Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

  The Yank pilot threaded the braided line through the eye of the fishhook, and he tied what looked like a passable clinch knot. When he pulled on the line to test the knot’s soundness, the knot held. He trimmed off the excess line with his folding knife and wrapped the line around his walking stick, now transformed into a fishing pole.

  “With all your time on the water,” the American said, “I bet you got to do some good fishing.”

  “Fishing was never a priority in the Kriegsmarine.”

  The pilot shrugged. He placed the fishing pole across his lap and rested his arms over his knees. Looked around at the forest floor for a moment. Then he got up and began kicking at leaves and fallen branches.

  “Now what are you doing?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Looking for bait.”

  “What?”

  “A bug. An earthworm. Anything.”

  Good heavens. Now the American was scrounging for insect life. Maybe the man is a genius, finding ways to keep his mind off the horrors of war and the slim chances of ever seeing home again. Maybe he is just very, very hungry. Or perhaps he’s simply lost his mind.

  The flier eventually reached down and, with thumb and forefinger, grasped something on the ground. He picked up a large black beetle, its six legs waving in the air. The Yank carried the beetle to his fishing pole, found the hook at the end of the line, and pierced the insect’s thorax. He pushed the hook all the way through until the beetle, legs still wriggling, was impaled on the hook’s shaft. The American secured the line and bait by pressing the hook into the bark at the base of the fishing pole.

  Nightfall brought stillness and chill. Wilhelm zipped up the leather jacket he’d taken from the room of young Leutnant Brandt. He rubbed his hands along his upper arms and thought how this jacket alone would not answer for the coming winter. But it may not matter, he told himself. This crazy American and I will not likely live that long.

  Night insects began to trill. After a few minutes, a deeper buzz joined the crickets: the drone of aircraft engines. The engines sounded a mere undertone in the darkness, too faint to reveal direction. Wilhelm scanned the stars, but saw no planes.

  “I hate to leave the tarps behind,” the American said, “but with the raft, we got enough to carry already.”

  “True,” Wilhelm said.

  “We might as well get moving. I don’t see any headlights or anything.”

  “To be sure.”

  By the light of the moon and stars, the pilot lashed his fishing pole to his improvised backpack, then hoisted the backpack over his shoulder. Wilhelm kneeled beside his raft and took hold of the largest of its logs.

  “I will take the heavy end, since you have the knapsack,” Wilhelm said.

  “Either way is fine.”

  The aviator crouched opposite from Wilhelm and grasped a log on his end. Together, they lifted the raft as they stood. Wilhelm found his rough-hewn craft lighter than he’d expected.

  “This ain’t too bad,” the Yank said in English.

  The two men shuffled with the raft, moving it out of the woods and to the fallow field. Their burden wasn’t heavy, but there was no way to move it quickly. At the edge of the field, they paused and lowered the raft so that it rested on its side. Wilhelm scanned the fields and river valley much the way he’d scanned for shadows on the night sea. He saw nothing but stars, heard nothing but the same distant engines.

  “Let’s get this done,” Wilhelm said.

  “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

  They lifted the raft again, and Wilhelm raised his end high enough so that the logs and branches did not drag through the weeds. He didn’t want to leave an obvious trail from the forest to the river. As they shuffled down the gentle slope, Wilhelm supposed they were trampling some of the vegetation, though darkness made it difficult to tell how badly. What if someone noticed their tracks in the morning?

  Wilhelm resolved to float downstream for at least a few hundred meters instead of crossing the river directly. That way, if pursuers followed the tracks to the river, there would be no continuing trail on the other side.

  The faint thrum of aircraft engines grew a little louder. Then came the thud-thud-thud of explosions, many kilometers away. Wilhelm could not tell if the blasts came from aerial bombs, antiaircraft fire, or ground artillery. The Yank looked up at the sky in the direction of the thuds, but made no comment.

