Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

  Entering the barn, he made his way to Adam. Adam had braced himself up against the wall; his cheeks were red, and Clint knew that he had a fever. “Did you find anything?”

  “Yup,” Clint said, putting his burdens down. “Here, try some of this.” He handed Adam the milk bucket, and Adam looked into it curiously, then lifted it to drink. When he put it down, he had a white mustache and said, “That’s good, Clint. What’s in the blanket?”

  “Supper. Chicken soup for what ails you!” Clint said as he unfolded the blanket and pulled the limp body of the hen out. “Here, wrap up in this blanket while I fix supper.”

  “I’ll have mine fried.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll have it boiled—better for you that way.”

  Quickly Clint dressed the hen, and within thirty minutes the chicken was boiling in a pot that Clint had set over a make-shift tripod he’d fashioned from some pieces of machinery. Soon the smell of cooked meat began to permeate the barn, and from time to time Clint tested the bird with his knife.

  Adam watched, saying little, but listened as Clint told him how he had found the farm and obtained the chicken. Finally he asked, “How far away was it?”

  “Not more than a couple of miles.” Clint looked over and added, “I don’t think they’ll be out much in this snow. I did see a horse in a field, so they’ll have to feed him. But I don’t think anyone comes to this place much.”

  “They’ll have to come sometime.” There was a despondency in Adam’s voice, and his eyes were gloomy with doubt. “We can’t make it, Clint.”

  “Sure we can. All we have to do is just keep on finding chickens—and believing in God. That’s pretty good theology.”

  Adam studied his companion, who was poking his knife into the chicken. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “You really believe that God cares what happens to us? Here we are in the middle of Germany, me shot up, we don’t know anybody, don’t have a friend in the world—and you still think we’re going to make it out of here?”

  “Well, it might take a little miracle or two—but there are precedents.” Clint looked over at the pot and waved the smoke from the fire aside. “Look at it this way. We didn’t die when the Last Chance went down.”

  Adam dropped his head. He had forgotten in his misery about the crew members who hadn’t made it. “I’m sorry about them,” he said. “They were good guys.”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “You think the others will make it?”

  “Probably wind up about like us, but they’re not praying men, I’m afraid.”

  Adam sat quietly. His leg pained him every time he moved, but he said nothing of this. A gray cloud of doubt had settled about him, and he had no hope whatsoever. He was afraid that he’d be killed, or he would die of his wounds, or he’d go to a prison camp—and none of the three had any appeal for him. He’d felt himself beginning to shake and murmured, “I’m getting a fever, I think.”

  Clint looked up and saw the flush on Adam’s cheekbones. “We’ll get some soup down you and keep you warm. May have to sweat it out, but we’ll make it.”

  Five minutes later he said, “Well, I think we’re ready to have dinner.” He cut a leg from the chicken with his knife, almost burning his fingers, and said, “Watch it, this is hot!” He passed it over to Adam, who took it and began to nibble at it cautiously. “This is good,” Adam muttered. He ate the chicken and said, “Don’t think I want any more.”

  “Try to get some sleep. If you get cold, holler, and I’ll build the fire up. Wrap up in that blanket, pull it around you, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “All right.” Adam studied the face of his cousin, then nodded. “Thanks for the supper.”

  “My treat!”

  Clint ate his own share of the chicken, keeping the rest of it boiling until it fell to pieces. He had done things like this as a hunter many times out in the woods of Arkansas, and his training stood him in good stead now. He savored the food but knew that he would have to make another trip.

  “Never thought I’d turn out to be a chicken thief,” he whispered, grinning into the fire. “We always ranked them pretty low back in Arkansas.”

  For some time he sat staring into the fire, keeping it going. When Adam began to toss around, he moved over and felt his forehead. He’s burning with fever! I’ll bet there’s some metal in that leg of his—but I don’t know how to get it out.

