The Long Flight Home

The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad
The Long Flight Home

The Long Flight Home

by Alan Hlad

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Overview

A USA Today Bestseller 

Inspired by fascinating, true, yet little-known events during World War II,
The Long Flight Home is a testament to the power of courage in our darkest hours—a moving, masterfully written story of love and sacrifice.
 
It is September 1940—a year into the war—and as German bombs fall on Britain, fears grow of an impending invasion. Enemy fighter planes blacken the sky around the Epping Forest home of Susan Shepherd and her grandfather, Bertie. After losing her parents to influenza as a child, Susan found comfort in raising homing pigeons with Bertie. All her birds are extraordinary to Susan—loyal, intelligent, beautiful—but none more so than Duchess. Hatched from an egg that Susan incubated in a bowl under her grandfather’s desk lamp, Duchess shares a special bond with Susan and an unusual curiosity about the human world. 
 
Thousands of miles away in Buxton, Maine, young crop-duster pilot Ollie Evans decides to join Britain’s Royal Air Force. His quest brings him to Epping and the National Pigeon Service, where Susan is involved in a new, covert mission to air-drop hundreds of homing pigeons in German-occupied France. Many will not survive. Those that do will bring home crucial information. Soon a friendship between Ollie and Susan deepens, but when his plane is downed behind enemy lines, both know how remote the chances of reunion must be. Yet Duchess will become an unexpected lifeline, relaying messages between Susan and Ollie as war rages on—and proving, at last, that hope is never truly lost.

“Hlad adeptly drives home the devastating civilian cost of the war.”
—Booklist

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781496721693
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 06/25/2019
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 304
Sales rank: 85,972
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Alan Hlad is the internationally bestselling author of historical fiction novels inspired by real people and events of WWI and WWII, including The Book Spy, Churchill’s Secret Messenger, A Light Beyond the Trenches, and the USA Today and IndieBound bestseller The Long Flight Home. A member of the Historical Novel Society, Literary Cleveland, Novelitics, and the Akron Writers' Group, he is a frequent speaker at conferences, literary events, and book club gatherings. He currently divides his time between Ohio and Portugal and can be found online at AlanHlad.com.
 

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Epping, England — September 7, 1940

On the day of the atrocity, Susan Shepherd was working in a pigeon loft, sprinkling feed — a mixture of sorghum, wheat, and field peas — into a long metal tray. A few sleepy squabs lifted their heads from under their wings but made no effort to leave their nests. Most of the pigeons were outside, circling the rolling green sheep pasture or decorating the bending birches of Epping Forest.

"You're going to help us save Britain," she whispered.

The loft was a twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot wooden shed lined with cubbyholes like a primary-school classroom. But instead of holding rain boots, hats, or wet gloves, the tiny compartments were the homes for more than sixty pigeons. This was the original loft, constructed by her grandfather, Bertie, before she had been born. And over the past year, a dozen new lofts had been hastily built. Except for more pigeons, her grandfather's farm hadn't changed since she'd left to study zoology at the University of London. Same musty smell: a mixture of down feathers, droppings, and grain. She hadn't expected to return home so soon, but her volunteer work for the National Pigeon Service had postponed her studies in lieu of a more important endeavor — raising war pigeons.

As Susan brushed away specks of feed from her well-worn skirt — repaired with darn and patch — her eyes were drawn to the faded pencil marks on a wall Bertie had made to record her growth as a wee child. She had pressed her back against the wall and stretched her neck like a giraffe. Desperate to grow, she had even resorted to stuffing her shoes with tissue. And six months later, Bertie only laughed when his granddaughter, who failed to remember her tissue, had shrunk an inch. During her childhood, she had grown quite fond of the pencil gracing the top of her head, the sound of scratching lead, and turning in anticipation to check her height as an audience of pigeons cooed in amusement. Susan kneeled and touched her first marking as a toddler, a date shortly after she had come to live with Bertie.

I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza.

Susan shook the childhood jump-rope rhyme from her mind, then picked up a wooden spoon and rapped the side of a can, once used to hold the paint that now peeled from the siding of her grandfather's cottage.

Pigeons flocked through a hole cut near the ceiling. One by one, they entered the loft and fluttered to the ground. The pigeons scuttled along the floor, jutting their heads and flicking their feet, while their bodies remained eloquent and steady, as if they could balance acorns on their tails. The last bird entered, stood on the grain barrel, and tilted its head.

"Hello, Duchess," Susan said.

The bird — unique with its glowing, purplish-green neck plume, more appropriate for a peacock than a pigeon — fluttered to the floor and waddled to Susan's feet.

"I'm afraid I've spoiled you." Susan poured feed into her hand and kneeled.

Duchess pecked at the grains.