  The abandoned field of weeds ended where the land became perfectly flat. A low stone wall separated the weeds from a cornfield. Wilhelm and the American leaned the raft against the stones and paused for a moment.

  “We’re gonna tear up some corn when we take this thing through that field,” the Yank whispered.

  “I know.” Wilhelm explained his plan to float downstream a ways.

  “Good idea.”

  Both men listened carefully for the sounds of any threat. Wilhelm placed his hand under his jacket and put his thumb around the grip of his Luger. Would he use it now if some farmer caught him sneaking through the fields? Could he gun down a fellow German?

  Not an innocent farmer, Wilhelm decided. I’ll shoot an SS goon if I have to, he thought. But a man simply checking his fields has as much right to live as I do.

  Wilhelm decided that if a farmer came out waving a shotgun, he would either surrender or try to make up some sort of lie. He just hoped the farmers had all gone back to their village homes.

  “Ready to move on?” the Yank asked.

  “Ja.”

  The pilot and the sailor hoisted the raft and stepped across the stone wall. The Yank parted the dried corn leaves with one arm and led the way into the field. The raft tangled in the stalks immediately. Wilhelm and the flier jerked it free, to the sound of tearing vegetation. For a moment, Wilhelm worried about the noise, but he supposed anyone listening would hear little but the booms in the distance. The two men shuffled a few more meters into the field until the raft tangled again. The corn made for much slower progress than when they’d crossed the open field of weeds, and the effort of constantly ripping the raft through the stalks winded both of them. They stopped to catch their breath in the middle of the field.

  The American wiped his brow with his sleeve and said, “One time, a B-17 came back to our base with corn stalks stuck in the bomb bay.”

  “Why had it flown so low?”

  “To get away from your fighters.”

  Wilhelm and the flier struggled through the cornfield for another twenty minutes. They emerged, breathing hard, at a dirt path. Beyond the path lay the River Aller, a ribbon of reflected moonlight. A light breeze stirred ripples across the water’s surface and rustled the corn stalks behind Wilhelm. The distant booms stopped; the bombing raid—if that’s what it was—had ended.

  Drawn to his natural element, Wilhelm kept his eyes on the river, judging its current and depth. He did not take time to survey the dirt path, and he did not notice that it curved sharply to his left. The cornfield obscured the path beyond the curve. Perhaps the corn also muffled the sound of the approaching truck. Wilhelm did not become aware of the vehicle until it rounded the curve and appeared with shaded headlights throwing a narrow beam right into his eyes.

  23

  Mercy, Unaffordable

  Karl and the German dropped the raft at the field’s edge and retreated into the corn rows. The truck sputtered past them, and for a moment Karl thought its driver had seen nothing. But then the vehicle slowed and stopped. With a grinding of gears, it reversed. The truck backed up until it came to where the two fugitives had ducked back into the field.

  Karl crouched, reached into his pocket, and withdrew his Colt. The Kraut went down on one knee and shook his head. Karl shrugged. He had no desire to kill civilians, but had even less desire to get interrogated by the SS. He kept his fingers around the grip of the .45.

  The driver wrenched a parking brake into position and opened the door. A passenger opened the opposite door.

  Oh, great, Karl thought. Two of them.

  “What
did you see, Papa?” a child’s voice asked. The kid walked to the front of the truck. The play of light and shadow made it hard to tell, but Karl guessed the boy at about ten.

  Perfect, Karl thought. A kid.

  Karl kept his thumb on the Colt’s safety. Could he shoot a man in front of his son or grandson? He sure as hell didn’t want to. And he realized that even if he did, the act would not bring escape. He could never shoot the boy. And the boy would run straight to the nearest house and alert the whole world. Karl lowered the gun. Tried to breathe as quietly as possible.

  “I don’t know what it was,” the driver said. The man got out of the truck and peered into the field. “Something ran into the corn.”

  Go away, Karl thought. Please just go away. You didn’t see a damned thing.

  The driver turned and got back in the truck, and Karl sighed with relief. But then, the man got out again and clicked on a flashlight.