  Adam woke three hours later asking for water. When he had drunk from the small pot that Clint had salvaged, he could only whisper, “If they find us, Clint, they’ll kill us or we’ll go to a prison camp. I’d rather be dead! Clear out of here!”

  Clint shook his head. “God knows where we are, Adam. I believe we’re going to see home again.”

  Adam stared out of hollow, sunken eyes. The fever had drained his strength. He felt sick and nauseated, and all hope was gone. “Get out, Clint, save yourself. I’m not worth saving anyhow.”

  Clint just shook his head and gave Adam another drink of water. That night darkness covered the barn, wrapped them up, and Clint slept fitfully. Time and again he waited for God to speak and prayed that there would be some way to show Adam Stuart that God had not forgotten them.

  “THEY’RE THE ENEMY”

  The wedding of their daughter gave Owen Stuart and his wife, Allie, more pleasure than they had ever imagined. They had been alarmed when Wendy had come back from her tour with the USO with her announcement that she and Alex Grenville were to be married. But when Wendy had told them with shining eyes that Alex had been converted, they had been more open to the idea. Wendy had brought Alex for a prolonged visit, and Owen had been so pleased with his prospective son-in-law that he had said to Allie, “Well, Wife, God’s heard our prayers. We’re going to have a Christian son-in-law.”

  “Now don’t try to make an evangelist out of him, Owen.”

  “Well, maybe he can be my song leader.”

  Allie had laughed at him, then hugged him, saying, “Oh, I’m so excited! And Wendy—I’ve never seen her look so radiant!”

  The wedding had come, and the only drawback had been that Will and Woody could not be there. Two days after the young couple left for their honeymoon, Owen did get more serious news. He came in looking strained, and Allie said at once, “What is it? Is it Will or Woody?”

  “No, it’s Adam. I just got a call from Lylah. She got a telegram that said Adam’s missing in action.”

  “Oh, Owen! He can’t be dead! And isn’t Clint with him?”

  “Yes, Clint is with him, and it doesn’t say dead,” Owen said quickly, “just missing. Their plane went down, but a lot of the crews made it out. We’ll just hope that they made it down, and pray they will be safe. I’m going to call Lylah again later. I know she’s going to take it bad.”

  “Is there any word from Mona?” Allie asked.

  Owen shook his head. “Nothing good, I’m afraid. I talked to Pete over the phone. He said she hadn’t said anything to him, but she’s still tied up with that movie actor. I’m afraid she’s making a bad mistake.”

  Allie took his arm. “Come on, we need to spend some time with God for our family. We can pray for Mona, Clint, and Adam at the same time.”

  Two of the objects of Allie’s and Owen’s prayers were deeply in need of those intercessions. Hunched over and wrapped up in a smelly old horse blanket, Adam Stuart was peering at the map of Germany that he had taken out of his flight jacket. Fever had drained him, and his leg was no better. He could see the rawness of the wound and knew that it should have been sewn up, but there was no way that could be done.

  “How’s the leg?” Clint asked. He had come in with water that he had obtained from the creek and squatted down saying, “I’m going to leave pretty soon and go get another one of those chickens. I’m hungry, and I know you are.”

  “No, I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ve got to eat,” Clint insisted. He looked dow
n at the map and said, “What do you think? Do you know where we are?”

  “All I know is that sign you saw back on the road, about that little town. Lucky you saw that, because it’s right here.” Clint had daringly taken a trip on the road that passed by the farmhouse where he had gotten the chicken and made out the name of a small town called Lurtz.

  “That little town’s on the map?”

  “Right here!” Adam said, as he pointed a trembling finger to the map that he held on his lap. Clint leaned over and looked at it as Adam muttered, “I know where we are—but it doesn’t help us much.”

  Clint sat down and studied the map. Lurtz seemed to be so far inside the interior of Germany that there would be no hope of an easy escape. “Well,” he said practically, “we’ll have to get you healed up a little bit; then we’ll walk out of here.”