The touch of the beak tickled Susan's palm. She knew she shouldn't be hand-feeding a pigeon — it wasn't the Pigeon Service's protocol, or her grandfather's — and would no doubt cause problems if Duchess were put into service. But this bird was different. All because a feral cat had managed to scratch its way under the door and take the lives of Bertie's prized racing pigeons, Skye and Islay.

Three years earlier, Susan and Bertie had found what was left of Skye behind the grain barrel. They had found Islay in her nest with a severely injured wing, sitting on an egg she had laid before her attack. They had tried to repair Islay's wing with tape and splinters of wood, but she was too weak to eat, and she sat feebly on her egg for five days before she passed. They had buried her in one of Bertie's tobacco boxes, next to Skye near the edge of Epping Forest.

When none of the other pigeons would sit on the egg, tainted from the feline tragedy, Susan insisted on incubating it, despite her grandfather's belief that the chances of the egg hatching were extraordinarily slim, especially without a calibrated incubator that they could not afford. Stubborn like her grandfather, Susan retrieved a blue ceramic bowl, once used by her grandmother to eat oatmeal. She warmed the bowl with water from the teakettle to establish a good base temperature, then delicately wrapped the egg in a lightly moistened towel and placed it inside. Setting the bowl under Bertie's desk lamp, she adjusted the distance to reach the ideal temperature by using a medical thermometer, which she had tested by sticking it under a nesting pigeon.

For two weeks and two days, Susan rotated the egg every eight hours and sprinkled drops of water onto the towel to keep the proper humidity. And despite the odds of having to bury the egg next to its parents, 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.

"Your parents and your granny would be proud of you," Bertie had said.

Susan, a heaviness in her chest, had smiled and gently caressed the hatchling.

It had been a miracle, but Susan knew that this hatchling still had a slim chance of survival without the aid of her parents' pigeon milk. Undeterred, she took to grinding seed into paste and feeding the hatchling by hand. Within a few days, the hatchling was able to stand, unfurl its wings, and peck. One week later, it was eating feed with the others in the loft. And Susan named her Duchess, despite her grandfather's fondness for naming his racing pigeons after remote Scottish land masses, none of which they had ever visited.

Duchess had grown into something extraordinary. And it wasn't just her looks, even though her neck plume shimmered like mother of pearl. It was the bird's intelligence — or odd behavior, as her grandfather believed — that made her stand out among the flock. While homing pigeons were trained by the reward of food, Duchess seemed to be driven by the need to understand the world around her, a strange sense of curiosity hidden behind her golden eyes. Instead of joining the group, Duchess was content to watch her companions eat as she stood on Susan's shoulder, cooing in response to Susan's words, as if the bird enjoyed the art of conversation. And even more impressive was Duchess's athletic ability; she was typically the first to arrive home after the pigeons were released at a distant training location. Bertie had commented that Duchess was the fastest to return only because of her desire to get a few minutes of Susan's undivided attention. Susan laughed but knew there was some truth to what he said.

As Susan stroked Duchess's back with a finger, a siren sounded. She stopped. The horn began as a low growl, then grew to an ear-piercing roar, tapering off, then repeating. Goose bumps cropped up on her arms. Pigeons fluttered. Walls vibrated. Seed in the feeding tray quivered.

The door flew open. Her grandfather, a bowlegged man wearing a tarnished tin helmet, shouted, "Luftwaffe!" He grabbed Susan's hand and pulled.

Susan saw the spring door closing behind her, Duchess standing calmly on the ground as the other pigeons scattered. "Duchess!" She broke her grandfather's grip, threw open the door, and scooped up the bird.

Susan, with Duchess tucked into the crook of her arm, ran with Bertie toward the bomb shelter, just like they had rehearsed, praying each time that this day would never come. But they knew it was merely a matter of time. As they ran across the field and past several other pigeon lofts, the siren wailed from nearby North Weald Airfield.

Bertie paused as he struggled to catch his breath. He pushed up his old military helmet that kept falling over his eyes. "Hurry!" he shouted.

Before they reached the shelter, the siren died, replaced by the buzz of mechanical bees. Susan looked up, swallowed, and pushed up the brim of Bertie's helmet. Hundreds of enemy bombers, and nearly twice as many fighters, darkened the late-afternoon sky like a swarm of black flies. Antiaircraft fire boomed. Black bursts exploded below the aerial armada.

The shelter was a broad earthen mound under the canopy of a large beech tree. Green grass now covered the embankment, blending the refuge into the rolling pasture. Except for the front door, which made it look like a home for a hobbit, the sanctuary was camouflaged. Susan had helped her grandfather build the shelter, piling up wheelbarrows of dirt and mixing concrete in buckets to line the inner walls reinforced with remnant bricks and scrap steel from a demolished cannery. And for the entrance, they used a door from an old outhouse.

