by Guy Worthey
There was a chorus of affirmatives.
A dubious mechanic arrived, six white coveralls in his arms.
Chapter 6
A week crawled by. The guard named Uwe took to persecuting Bert. Perhaps Bert’s left hook was unforgivable, or perhaps Bert’s Beacon Hill mannerisms triggered buried loathings in the guard’s soul. What-ever the reason, Uwe was not content to let a day go by without humiliating or, better yet, injuring Bert.
The airplane assembly work provided a break from the abuse. Most of the Allies drilled, buffed, tapped, riveted, and fastened in the noisy workroom. But Sam’s affinity for power tools was lackluster. He found a niche in the office, keeping track of parts inventories. The Allied prisoners found acceptance and even welcome among the factory workers. Half the mechanics were conscripted from other places around the Empire. These worked unwillingly, dreaming of escape to their homelands.
Ace was in a category by herself. The officers wanted her stationed near to them in the capacity of housecleaner or cook. But orders were orders. Ace was assigned to airplane assembly. Ace stationed herself in the final assembly hangar without asking permission. No one objected. No one was quite sure what to make of the tall, silent young woman, but she knew how to handle a wrench.
Ace discovered that the “Falke[5]” was exactly the twin-engine fighter that she had managed to shoot down over Verviers. On a normal plane, the engine sat ahead of the pilot. On the twin-engine Falke, the engines were on the wings. That meant extra complexity so the pilot could control both throttles and both chokes via cables and levers. Ace studied the Falke down to each rivet, as thoroughly as her childhood lessons. By week’s end, she was giving pointers to the Ottoman mechanics, not the other way around.
In addition to airplane assembly, the prisoners had to finish construction on their own cell. They nailed and bolted thick timbers in a shell around the latrine. The barn-jail was chilly by day, but bitter cold by night. In the mornings, teeth chattered and fingers moved stiffly.
Tombstone’s large feet were half frozen each morning. His boots had once been hobnail trench boots, but the Ottomans had ripped out all the metal studs. Now, the soles looked like Swiss cheese, and Tombstone had to rub and chafe his feet back to life each morning before he could walk on them.
On day three, the shackles came off and the prisoners slept on cots in their cell rather than on the dirt floor.
“Oi almost feel loike an ’omo sapiens again!” Gooper cooed, relaxing on a cot for the first time, his muscled arms folded behind his head.
“Funny, you don’t look much like one o’ them,” Tombstone prodded.
“Better Homo erectus than Homo lacerta.” Gooper stuck out his tongue at Tombstone.
Tombstone frowned. “All right. I give up. What’s lacerta in English?”
“Lizard, you lizard man.” Gooper batted his eyelashes.
The next morning, Ace exercised. As she warmed up with stretches, she clenched her jaw resolutely. Her defiant eyes mutely challenged any of her fellow prisoners to comment. None of the gentlemen did. To a man, they worked hard to avert their eyes. Recognizable calisthenics segued into gymnastic exercises requiring strength and flexibility. Gooper happened to look over at a moment when Ace was inverted, feet straining toward the sky, her entire weight supported by the splayed fingertips of one hand. “Blimey! I hain’t never seen the like!” After gymnastics, Ace settled into a meditative pose. Although her eyes were closed, she perspired as if expending even greater effort than before. The men found that glancing at Ace during this stage triggered an uncomfortable empathy, after which they found themselves mopping their own sweating foreheads. Finally, in a rapid-fire whisper, Ace recited multiplication tables that extended into the millions.
The men soon learned that it was a daily ritual, carried over from Ace’s childhood. The routine was never exactly the same. Some days, instead of multiplication tables, it was logarithms. Once, she asked for ancient calendar dates. One of the men would invent a year, month, and day, and she would reply with the day of the week. None of the males doubted that she was correct, though none of them could prove it.
After their four cell walls shut out the guards, it was sometimes possible to talk amongst themselves.
“Tell us about yourself, Sam,” suggested an alto voice one night. “Start with your name.”
“Lady Ace, I do not think it very important, but I will say. I am named Sam Raia Biming. My father is Chinese. My mother is Egyptian.”
“Sam is your real name? It’s not a nickname? What a disappointment!” said Bert.
“Go on, Sam,” Ace said.
“Yes. I was educated in Beijing and Cairo. I apprenticed at the British Museum of London in the field of archaeology. Egyptology was my first passion, but I branched out from there into prehistory and also cultural anthropology and geology. The war came. An officer in the museum heard me speak of Egyptian hieroglyphs. A few days later, I was invited to the department of intelligence, code breaking division, to see if I would be of use. I saw no action, unlike the other brave and admirable members of this party.”
“How’d ya end up captured?” Tombstone asked.
“My coming to be a prisoner was an accident. I was being sent to a radio transmitter near Lyon, France by plane. My plane went off course.”
“Well, you’ve seen action now, mate!” chortled Gooper.
“What about you, Gooper?”
