Two Blackbirds by Garry Ryan

were going, and Milton must have been eavesdropping.”
    Milton smiled and turned to face Honeysuckle and Linda. “Guilty as charged.”
    Sean sat down across from Milton. He lifted one of Honeysuckle’s thick ham sandwiches and began to eat.
    Sharon sat down next to her brother, poured herself a cup of coffee, reached for a sandwich, and took a bite.
    â€œYou’re from Calgary?” Milton asked Sharon.
    She nodded.
    â€œI’m from north and east of Edmonton; a place called Smoky Lake.”
    Sharon glanced at Linda and saw how she was staring at Milton.
    â€œI come from the bush,” Milton said.
    â€œWhat exactly is the bush?” Linda asked.
    Our lives just got very complicated . Sharon found she was a little jealous and excited at the prospect of Linda having someone in her life.

CHAPTER 7
    [THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 1944]
    Sharon looked outside of the cockpit of her Spitfire and saw that the wingtips had disappeared in the grey-white fog.
    Rain gathered and skittered back along the outside of the canopy. More determined moisture made its way inside, gathered on the top of the Perspex canopy and dripped onto her slacks. The fabric on her knees was soaked through. She checked her instruments to ensure that she was on course, at altitude, and right side up.
    â€œShit!” Sharon exclaimed as she peered through the rain and fog in search of Longues. My first trip into France in four years, and I can’t see a bloody thing!
    The Spitfire flew into an open patch of sky. Sharon looked down and saw the Channel. She spotted cargo-laden landing craft making for the shoreline. The wake behind them told her she was headed in the right direction and — just a minute later! — she spotted the French coastline. She flew over four concrete domes, which she identified as Nazi gun positions apparently overtaken by Allied troops on the first day of the invasion. A few minutes after that, she was lined up to land at Longues. A green Very light flared up and disappeared into the grey belly of the overcast. Sharon landed and taxied over to what she hoped was the maintenance area.
    Mechanics appeared at her wings and helped her guide the brand new Spitfire outside a hangar so that it would be ready for combat. She switched off, released her harness, and climbed out of the cockpit. “Any of you fellows know where the canteen is?”
    â€œOver that way.” One of the mechanics pointed in the general direction of a gathering of tents.
    Sharon hefted her parachute over the shoulder of her sheepskin jacket and followed her nose to the camouflaged green of the largest tent. She dropped her parachute on the end of a table and made her way around to the urn, where she grabbed a cup of tea and was handed a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
    She sat down at her table, sipped the scalding tea, opened the wax paper, took a bite of the sandwich, and frowned at the greasy taste of Spam. She set it down on the table and reached for her cup. On a day like today, even tea tastes good. The warmth began to reach her fingers and toes. She took off her flying helmet, lifted her ponytail so that it hung over her collar, and wrapped her fingers around the metal cup.
    One of the other pilots noticed her ponytail and elbowed a second in the ribs. The second RAF officer turned to look at her.
    Someone looked outside of the tent. “Christ! It’s Jerry!”
    Sharon stood up, spilled her tea, and ran out of the tent. She saw a mechanic dive into a slit trench about fifty yards ahead. Two pilots from inside the tent passed her as they sprinted for cover. One of them slipped, slid, recovered, and jumped into the trench.
    She looked over her right shoulder. A pair of long-nosed Focke-Wulf Ta 152s flew at treetop level. They were close enough for her to see the pilots hunched forward over their controls. She noted the fighters’ light grey bellies, the green stretching from the top of the nose to behind the