A line of deuce-and-a-half trucks blocked our view for a few seconds, but we got around them in time to see the pilot raise the nose a bit, seconds before the aircraft touched down. It slid forward, gouging out a blackened trench as one of the propellers spun off. The plane smashed through a stone wall, spinning crazily across the field, like a giant child’s toy. The B-17 swerved sideways before coming to a shuddering halt, its nose yards away from a row of oak trees edging a lane between the fields. We were close enough to see shredded metal where machine-gun or cannon fire had raked the wing and fuselage. Dozens of GIs ran over to help, spilling out of vehicles, swarming the aircraft, reaching to help any survivors out through the hatches. Smoke bloomed from the damaged engine and enveloped the rescuers. An ambulance pulled out of the traffic ahead of us, bumping over plowed fields, and disappeared into the thickening haze. We drove on in silence, stories forgotten.
An hour later, with images of death beneath gnarled oaks playing across my mind, we turned off the main road at a sign for Shepherdswell. We crossed the train tracks and parked at the station, not far from the Bricklayer’s Arms. It was a pleasant-looking place, and we walked toward it, silently in agreement on the need for a drink. Shepherdswell was a sprawling little village with a main street of shops and homes all built in the same brickwork style, painted a uniform white. Narrow side streets led off into country lanes dotted with larger homes, bounded by farmers’ fields showing husks of the last autumn crops, endless rows of withered stems, lined up like tombstones.
The Bricklayer’s Arms was warm and welcoming, the publican quick with his pints, a sharp, crisp ale that bit through the dust in my mouth and the visions in my head. We drank, and didn’t speak, the only sound a long sigh from Big Mike after he polished off his pint. He spoke for us all.
“Another?” the publican asked, appearing as soon as he noticed the empty glass.
“Sure,” Big Mike said. “But maybe you can help us first. We’re looking for a girl.”
“What kind of establishment do you think this is?” He took a half step back, his eyes wide with amazement at this cheeky Yank.
“No, no,” Kaz said. “What my friend means is we are searching for a specific young lady. We were supposed to deliver a gift to her, from her fiance, but we lost the address. All we know is that she’s visiting here, and wondered if you may have seen her. She came by train, and we thought with the pub so close to the station, she might have come in.”
“Well, then, that’s a different story. What’s her name?”
“Sheila,” Kaz said, leaving it unsaid that she might have used a different name. “Early twenties, dark hair, dark eyes. A pretty girl, not a movie star, but nice looking.”
“Kind of a small, round mouth,” I added. “A smart kid, too.” She had to be.
“Visiting here in Shepherdswell?”
“Yes, that’s what we were told,” Kaz said.
“Humph. Sorry, can’t help you there. Sounds a bit like Miss Pemble, but she’s not visiting anyone, and not named Sheila either. Been here off and on for some time now.”
“Miss Pemble?” Kaz said, inviting more comment.
“Aye. Margaret Pemble. She’s a nurse. Rented a cottage out on Farrier Street a fortnight or more ago. She stayed here-we have a couple of rooms upstairs in case you gents need a place tonight-for a few days while she looked around. Nice young woman, I’d say a bit older than the girl you described.”
“Much call for nurses around here?” I asked.
“No, not much. We have the village doctor, that’s all we need. She’s a private nurse, specializes in rehabilitation, she said. Needed a place with plenty of room downstairs, to care for a crippled flier who hired her on. Some rich bloke, I’d say, after a quiet place in the country instead of a crowded hospital ward. I’d do the same myself, if I had the money.”
“So the place on Farrier Street, it’s his then?” I asked.
“I guess so, not that it matters. She’s the one doing everything, getting it all ready. He’s had several operations on his face and legs. Can’t walk much, that’s what she’s going to help him with. Don’t know what’s hidden under the bandages. Some of those pilots get burned something awful.”
“Yeah, we just saw a B-17 belly-land in a field,” Big Mike said. “It came in with three engines on fire. They were lucky to make it down in one piece.”
“Aye, we’ve seen plenty of crashes here, since 1940. A Hurricane came down not a quarter mile away, poor bloke dead at the controls. The Home Guard lads have rounded up a few Jerries as well, most of them glad to give up after a night in the woods. We had a Polish pilot-one of your lot, Lieutenant-he had to bail out, in September 1940, I think, and it took a while for him to convince the constable he was one of ours. He had a thick accent, just like Miss Pemble’s patient.”
“He’s a Polish flier?” Kaz asked.
“Aye, from the Kosciuszko Squadron, so he told me. Famous lot, those boys. He was a bit hard to understand, with his accent and the bandages to boot, but I got that much.”
“Perhaps I should stop and give him my regards,” Kaz said. “Miss Pemble and he are at home?”
“No, they left for London this morning. I think she has to bring him back for treatments at the hospital. We don’t see that much of them. She said it would be a while before he could stay full-time.” He briskly took our orders for lunch, gave Kaz directions to Miss Pemble’s cottage, and went off to pull Big Mike’s next pint.
“I think we should take a look at this cottage,” Kaz said in a low voice.
“What, you think Sheila Carlson is moonlighting as a nurse?” Big Mike said. “Sounds out of character.”
“Why not, as long as we’re here? She fits the description,” Kaz said.
“Look, you’re already wanted by Scotland Yard,” I said. “You want the local constable to throw you in the hoosegow for breaking and entering, too?”
“Hoosegow?” Kaz said, unfamiliar with the term.
“Clink. Pokey, the big house,” Big Mike said.
“Ah, the slammer,” Kaz said. “We must be careful then. I am only looking for my wounded cousin, Luboslaw. I am distraught, am I not?”
“Not responsible for your actions,” Big Mike said. “We tried to stop you.”
“Sure, that’s believable,” I said.
After a lunch of bangers and mash in apple cider gravy-two helpings for Big Mike-we drove along Farrier Street, past three small cottages, until we came to Miss Pemble’s, marked by a large weeping willow. We knocked at the front door, and were greeted by the silence of an empty house. Big Mike looked in the bay window, and shook his head. No one home. We went around back, and Big Mike worked his knife-blade magic on the rear door. Ten seconds and we were in.
“Poor Luboslaw,” I said to Kaz. “He’ll never know of your grief.”
“You guys search the joint,” Big Mike said. “I’ll be on watch. If you hear me start up the jeep, it means someone’s coming. Go out the back, lock up, and say you were just knocking at the door. OK?”
“OK.” Kaz and I went through the rooms. Margaret Pemble’s room was upstairs, and she had a lot more stuff than Sheila had had on her last time I saw her. A few dresses hung in the closet, nothing fancy. A chest of drawers held the usual feminine stuff, and her dressing table was decorated with perfumes and makeup. No wads of cash hidden under the mattress, no oleander plant being cultivated. Downstairs, we went through the meager belongings of her patient. A couple of worn suits. One RAF uniform, a leather flying jacket, shirts, and corduroy trousers.