As they reached the shelter, the bellies of the bombers cracked open. Instead of hunkering into the pit, they were compelled — despite their own safety — to watch scrambling Royal Air Force Hurricane fighters soar over the trees and pitch sharply to the sky. The fighter squadron was sorely outnumbered as enemy escort fighters bearing the Iron Cross swooped down to surround them. The RAF put up a short but valiant effort. One Hurricane exploded after rounds of enemy gunfire pierced its fuel tank, sending shrapnel over Epping Forest. Another had its tail shot off, sending the Hurricane into a spinning dive and crashing into a field with no sign of the pilot bailing out. One by one, the RAF Hurricanes were shot down, and the few planes lucky enough to suffer only minor damages retreated with smoke pouring from their engines.

Susan and Bertie watched the invaders fly toward London, a mere twenty miles away, contested only by inaccurate antiaircraft fire. Seeds of destruction dropped from the bellies of the bombers and whistled to the ground.

"My God." Tears flowed down Susan's cheeks as the first bombs exploded.

As night set in, the horizon of London glowed with scores, perhaps hundreds, of great fires. And with the darkness came a second wave of bombers dropping their payloads throughout the night, using the burning fires to identify their targets. White-hot incendiary bombs flared. Echoes of explosions filled the air.

At 4:30 AM, the bombing stopped. Susan stepped to Bertie, sitting on the ground, and helped him to his feet. With weak legs, he shuffled into the shelter, then curled onto a cot with his tin helmet covering his face. Unable to rest, Susan stood outside with Duchess cradled in her arms and watched the glow on the horizon. The grinding continued as the German planes flew overhead, masking the stars and crescent moon. She closed her eyes and prayed that they would not return. But the following evening they came back. And again the night after that.

CHAPTER 2

Buxton, Maine — September 8, 1940

Ollie Evans, lured by a squeaky porch swing and the roasted-nut aroma of chicory coffee, opened the screen door. He found his parents gently rocking, sharing a wool blanket and a cup of coffee, as an orange sun rose above the dew-glistened potato fields.

The cup in his mother's hand, Ollie noticed, was a misshapen toad-green mug he had made in industrial arts class in the seventh grade. He chuckled. "Where did you find it?"

His mother shrugged, wisps of faded brown hair resting on her shoulders. She sipped. Steam swirled in the cool air.

Ollie was no longer a little boy. He was six feet tall, give or take an inch, with wavy brown hair and caramel eyes, a gift from his mother. The dimple on his chin mirrored the one on his father. As Ollie took a seat on the porch steps, an unsettling feeling that he should be somewhere else filled his belly. It wasn't unusual to be home in the fall. After all, most of the schools would soon be on potato recess. Unfortunately, his harvest break was more permanent.

"I'm proud of you," his father said.

"For what?" Ollie asked.

"For putting family first." He accepted the mug from his wife and drank. "I'm sorry you're still home." He nudged the cane hanging from the side of the swing. "It wasn't fair that you had to stay."

"That's okay. The farm's important. And so are you."

Three years ago, his father's muddy boot slipped off the tractor's clutch while attempting to pull out a stump. The machine flipped backward, pinning his father's right leg, shattering his hip, and snapping a femur in two places. Ollie, unable to lift the tractor, dug him out with a hand trowel from the garden shed. His mother had called for an ambulance and helped by scraping earth with her bare hands, ripping off three of her fingernails. It had been a painful recovery, including two surgeries and agonizing rounds of physical therapy. And now his father, held together with screws and wire, was able to perform some of the farm duties, except for plowing and crop-dusting. He was no longer able to work the pedals, the strain too much for his brittle leg. His father didn't seem to mind moving as slowly as a tortoise, the constant ache in his joints, or the pronounced limp in his walk. 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.

His mother adjusted the blanket covering their laps, took the mug from her husband, and handed him the newspaper.

Ollie's father slid the rubber band from the paper, wrapped it around his forefinger, and shot it at Ollie.

Ollie ducked, even though it whizzed two feet over his head.

The smile fell from his father's face as he unfolded the paper. "Good God."

Mother's eyes widened.

"They've bombed London," Ollie's father said, showing her the paper.

"Those poor people," Mother said.

Ollie stepped to his parents and stared at the newspaper headline: Nazis Strike! German Planes Raid London! He took a deep breath and exhaled.

"The Nazis took France in just over a month," Ollie's father said. "Without our help, they'll take Britain in a year. And before we know it, we'll have a regatta of U-boats in Casco Bay."

Ollie crossed his arms as another debate about the war began to dominate their conversation. It usually started with the newspaper but always ended with his father's proclamation of their British heritage.

"FDR says we're going to stay neutral," Mother said.