Gooper did not answer. Ace encouraged, “Go on. Please?”
“Ow … Awright. Me name’s Phileas Locknard. Born an’ raised in East London.”
“Before the war, what were you doing?”
“College. First Locknard at uni, they say. Biology.”
“Biology?”
“Yeh! Love it! When I was small, me mum took me to a park. She could ’ardly get me ter leave. I was strokin’ the grass and watchin’ bugs crawl. I ’ave loved biological science ever since. That, an’ rugby.”
“How did you end up in a POW camp?”
“When war broke out, I signed up, like every other bloke did. If the Emperor in Istanbul wants Brits to bow to ’im, ’e’s got a long, long pass to pull off. In the Regulars, I learned ter shoot an’ drive. I fought at Rouen, Beauvais, an’ Soissons. But we lost that ’un. I was knocked out an’ woke up a prisoner.”
Tombstone said, “Thereby inflictin’ his red-haired, blobby self on us!”
“Ow, put a sock in it, cowpoke. I could tie yew in a knot, bone boy.”
“You jes’ try it, ya ginger donkey butt.”
“Shh!” Ace hissed. The barn door rolled back. Footsteps of guards crunched outside the wooden-walled cell.
Chapter 7
During her daily exercise regimen, while standing on her head, Ace was amused to discover that a series of planks on the outer wall, the wall that separated them from the outside, had been neatly sawed almost through, so that a series of swift kicks would open a passage to freedom, big enough even for Gooper to scoot through. The cuts were hidden by a strip of wooden trim, lightly tacked into place.
“Who made these escape cuts?” Ace inquired that night, voice pitched in a whisper, mindful of a guard stationed somewhere outside. “Wait, let me guess! Hmm. Sam probably thought of it, and I bet Gooper served as an obstacle to block the line of sight. Bert and Quack were too busy arguing, so it must have been Tombstone.”
“Right th’ first time, Miz Ace!” said Tombstone.
Sam said, “Lady Ace, are you sure you wish to wait to try to escape?”
“Definitely. Darko Dor has left, as you know. He’ll return with a truckload of brand new engines from Frankfurt next week. We’ll escape a few days after that. Keep in mind we’ll have to trek a few days through the woods. We’ll be hunted.”
“Why wait for th’ engines?” rumbled Gooper.
“Shhh!” scolded Tombstone, urging Gooper to quiet.
“We’ll rig them to fail. It will probably work out that I will do this, since I have been assigned to the
hangar.” Ace’s phraseology was misleading. Hangar-work had been her idea from the start.
“Ohhh!” Gooper said as understanding dawned. He added, aside to Tombstone, “Ow, you shush! Colonial hick!”
“Bloated ginger lowbrow!”
“Coriaceous saurian!” Gooper’s capacious supply of big words always sounded particularly alien when spoken in his broad Cockney accent.
“Ruhe! [6]” barked the guard outside, punctuating his shout of “quiet!” by pounding the butt of his rifle on the locked door.
♠♠♠
On day eight, there was a brief surge of panic amongst the guards and officers. Ace was referred to as die Alibifrau[7] among the guards and officers, even though there were other women among the airplane workers. On this occasion, die Alibifrau was nowhere to be seen.
Sam noticed the subtle yet electric air of frantic searching. An officer hurried into the workhouse office where Sam was filing paperwork. There was a brief, hushed discussion with the business-suited manager. Sam caught the emotional timbre and the words “die Alibifrau.” The next minute, the men both left, and Sam sauntered out after them unnoticed. The manager left for the hangar. The officer lingered outside the workhouse and scanned around, turning in place to view the airstrip and buildings, and the fields and forest beyond. There was a tall chain-link fence around the whole facility with curls of barbed wire festooning the top.
Sam boldly stepped out too, and asked in casual, solicitous tones, “Sir. May I help you find something?”
The irritated officer frowned at Sam. After a short moment of indecision, the officer said, “Ja! The woman. Have you seen her?”
Sam looked toward the hangar, seeing a pair of guards searching with growing urgency. They peeked behind obstacles and buildings, trotting in their haste. Sam glanced toward the farmhouse. Ace casually stepped from the house’s front door into plain sight. Sam smoothly told the officer in sympathetic tones, while nodding his head wisely, “Why, yes, sir. She went into the house for what I believe is called washing up, sir. She is now finished. See?” Sam gestured theatrically toward the quiet, tall woman striding toward them.
“Verdammt Nochmal! [8]” cursed the officer in relief. He jogged to meet Ace, then stabbed a finger toward the hangar. He was trying to look fierce, Sam could tell. Ace strode by him silently, the very picture of righteous dignity. Sam fell into step beside her.
As they approached the hangar, Sam said in a whisper, “Lady Ace. What are you up to?”
“Something not very nice. I feel positively slimy about it. But this is war, I suppose. I’ll tell you all about it soon.”