  “I’ll never make it, Clint,” Adam said, shaking his head. “You know that.”

  Clint tried to be as cheerful as he could. Later on in the afternoon, he made his way back and, following the previous methods, snatched another chicken and obtained another supply of milk. He got a fright coming out, for even as he left the barn, he heard a voice and thought he was caught. As he turned quickly, he saw a man and a young boy leave the house, and they were calling to a neighbor who was coming down the road. Quickly Clint disappeared into the woods but was still shaken when he got back to the barn. He mentioned nothing of his narrow escape to Adam but said, “Another chicken and some fresh milk.” He cleaned the chicken and made another chicken stew, but Adam could eat little of it. He went to sleep after a few bites, but it was a troubled sleep. He tossed and turned and more than once called out something that Clint could not understand.

  Clint ate and sat down across from Adam. There was nothing for him to do but to keep the fire going and to read out of the New Testament that he always carried in the pocket of his flight jacket. The food had refreshed him, and he read all day, stopping only when Adam would awaken and need water. He kept trying to get him to eat more, but Adam could not.

  Finally, late in the afternoon when the sun was dying, Adam did wake up, and he struggled into a sitting position.

  “Your leg’s hurting, isn’t it?”

  “A little bit.” Adam pulled out the map and looked at it again. His eyes were hooded, and he kept his head down, but finally he looked up and said, “Look at this.”

  Clint leaned forward and saw with the flickering light of the tiny fire the name “Schweivnitz.” Clint said the name aloud, pronouncing it clumsily, and looked up at Adam. “What about it?”

  “I know that place, Clint.”

  “You mean you’ve been there?”

  “No, I’ve never been in Germany—but I know that town. I’ve studied it.”

  “Why would you study a little town in Germany called Schweivnitz? I never heard of it.”

  Adam was lightheaded and weak. He was only half conscious, and his voice seemed to come from far off. He had been dreaming off and on, in his delirium, about Germany, about his father, about his ancestry. And now, sick and weak as he was, he did what he had never done before—he began to speak of his heritage.

  “My father was from this place,” he whispered, his voice thin and reedy.” His eyes were bright with fever. “His name was Richthofen. He was a flyer—the most famous ace in the German Luftwaffe in the First War. . . .”

  Clint listened with shock as Adam related the story of how his mother Lylah had met Richthofen, the famous flyer—and was even more shocked to find out that Adam was the fruit of their love. He said nothing, however, but listened, until finally he heard Adam say, “I hated the Germans because they killed my friend.” Then he looked up and whispered, “But how can I hate them when they’re my own people—my father’s people—and they live right there in Schweivnitz.”

  “You mean they’re still there?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Adam swayed back and forth and said, “I found out all I could about the family. It wasn’t easy. Some of them are in the army now. One of them, Wulf Richthofen, is a leader in the Luftwaffe. I found out that much.” He looked down at the map and said, “I even know what the place looks like. I’ve seen pictures of it. It’s right here, this side of Schweivnitz, the Richthofen estate. It’s a big house with three white spires and the name Richthofen on it.” He went on to describe clearly what the Richthofen home looked like, and Clint did not ask him how he had found all this out.

  Adam subsided into silence, and Clint spoke almost without thinking. “We’ve got to get to the Richthofens.”

  Adam opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and shook his head.

  “We’ve got to go there! They’re your family!”

  “They’re the enemy—I’m their enemy!” Adam whispered, and then he began to lean to one side, and Clint had to leap forward to keep him from falling over. Adam had started falling asleep into a delirium like this. His fever was very high, and Clint watched helplessly as the wounded man shook violently with the effects of it.

  Clint had never known such a problem. Finally, he prayed until he could pray no more. Looking down at the flushed face of Adam Stuart, he knew that sooner or later death would come. He’s got an infection, and if he doesn’t get medical attention, he’ll die, was his thought.

