Ten for a Bird

For once I wish I could get my way. But things were not going my way at all. In fact, they were getting worse. Much worse!

I had been contracted into the R.A.F. by no more than Air Marshal Sir Arthur ‘Bomber’ Harris to improve the design of British planes. Too many of them were being shot down over Germany during the ‘strategic bombing’ campaigns, which was a euphemism for flattening cities by carpet bombing. Howbeit, I had designed parts of the Spitfire, the best fighter aircraft during the War, and now they had called me to help out again.

I was told twenty percent of the bombers did not return from the nightly raids as a result of Nazi Anti-Air flak. At these attrition rates, we were losing pilots and planes fast. Too fast. If plane survival wasn’t increased, we would lose the war. It was top priority — ordered by Churchill himself.

The first day on the job they wanted to introduce me to the team, but I refused. There was no time to waste. I grabbed a piece of paper, took out my pencil and jotted down the birds-eye contours of the Avro Lancaster, the bomber to be upgraded. I sent the drawing off to the printers and asked for as many copies as there were Lancasters.

Next, I recruited a few officers to help me out filling in the copies. Every plane that came back from the raid had to have all its bullet holes recorded on the paper, like a damage report on a car after a collision. All reports were brought into my office and I started my analysis. It quickly became apparent that the wings and tails of the vehicles were being strafed heavily by gun fire. The engine hull was always free of holes, and didn’t appear to be an issue. Hence, the improvements were simple — reinforce the tails and wings with metal plating and the attrition rate should drop. I drew up the designs and ordered the mechanics to retrofit all vehicles.

But things were not going my way. They were getting worse. Much, much worse! Attrition rates shot up to thirty percent, more planes were falling out of the sky, more pilots died. How could it be? I was distraught — by my decisions many had lost their lives and the war was about to take a turn for the worse as we were losing air superiority. But how was it possible? The bullet holes on the wings and tails were accurate, I had sampled and checked the reports with the corresponding planes myself. No errors had been made. Where was my mistake?

I took the next day off. Stepped away from my work, and left Wycombe airbase to take my Rolls up to a little forest up in Chiltern Hills. I walked up a path and found myself looking down over a field of tall birches. There was a little bench on top of the hill and I sat down to take a rest.

Magpies were flying about between the trees. The English are superstitious about the bird, so I started counting them. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a story yet to be told. I counted seven. I don’t think I had seen that many in a single instance. Suddenly, I heard a rustling up in a little birch that I had overlooked. Between the leaves, I noticed a young magpie family sitting on a small branch. Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, ten for a bird, you must not miss.

In that moment I experienced the most extraordinary thing. Had I counted all of them, I asked myself. Perhaps not. Maybe there were even more. Then, I saw them. I became aware of all the magpies. But the rest of them, the others I hadn’t seen…were dead. They hadn’t made it. These ten magpies were the bunch that had survived. But it wasn’t just the magpies. I saw the grass, the birches and myself in a whole different light. We were here at the cost of everything that wasn’t. All I saw — survived.

A tear rolled over my cheek. Then, by Darwin, I stood up and rushed back to my Rolls and pressed the metal down. I drove at full speed into the base, straight into the barn where the upgrades were carried out. I got out and shouted at the mechanics to stop all their work at once. They glazed at me, puzzled. I told them to take all the reinforced plating off the wings and tails, immediately. All of it. Instead, the exact opposite was to be done. I ordered the vehicles to be plated in the places where the plane hadn’t been shot — the engine hull. I saw doubt on their faces with my radical change of stratagem, but I knew for sure I was right. It made all the sense in the world. And so, the mechanics started armouring the engines.

Over the next weeks, the attrition rates dropped to less than ten percent. More Lancasters returned, more crews survived, and air dominance was restored in favour of the Allies. The bombers had adapted, they had evolved — repopulating the German skies. The tide turned. And the rest…is history.

Now, what was my mistake, you may wonder? I shall tell you — I had fundamentally misunderstood nature and been subjected to survivorship-bias. I hadn’t dared to perceive this world as nature’s finest selection. The mechanical birds that returned were the lucky ones. And all the ones that had gone down, I had never observed.

Counting the magpies made me realise I had already won the war. The proof was me. I had survived. I am the lucky bird perched in the tree called life. But the number of birds that can’t, that aren’t here, is infinite. And it’s a great relief to accept that the current incarnation of this reality…is its finest. I am nature.