  It’s over, Karl thought. A miracle that we got even this far.

  The man waved the flashlight beam across the stalks, and Karl expected him to find the raft, which they had left at the edge of the field. Part of the raft lay within the stalks, but one crooked branch stuck out from the corn.

  “Was it a stag?” the boy asked. “I saw a stag yesterday.”

  The flashlight beam stayed high. The man never pointed it toward the ground, and he did not seem to notice the raft.

  “Maybe that’s what it was,” the man said. “The deer have nearly destroyed my garden.”

  Yeah, Karl thought. I’m a deer. Go the hell away.

  “Let’s go home, Friedrich,” the man said. He turned and sat in the truck, closed his door. The boy hopped into the passenger side and slammed his own door. The parking brake groaned, and the truck rolled away.

  For several minutes, neither fugitive moved. Karl listened intently, berating himself for not hearing the truck earlier. No more sounds came from the path. Between the stalks, he saw a distant flash brighten the horizon, a quick inflammation in the sky, and then it faded.

  “We gotta get out of here,” Karl said.

  “Ja,” the U-boat officer said.

  The two rose from their hiding place within the corn and lifted the raft. With haste now instead of stealth, they carried it across the path and shuffled down a grassy embankment to the river. The sailor pushed the raft into the water and held it in place with one hand. He jostled his creation, appeared to try to judge its seaworthiness. Then he whispered, “Give me your fishing rod.”

  “What for?” Karl asked.

  “I want to use it to pole us away from shore. Then I will give it back.”

  “Sure thing.” Karl slid the pole from his pack and handed it to the German. The Kraut took it with one hand while still holding on to the raft.

  “Climb aboard,” the Kraut said.

  Karl swung the pack off his shoulder and heaved it onto the raft. He waded into the river, and the cold water made him suck in his breath between his teeth. He took hold of the raft with one hand, slid his hips on board. The makeshift craft wobbled, and for a moment water swamped the logs and branches—and his butt and legs. Karl thought the raft was about to sink, but then it bobbed higher and floated true. The German sloshed into the river and pulled himself aboard.

  Both men sat on the raft to keep the center of gravity as low as possible. With the fishing pole, the submariner pushed away from the bank and let the current take the raft. He lifted the dripping pole from the water and passed it back to Karl.

  The raft’s ride left much to be desired. Whenever Karl or the German shifted his weight, water flowed over the logs and soaked their trousers. The cold water made Karl shiver, but he still judged the raft better than wading or swimming and getting drenched head to toe.

  In the middle of the Aller, the current flowed more rapidly. The forest that had hidden them receded into the darkness, and the raft floated past more fields. Few lights shone in the distant town of Verden, and the lights soon vanished with the raft’s progress.

  After several minutes, Karl felt he’d gotten the hang of keeping his balance on the raft, and he decided to give his fishing pole a try. He found the hook still embedded in the pole’s base, and the beetle still impaled on the shank. Karl plucked the hook free and unwound the fishing line from around the pole.

  * * *

  This primitive tackle felt nothing like the bamboo fly rod he’d used the last time he’d fished—two years ago in the Wiconisco Creek, north of Harrisburg. He had visited the Wiconisco alone, to enjoy a few hours of solitude and natural beauty before heading into the maelstrom of a world war. Karl recalled standing in the creek in his hip waders, casting a Quill Gordon that he’d tied himself. The Gordon imitated a mayfly, and he let it float across a rocky riffle and swirl in the eddy of a deep pool.

  In the clear water, he saw a big rainbow trout rise toward the fly like a submarine coming up from the depths. The trout lunged at the fly and took it in a splash of diamond droplets. Karl caught a glimpse of scales the color of cognac, and his line pulled tight.

  He played the fish for several minutes, feeling its strength transmitted through the line and into the bend of his fly rod. When the rainbow tired, Karl brought it to the net. He kept the net submerged, however, and he watched the fish rest in the water, gills pumping, tail and fins waving like feathers in a soft wind.

