Her Last Flight(95)

Both men nodded vigorously. “Se?or Mallory! Sí!”

“Do you know where he is?”

Maybe she said it wrong. Irene had studied French in school, and most of her Spanish was learned in bits and pieces as she navigated her way around Los Angeles. The men looked at each other gravely, and back at her.

“He is in the north,” said one of them. “He is in Guernica.”



Irene Foster had never heard of Guernica before that day, the twenty-seventh of April. Not many had, outside of Spain itself, although it was a symbol of Basque independence, where King Ferdinand had stood under the municipal tree in 1476—the famous Tree of Guernica, an oak—and sworn an oath to uphold the rights and laws of the Biscay province, of which Guernica was capital. It was located on the northern coast, right on the edge of the Bay of Biscay, and it had been horrifically bombed by the Luftwaffe the day before, on behalf of the Spanish Nationalists.

All this was explained rapidly to Irene, once she’d identified herself as a friend of Se?or Mallory. Too rapidly, because she didn’t quite understand the significance of this episode until later. It was war, after all, and bombs got dropped during wartime and killed people. It was terrible, and Irene felt this as a personal horror because bombing seemed to her a perverse way of using this great scientific achievement that was an airplane, that dropping bombs from airplanes was a betrayal of everything she had strived for. As if your beloved brother had turned out to be a murderer. But when she heard the word Guernica she didn’t feel any particular foreboding. No cold chills down her spine. Why should she? Not yet.

There were many deaths and injuries, said the men, and Irene could tell from their faces that this thing called Guernica was a terrible, wretched affair. Still she did not really understand. Se?or Mallory had taken off in one of the larger airplanes late yesterday afternoon, as soon as the news had reached them, and flown north to help evacuate the wounded. One of the other pilots had flown in company with him, a man whose fiancée lived with her family near Guernica. They had heard nothing since from either man.

Nothing at all? Irene asked. They hadn’t returned here with their evacuees?

There was no cause for alarm, they assured her. After all, Mallory was not a combatant. Probably he was taking these injured people to Madrid or to Valencia, not to hot, dry, isolated El Carmoli, with scant hospitals nearby. He would be back in a few days, once the wounded were all evacuated.

How do you know this? Irene demanded. How do you know he hasn’t been shot down or crashed?

The two men traded glances and said of course there was no way of knowing for certain. That was the nature of war. You simply had to keep faith and wait for news. Se?orita Foster could stay here for as long as she liked. The commandant’s wife would be happy to accommodate her until Se?or Mallory returned.

That was very kind, Irene told them. (By now they were inside the hangar, sheltered from the fierce sun, drinking hot, strong coffee that lifted the hairs on Irene’s arms and the back of her neck.) But instead of accommodation, she would prefer a map and a hundred gallons of aviation fuel, for which she would pay in American dollars.



Of course, it wasn’t quite as easy as that. News had reached the commandant of this somewhat embarrassing (although hardly surprising) breach of the airfield’s defenses, such as they were, and he came striding in a moment later, demanding to know what was going on. She told him she was here for Se?or Mallory.

“Se?or Mallory?” he said, peering at Irene. His face illuminated. He switched to English. “Miss Foster! You are Irene Foster!”

Irene tried to tell him that this was a secret, but he was already pumping her hand with joy.

“I am a great admirer!” he told her. “I am filled with happiness to meet you! I have spoken about you many times with Se?or Mallory! You are like a queen to us! But are you not supposed to be in a race right now?”

“I left the race,” said Irene. “I’ve come to join Se?or Mallory.”

The commandant’s face turned grave. “Se?orita Foster, this is no place for a woman. This is war. I cannot be responsible for what will happen to you if you stay. It is quite possible we will be bombed. And what is there for you to do?”

“I can train pilots, for one thing.”

“I am afraid that is impossible. This is not America. No Spanish man will take instruction from a woman, certainly not in a matter so serious as flying. Besides, this is a fighter school! Have you ever fought in an airplane?”

Irene had to admit that she hadn’t.

“Well, then. My wife will care for you until Se?or Mallory returns from Biscay. We will attempt to send him a message, yes? Obtain some news, to make the waiting easier?” The commandant leaned forward, as one who understands the delicacy of such matters. “And your husband? Is it necessary for us to send him a message as well?”

“No, it’s not necessary. But I’m afraid I don’t intend to stay here, as grateful as I am for your hospitality.”

“No? You wish to stay in town instead?”

“I’m not going to stay anywhere,” said Irene. “I’m going to go find Sam.”



It took some arguing, but finally they let her go. They even gave her the fuel for nothing, although she offered repeatedly to pay. It had something to do with hospitality, and with the way the commandant admired her. Irene Foster! Sometimes her fame had its uses.