  Getting up, Clint walked back and forth, trying vainly to think of a way to get medical help, but could think of nothing. Finally he looked up and between clenched teeth said, “God, I don’t know what to do. All I know is, some of Adam’s family is here. They’re the enemy, I suppose, but that’s all I know to do—try to get to them. Is that what you want me to do?”

  No answer came, and Clint stood for a time struggling, and finally he said, “Well, Lord, I’m going until I get a red light.” He began to think more calmly, and somehow the elements of a plan came together. Taking a quick look at Adam, he covered him up with a blanket, then left the barn. He moved quickly across the snow, noting that it seemed that more snow was likely to come. He kept watch carefully for any sign of life, but saw no one. When he got to the field where the horse was kept, he did not see him and his heart sank. “If the horse is gone, it’s all off,” he said aloud. However, when he went to the shed, he found the horse inside. Someone had been there and fed him. Clint let the horse finish eating while he selected a harness. Slipping a bridle on the animal, he said, “Come on, boy, I’ve got a job for you.”

  Leading the horse back across the field, he kicked the fence down hoping that the snow would come and cover up his tracks, and that the owners would assume that the horse had just broken through. When he got back to the barn, he tied the horse outside and went inside and examined the pony cart. It was a simple enough affair, and he dragged it outside and hitched it on to the waiting animal.

  Going back, he stood over Adam and saw that he was totally unconscious. He filled the cart with straw, then carried Adam outside and put him in it. After this, he brought the remains of the parachute and covered Adam, then filled the cart up with straw.

  Finally, he moved inside and saw that it was useless to try to disguise the signs of their stay in the barn. He gathered up such things as he thought he might use, loaded them in the cart, then moved around, took the harness, and said, “Come on, boy, we’ve got a way to go.”

  Clint found that the roads were empty and was glad to see the snow begin falling. He did pass one wagon, driven by a farmer who raised a hand briefly in greeting but did not speak. Clint, his heart in his throat, was thankful that the swirling snow apparently covered the sight of his flight jacket and the man did not notice. He had his hat pulled down over his eyes and had given scarcely a look.

  His only hope, he knew, was in finding the Richthofen estate, and he knew from Adam’s words that it was on a road about a mile before reaching Schweivnitz. He had no way to measure the distance, and he passed no other travelers. The snow fell harder, and it became difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. He plodded on thinking, I’ll probably have to go all th
e way into town, then turn around and come back. Thank God for weather like this! Most people will be inside to get out of it.

  He did not have to enter the town, however, for as they plodded on he saw a narrow road open up to his right. Stopping the horse, he got out of the small cart and moved closer until he stood peering down the winding lane. He finally turned and, as he wheeled, saw a worn wooden sign nailed to a fir tree. Scraping the snow off with his forearm, Clint saw with a wild joy the word Richthofen. He could not read the rest of the German but exclaimed aloud, “This has got to be it!” Going back to the horse, he grabbed him by the cheek harness and said, “Come on, boy, we’ll find something.”

  As the snow fell out of a leaden sky, Clint moved forward, leading the horse. The temperature was well below freezing now, and he was worried about Adam. He knew he had to find shelter.

  He walked for what he thought was approximately an hour, until he saw, off to one side, a large manor house. He tied the horse to a fence that outlined the estate and went forward on foot. As soon as he got close enough, even through the driving snow, he could see it was no common farmhouse—and when he saw the three spires rising to the skies, he exclaimed, “That’s it! That’s what Adam said—three spires!” He stood there for a moment, only a moment, then whirled and ran back to the cart. His mind raced: We can’t go right in there. We better take shelter, and I’ll try to find out more about this tomorrow or when the snow stops.

  Knowing that a large place like this would have many outbuildings, he led the horse down the road at an oblique angle to the large house. A side road broke off, and he took it, his eyes searching for anything that might do. Soon he passed one house with smoke coming out the stone chimney and began looking for a barn or a toolshed—anything to give shelter until the next day.