“Sorry?” I said.
“Poison gas, lad—bug spray according’ to the tox screen they did on me in hospital. Blinds me and knocked me colder’n January lager, as we say in the RPAF. Next I know I’m in hospital. Findin’ out what happened to me upset my nat in stasis so, Billy Foster the natural man cacked out.” He held out his wings. “Company’s gift.” He lowered his wings. “Had to get specs, though, ‘cause the poison fried me corneas. Can’t see much with ‘em, but can’t see a bleedin’ thing without.”
When Staff Foster marched off to abrade some trainee’s ego, I turned to Shad. “We need to know if the scenes of crime officers ever found Kumar’s pigeon bio, exactly where the SOCOs found those feathers, and what they did with them. We also need a detailed map of the squadron patrol areas in Exeter. I’m very curious who was living in Napier Terrace eight years ago when Staff Foster caught it.”
Shad’s pigeon suit looked at me for a beat then nodded. “Fitness reports and other pigeon injuries and deaths?”
“Absolutely. Get details, location, and date of each incident. We need police reports and lists of every employee, guest, and residence in each area as well as traffic and private surveillance video archives. Stasis bed consequences, too.”
“You think our boy has been busy before?”
“Seems likely.”
“Awright, you lot! Don’t be late for parade!” bellowed Staff Foster. “To the tower, lads. Let’s see if those new feathers bounce or fly!”
Part of the package in all ledge marshal bios is a flight program that does most of the work involved in knowing how to fly. On the roof the eleven of us were run up little ramps to the top of a tower and kicked off into the air until, instead of landing crumpled up at the foot of the tower, we flew down under our own power. I did it in three tries but it took Shad five.
“Ducks don’t fly the same as pigeons,” he explained. “I finally had to disable my duck program before I could work these pigeon wings.”
We flew circuits around the building, higher and higher, almost to the level of the air vectors, then circled back down. It was the most wonderful sensation I have ever experienced. Even in one of their old Hurricanes, the strength, the freedom, the thrill, combined with the incredible degree of control, was such I was certain DI Harrington Jaggers below was grinning in his stasis bed.
One final ground parade and caution from Squadron Leader Haverill prohibiting flight formations and synchronous wing flapping: “Lads, our function is to keep the ledges of our clients clean and to do so in a natural-appearing manner. No one objects to pigeons. They are natural; they are beautiful. What our clients object to is filth. However, if we eliminate the filth but fly fighter and bomber formations, we no longer look natural. Instead, we look threatening. Flapping wings in unison, I would add, does not look natural. Report to your commands.”
Flight Sergeant Ponsonby and his two staffs barked us down to the ready room on the fifth floor where Shad, Mathilda, and I joined Puss in Boots Flight as the 712 Squadron of the Third Wing prepared to relieve 214 of the Second. We had a few minutes and Tommy Shay, Jock Munro, and Artie Krauthammer explained to the three of us what they called “the changes.”
“Years ago we used to flap in unison. Took great pride in it, we did,” said Shay. “The legs downstairs,”—legs appeared to be a term of derision—”The legs says they got complaints, so no more synchronous flappin’. Well, we still takes pride in our flyin’, so we flies changes. Got it from the bell ringers what do change ringing. Now we up to full strength, we got six birds in the flight. We can do it proper.” And then Tommy explained the mysteries of the ‘Blue Line,’ otherwise known as ‘Plain Bob Minor.’ Tommy was Puss in Boots One, Jock was Two, Artie was Three, I was Four, Shad was Five, and Mathilda was Six. After going from One to Six in order, the variations began, 214365, then 241635, 426153, and so on. “I’ll call ‘em out ‘til you get the hang of it. You flap down on your first number, raise on your next, then down on the next. I’ll time my call to start once I see where Wolf Flight is in the pattern. You’ll pick it up soon enough. Any questions?”
“It doesn’t look natural,” said Shad.
“No, it don’t,” said Flight Lieutenant Shay. “But the legs don’t know why it don’t.”
A buzzer buzzed and a red light began flashing. Shay led the way out of the ready room into an area ringed with open windows. There were hundreds of the Third Wing milling about. The forty or so “old wings” of the 712 introduced themselves to the five new “chicks” assigned to the squadron, stating first name then flight, as in “Percival, Wicked Stepmother,” and “Jenkins, Tom Thumb.” They all made Shad, Mathilda, and me feel quite welcome. On the sill of the southernmost facing window, a handsome Spit pigeon stood and called the 712 to attention. Other Spits on other windowsills addressed their squadrons. As we fell silent, a second Spit pigeon took the first one’s place.
“Mother Goose,” Shay whispered to us in the flight.
“I am Squadron Leader Patricia Kwela, commanding officer of 712,” the pigeon said with a slight accent I couldn’t place. “I am notified 712 has five spankin’ new pilot officers this mission. I welcome you. Your flight leaders will give you your orders. Do your most best to follow orders. You do that, we look good, keep ledges free of Jerry, go home safe, and all be most dandy. Now we going to have moment of silence for recently departed brother Flying Officer Darcy Flanagan of Puss in Boots Flight. I ask you all call down your juju and beg your wing brother Darcy get nothin’ but clear skies, soft breezes, cozy dovecotes, and the whole Peanut Mountain.”
Someone cooed a whistle and the entire wing fell silent as the piano mech far below softly played “Chariots of Fire.” Once that was concluded, the whistle cooed again followed by the buzzer and a green light.
“Chocks away!” bellowed the wing adjutant, the squadrons lined up at their respective windows, and one after another flights flew from the windows. I managed to get Shad to stop laughing long enough not to miss our flight.
As we took up our heading toward the cathedral, Shad, Mathilda, and I learned to flap changes, and to take a bit of pride in doing so. Learning “the rows,” as they were called. “Plain Bob Minor” began:
123456
214365
241635
426153
462513
645231
654321
563412
536142
351624
through sixty-two variations, then was repeated from the beginning. As a “four,” I could watch the fours ripple though the entire squadron while other numbers rippled in nonparallel directions. Very neat. Once the 712 was at the cathedral, Puss in Boots and Wolf flights peeled away. Wolf banked left for the north side and Puss in Boots banked right for the south where we fell in with the lads we were to relieve—Jimmy Dorsey Flight of 264 Squadron—and did a circuit of the South Cathedral, Cloisters, Diocesan House, and Bishop’s Palace. Jimmy One said to Tommy the area had been fairly quiet: only thirteen pigeons and one lone pigeon bio to discourage, and when his flight peeled off to join 264, he called, “Good hunting, chaps. Jimmy One out.” Then he called to “Big Band” and Jimmy Dorsey Flight ascended to join Tommy Dorsey Flight and 264 Squadron as it headed back to Castle Field.