Free B for Buster by Iain Lawrence Page B

this one.” Bert clucked his tongue. “Pretty Gibby.” He smacked his kisses again, and the bird stretched out its neck. It warbled in its throat with a funny little cry that I had never heard before from any bird.
    â€œI know, I know,” said Bert. He piled the box on the trolley, gave the bird a little tickle, then eased its head through the flap and closed the door. He turned to me. “Lots of searchlights, sir? Flak was ’eavy?”
    I tried to make a joke. “He told you that, I guess.”
    â€œIn ’is little way,” said Bert. “Yes, sir. If Gibby comes ’ome uneasy, singing ’is little worry song, I know it’s been tough on ’im, sir.”
    â€œI
was
a little bit scared,” I told him.
    â€œNo shame in that, I’m sure,” said Bert. “The first op scares the willies out of people. For some blokes it’s too much. They see the flak and the fires, and they never get over it. The pigeons are the same way, sir. I’ve seen some go bonkers their first time up.”
    I felt a great relief just then. If even old Bert knew that ops were terrifying, maybe there was nothing wrong with me.
    No other wireless operators were coming with their boxes, so I didn’t mind lingering for a while, in the dark, with the filthy pigeoneer. I moved toward the trolley, hoping to find a place to sit, and nearly stepped on a pigeon that was loose on the ground. It startled me with its sudden flurry of wings, and went whistling past my face to perch on the pigeoneer’s shoulder.
    â€œAh, Percy,” said Bert. “Poor old chap; ’e’s probably been standing at attention down there all this time, ’oping we would see ’im.”
    I leaned back on the boxes. “Do you always let him fly around?”
    â€œAt night I do,” said Bert. “Safe enough at night. ’E’s my little pet, old Percy.”
    The pigeon cooed, a happy sound.
    â€œIs everyone ’ome, sir?” asked Bert.
    I shook my head, and his face went pale. “Who’s missing, sir?”
    â€œ
E for Eagle
isn’t back,” I told him.
    â€œNo!” He actually staggered sideways. Percy fluttered away, flying a circuit and bump to land again in the same spot. “Not that one, sir. There must be some mistake. That’s Jesse, sir. Twenty ops.
Twenty
ops, sir.”
    I was surprised that Bert knew any of the fliers. I said, “Was he a good pilot?”
    â€œNot the
pilot,
sir. The pigeon! Jesse Owens, fast as fire, sir. Nearly as fast as Percy. That black Morris that races about, that little car? Jesse can outrun it, sir. Like it was standing still. Jesse can—” His big, square face collapsed.
“Could,”
he said. “Jesse
could.
”
    His fists suddenly clenched. “You bastard!” he screamed. “Don’t you see what you’re doing? Don’t you care?”
    â€œWho are you shouting at?” I asked.
    â€œAt ’im!” Bert pointed at the air. “The man upstairs!”
    He was so big that he scared me. He was like the giant in my old storybooks, gentle one moment, fierce as God the next.
    Just as suddenly, he was himself again. He hung his head, flicked a white spiral of droppings from his sleeve, and sighed. “I’d better be off, sir,” he said. “Before they ’ear me down in High Wycombe. I’ll get the pigeons ’ome. Get my letter written. I always write to the breeder, sir, when a pigeon gets the chop.” He saluted again, and slouched off to the front of his trolley. “You ’ave a good sleep, sir,” he told me.
    I started back toward the huts, but Bert was still talking. “I’m going to fly them tomorrow,” he said. “Would you like to come, sir?”
    He caught me by surprise. If Lofty or Will had asked me that, I would have had to be wary, careful to make sure that I could fit into whatever we did or wherever we