They had been orbiting above the wreckage for fifteen minutes but had seen no sign of life. They had watched as Broderick Weltswell, crippled with wing problems, had attempted an unpowered emergency landing on the short ribbon of thin flat road below, only to be hit twice more as he glided in. They had watched helplessly as the uniformed enemy cautiously but inexorably approached the wreckage.
Reginald Thipset, flight leader, didn’t believe that Broderick was still alive. Three thoughts flitted through his mind: he would never see Broderick again; he was going to have to write very painful letter upon return to base; and that the return to base was becoming more perilous by the moment.
The sky flared red in the west, but gloom was gathering in the east, the direction home. The night sky was not safe. “Just once,” thought Reginald, “I’d like to be able to enjoy a sunset instead of turning away and fleeing.”
His revere was broken by a sudden squack over the flight channel from his wingman. “Sir, there’s nothing we can do here. The sun is setting. We need to leave now.”
Reginald considered his dwindling options and made a difficult choice. There was no time to take the approved route. “Form up and follow me. We’re going down on the deck. We’re taking a shortcut through the hills.”
There was no protest. His flight trusted him. Good.
The flight followed Reginald through the hills, following the terrain, so low they were often flying between the trees. Reginald saw the startled faces of children playing in a yard of a small house turn and follow him as flew past. It was a reminder that they were flying within easy small arms range of hundreds of the enemy, but he knew that they had little to fear. Flying this low, through the wooded hills, meant that the chance of anyone even getting off a shot was negligible. Reginald had never heard of it happening. Not here. But they’d be over the flats soon.
Reginald didn’t flinch as his threat detector screamed a warning. They were passing over an old “Big Eye” site. It always made the threat detector go off, but Reginald and his flight knew that it just a beacon, left behind like a scarecrow, to frighten anyone flying overhead. Whoever was operating the site had never sent anything up after them, but being watched so intently, even by impotent eyes, still sent a chill down Reginald’s back. But at the same time it comforted Reginald to pass it by, because it was a landmark on the way home.
Then they were over the flats, an immense alluvial plane that had been cleared of nearly all trees by generations of farmers. Flat and featureless, with no vegetation taller than a stalk of rice, it was the last barrier. Flying low through the hills had kept them safe, but flying low here was dangerous. They were exposed here, horizon to horizon. There were stories about entire flights decimated in the blink of an eye over the flats.
“Feet wet in forty seconds,” announced Reginald to the flight, trying to sound reassuring. Over the water they’d be safe. The seconds ticked by. Reginald realized he was holding his breath. He could see the shore, and then it was behind them.
The sky behind them was fading to ochre and the water looked black beneath them. They were over the water. Reginald relaxed. In a few moments, they set down, rejoining the rest of the flock paddling around Fresh Pond in Cambridge. It was just another day in the life of a Canadian Goose.
What do you think animals think about?
