The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

“You’re going to help us save Britain,” she whispered.

the egg quivered early on a Sunday morning. Susan and her grandfather skipped church, pulled up chairs, and watched for three hours as the egg slowly cracked open. As church bells rang over Epping to release their congregations, a shriveled hatchling poked its way into the world.

It was the inability to fly that had stolen his spirit, his once-dark hair turning gray with the passing of days spent grounded, as if the lower altitude accelerated the aging process.

A young girl in pigtails ran out of a cottage—the only home on the north side of the lake—and stood on a dock. She waved and jumped. Ollie tipped the wings, buzzed the shoreline, and performed his usual show for an audience of one.

“It’ll be over soon,” she whispered to herself, unaware that the Luftwaffe would bomb London for fifty-seven consecutive nights.

He had thought the death of his parents was perhaps the end of his tribulation, but he now realized it was merely the beginning.

“You’re as good as they are,” he whispered. “Be an egg.”

Be an egg, Susan thought. One could be soft with fear inside, but hard as slate outside. It was her grandfather’s phrase of affirmation, spoken seldom, but at the times she needed them most.

Susan, her gut twisted with angst, remained awake, wondering if the wings of a hundred thousand pigeons could change the course of the war.

And you probably didn’t know that a homing pigeon can travel distances of up to six hundred miles per day, fly at speeds of seventy miles per hour, and reach altitudes as high as thirty-five thousand feet.” Susan looked at Ollie. “At that height, Ollie, the temperature would be thirty-five degrees below zero, and a pilot would need a heated suit and oxygen.”

“In Maine, we believe in sharing wishes on shooting stars,” Ollie said. “We also disclose wishes involving birthday candles, dandelions, and ladybugs. And considering you’re in the company of an American for this celestial event, I think you need to tell me.”

“Mother should have been a teacher. She was incredibly smart and had a knack for making the complicated seem simple. But without a formal education, she settled for volunteering her spare time at the library, teaching adults to read.”

Sleeping on the ground had lowered his body temperature. He felt like a reptile in desperate need of the sun.

Retrieving a worn patchwork quilt her grandmother had sewn together from scrap material, she gently covered him. Many of the other blankets were thicker, softer, and no doubt warmer. But this tattered piece was his favorite.

The survival of Britain rested on the wings of these birds, she believed.