"We'll be in this war eventually." Ollie's father tapped his thigh. "If I didn't have a bum leg, I'd have a mind to walk to Montreal and join the Merchant Navy. At least the Canadians have the guts to stand by Britain." He lowered the paper. "Our family may have lost our accent ..."

"But our blood is, and always will be, British," Ollie said, cutting off his father. "We know."

The porch turned silent, except for the creek of the swing and the caw of a crow in the potato field.

"I suggest that you never forget it." Ollie's father dropped the paper, retrieved his cane, and stood.

"Dad, I didn't mean to ..."

Father raised his hand. "Your mother and I have errands to run." He turned and went inside, the screen door banging against the frame.

Mother sighed and looked at Ollie. "Have you forgotten how your father lost his brother?"

"I'm sorry," Ollie said, recalling the uncle he had never met. Uncle Henry was killed in the Great War, two years before Ollie was born. Each year on Henry's birthday, Ollie's father honored his brother's memory by going salmon fishing, their favorite childhood sport in northern England. Ollie often joined his father for the day, fly-fishing in the solitude of the Saco River's rippling waters. Although his father spoke little of the details, Ollie had managed to piece together that a cloud of chlorine gas had forced Henry to abandon his trench in exchange for machine-gun fire. Henry died, and so did a piece of his father, in a French field on the Western Front.

"You should be more respectful of your father's feelings about the war. And mine." Mother paused. "Want something to eat?"

Ollie shook his head, feeling as if his stomach was filled with clay.

"You and your father can continue this discussion when we get back from town." Mother stood. "And I expect you to apologize."

"I will."

She placed her hands on her hips.

"I promise." Ollie retrieved the rubber band and slid it onto his wrist. "I better get going. Lots of dusting to do."

"Be careful," his mother said, going inside.

Behind the barn, Ollie saw the weathered canary-yellow biplane, looking like a prehistoric bird warming its old bones in the morning sun. The plane was fully fueled and loaded with insecticide, or what his father aptly called pixie dust. He checked the tension wires strung between the upper and lower wings, stepped into the cockpit, and put on his leather cap. As he flipped the ignition, the engine coughed and the propeller turned over, sending a vibrating buzz through his body. He advanced the power, moving the plane down a bumpy earthen runway that split the potato field. The plane accelerated, and the tail began to rise. Sensing the proper speed, considering the instrument panel didn't work, he pulled back on the stick, and the plane lifted into the air. He circled their house, wondering how he would smooth things over with his father. Flying west to the farmlands, he replaced thoughts of war with his longing of someday going away to college.

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "The Long Flight Home"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Alan Hlad.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Title Page,
Copyright Page,
Chapter 1 - Epping, England — September 7, 1940,
Chapter 2 - Buxton, Maine — September 8, 1940,
Chapter 3 - Epping, England — September 11, 1940,
Chapter 4 - Buxton, Maine,
Chapter 5 - Portland, Maine,
Chapter 6 - Epping, England,
Chapter 7 - Halifax, Nova Scotia,
Chapter 8 - Epping, England,
Chapter 9 - London, England,
Chapter 10 - North Weald, England,
Chapter 11 - Epping, England,
Chapter 12 - North Weald, England,
Chapter 13 - Epping, England,
Chapter 14 - Epping, England,
Chapter 15 - Epping, England,
Chapter 16 - Epping, England,
Chapter 17 - Epping, England,
Chapter 18 - Epping, England,
Chapter 19 - North Weald, England,
Chapter 20 - Epping, England,
Chapter 21 - North Weald, England,
Chapter 22 - North Weald, England,
Chapter 23 - 10,000 Feet Above the English Channel,
Chapter 24 - Epping, England,
Chapter 25 - Epping, England,
Chapter 26 - German-Occupied France,
Chapter 27 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 28 - Epping, England,
Chapter 29 - Epping, England,
Chapter 30 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 31 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 32 - Epping, England,
Chapter 33 - Epping, England,
Chapter 34 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 35 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 36 - Epping, England,
Chapter 37 - Epping, England,
Chapter 38 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 39 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 40 - Epping, England,
Chapter 41 - Epping, England,
Chapter 42 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 43 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 44 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 45 - Epping, England,
Chapter 46 - Epping, England,
Chapter 47 - Airaines, France,
Chapter 48 - Rouen, France,
Chapter 49 - Epping, England,
Chapter 50 - Epping, England,
Chapter 51 - Ascain, France,
Chapter 52 - The Pyrenees,
Chapter 53 - Epping, England,
Chapter 54 - Epping, England — March 21, 1941,
Chapter 55 - Epping, England — July 18, 1996,
Chapter 56 - Rochford, England,
Chapter 57 - Epping, England,
Chapter 58 - Epping, England,
Chapter 59 - Epping, England,
Chapter 60 - Home,
AUTHOR'S NOTE,
THE LONG FLIGHT HOME ABOUT THIS GUIDE,

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