  With a set of needle-nose pliers he kept in his fishing vest, he extracted the hook and turned the fish out of the net. The rainbow hesitated for a moment, then sensed its freedom. Vanished into the Wiconisco with a flick of its tail.

  Karl felt satisfied to see the fish swim away unharmed. There would be plenty of killing in the months to come, and he felt no desire to do any more of it than necessary.

  * * *

  Tonight, however, he and the German needed to eat. Karl flung the baited hook over the edge of the raft and let it drop into the Aller. In the darkness, he could not see where it struck the water. He wasn’t even sure if it was floating or not; he had used no sinkers on his line. After letting the hook drag in the water for a few seconds, he lifted his line again and swung it out ahead of the raft. That way, the beetle could drift more naturally.

  “Can fish see that in the dark?” the U-boat man whispered.

  “I don’t know if they see it or smell it or feel it, but I’ve caught fish at night before.”

  As if on cue, Karl felt a tug on the line. He jerked the pole to set the hook.

  At a spot two feet from the raft, the water practically exploded. Whatever had taken the beetle pulled hard enough to nearly yank the pole from Karl’s hands. It ran for the bank. Karl lowered the pole’s tip to give the fish a little more room to run, but he still feared the line would break. If he’d been fishing with a reel, he could have set the drag and let the fish take all the line it wanted. As it was, he could only hold on and hope for the best.

  This was no rainbow trout, either. If he hadn’t known better, Karl would have thought he’d hooked an alligator. The fish pulled hard enough to tow the raft at an angle to the current. Karl realized that if he’d been fishing from the bank, the line would have already snapped. It held only because the raft could move.

  “I cannot believe you’re actually catching a fish,” the Kraut said.

  “Haven’t caught it yet,” Karl said in English.

  The fish leaped from the river. Karl saw only a shadow, but the thing looked as long as his arm. It fell back to the surface with a splash as if a limb had fallen from a streamside tree. When it hit the water, it took off again, and through the line, Karl felt the surge. With no net, he wondered how he’d ever bring such a large fish to hand.

  “How much farther downstream do you want to go?” Karl asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll just look for a place that seems secluded,” the Kraut said.

  “All right. You handle the navigation, and I’ll handle this fish.”

  “I think the fish is deciding where we go.”

  “He is,
but he’ll get tired after a while if he doesn’t break the line.”

  The fish turned and ran under the raft. The line bent around an outer log, so tight it fairly hummed in the water. Karl felt sure he was about to lose the fish, but the creature reversed direction and headed for the bank once more. His quarry still had plenty of fight, but Karl sensed a slight weakening. The fish ran for shorter distances, and it changed direction more often.

  The raft drifted across a sandbar and ground to a halt. The fish struggled on, but Karl no longer worried about the line breaking.

  “I could push us off this sandbar, but we might as well stop here,” the sailor said.

  Karl looked behind him, surveyed the sandbar as best he could in the moonlight. The sandbar ran all the way to the bank; he judged that he could wade to shore without getting any wetter than he already was.

  “All right,” Karl said. “I’ll get off the raft and try to drag the fish to shore.”

  “Ja.”

  Karl stepped onto the sandbar, felt his boots sink into the sand. Cold water flowed into his boot. He held the pole high and backed up through riverbank weeds.

  The fish slid, flopping, across the sandbar and into the wet vegetation. Karl moved forward and placed his right foot on the fish to hold it still.

  From the fish’s bullet shape, he saw that he’d caught neither trout nor bass, but a northern pike—or whatever they called a pike in Germany. He knew the pike would have a mouthful of needlelike teeth, so he dropped the pole, reached down, and picked up the fish by the gills. The pike flopped and struggled and sprayed him with water, but Karl held on. He backed up onto dry land, put down the fish, and felt for his knife. Cut the line and left the hook in place: He had no intention of putting his fingers between those teeth.