck.”

     “Maybe we should leave now, instead of tomorrow morning,” said Linda. 

     “Now that we know they understand, I’m ready.  I’m so ready.  Let’s go.”

     The two pigeons took off, circled they yard a couple of times swooping down towards everybody at the table on each circle and then angled sharply upward and to the west.

     After a couple of miles they saw a flock of pigeons headed towards them.  They recognized it as a flock Al and Beatrix flew with.  As they came closer they heard Beatrix calling out, “Your babies will be beautiful.  We love you!”  Al and the rest of the pigeons started up a chorus of “good luck and you’re going to outfly those hawks and your babies will be great fliers,” that lasted until Blue and Linda had flown past the flock.

     Now the ocean had turned a silvery blue color and the sun’s path of light on the water wasn’t as dazzling as it had been a few hours ago.  Linda would be home soon, to take her place on their eggs.  Blue would fly inland to eat and catch up on news with the other father pigeons. None of the father pigeons would say it out loud but each of them knew that every father pigeon was grateful that none of their baby pigeons would be banded at ten days old, taken away from them, and trained to carry messages before they went off to war, as pigeons had been doing for thousands of years.