They reached the hangar. Ace went back to work. The officers and guards decided to pretend that nothing had happened. However, Ace got double-watched for the rest of the day.
That night, in the jail cell, the guards brought them bread, jerky, and water, their usual meal. Bert reached for the water, but Ace touched his arm and shook her head. It was enough. No one touched the water pitcher. When the guard wasn’t looking, Ace carefully poured it out into the corner of the cell. The water disappeared into the dirt.
Later, when they were all locked in and supposedly sleeping, Bert inquired, “So. What gives with the water trick?”
Sam said, “Yes, Lady Ace. What?”
There was a guilty silence, then Ace said, “I believe Giardia lamblia takes a week to ten days to develop full symptoms.”
Tombstone inquired, “What, now?”
Gooper chuckled, then expounded glibly, “Giardia lamblia. A microscopic organism. A flagellate. ’E lives almost worldwide, commonly in the intestinal tracts of deer and other woodland animals. Th’ animals aren’t bothered by ’im, but th’ humans are! In about a week, if Ace ’as done wot I think she’s done, every Jerry wot drank water tonight’s gonna need the loo every ten minutes!”
Tombstone spoke in tones of wonder. “Well, rope my ankles and call me a dogie! Somebody did a brain transplant on Gooper!”
“Aw, shaddap, cowboy!” said Gooper.
“Don’t you two get going!” Quack said, then asked, “Ace? What did you do? I’m still lost.”
Ace was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “I snuck out to the fence perimeter and snagged a deer pellet. I mixed it into the big water jug they use in the kitchen. A week from now, the whole camp will be pretty miserable, except hopefully us.” She sighed again. “I feel dirty.”
“Do not forget, Lady Ace, they have spilled your blood in the interrogation room. This is nothing in comparison,” Sam said in his precisely enunciated, polite style.
“Hear, hear!” chimed in Bert. The spiteful guard Uwe had given Bert a painful knock on the elbow earlier in the day, and Bert was rubbing it.
A voice that sounded exactly like that of Darko Dor said, “If you try anything, you will have no need to travel. Your dead body will be buried here.” The Slavic accents and other idiosyncrasies were perfect.
“Jiminy!” Tombstone said with amazement, “Was that you, Quack?”
Bert said, “Yah, that’s him. I think he has a bright future in radio.”
Quack said, in his normal rolling basso, “Radio? And deprive the stage of a talent such as mine?”
“You’re too ugly. Wicked ugly.”
“Envy, Bert? Tsk. It does not become you, old chum,” Quack said.
Gooper said, “Them blokes are bein’ obtuse ’bout it, but they’re tryin’ ter cheer you on, Ace. Dive inter the ruck and slug it out!”
“You fellas are the best,” Ace said quietly. “If there’s an ‘after’ to this war, we’ll have a reunion and laugh about the good ol’ days at the Flugzeugfabrik.”
Chapter 8
Two days later, a convoy arrived. Two flatbed trucks carried new engines. A third truck hauled a load of wheels and propellers. A gleaming black car with Ottoman insignia followed shortly after.
Inside the workroom, Bert bent metal struts and Quack sewed leather upholstery. They looked up to see Minister of Technology Darko Dor sweep in. He delivered a few orders, then left as abruptly as he came. The obsequious manager bobbed his head in nervous subservience. The moment Darko Dor left, he ordered workers to unload the trucks, including Bert.
Bert went outside to wrap chains around engines. Ace ran the lifting crane. The truck driver and a guard lounged, watching the prisoners work, lazily smoking cigarettes. Uwe came to take his guard shift. He smoked his own cigarette and pointed and laughed at Bert.
Ace watched Bert flush. She frowned. One by one, Bert wrapped chains around massive engines atop the truck. Ace swung them over and down into the hangar with the powered crane. Bert hustled down from the truck to guide the engine into place on the hangar floor.
Slyly, it happened. On Bert’s way down, Uwe tripped him. Bert tumbled to the tarmac, scraping the heel of his hand and bashing his forehead. He groaned and rolled to his feet. He clenched his fists and oriented on Uwe with murderous intent. But Uwe trained his rifle between Bert’s eyes.
“Be careful, stupid Yankee. You wouldn’t want to get yourself executed,” Uwe gleefully sneered.
With great effort, Bert heaved his body away from Uwe and over to guide the engine into place. Uwe laughed and went back to joke and smoke with the driver.
“I can’t take it much longer, Ace!” Bert whispered when the crane revved down.
“You can. You can take it another few days. I’m sorry, Bert.”
♠♠♠
Darko Dor sent for die Alibifrau. An Ottoman officer ushered Ace into the farmhouse. The gray-clad Minister of Technology was in the living room. He bowed a few inches at the waist. The escorting officer continued through the living room and into the kitchen. As he left, the officer shot a look of envy and fear toward the back of Darko’s head.
At a small table, Darko had set out a bottle of wine and two glasses. Ace felt a crawling sensation in her gut as the trim, goateed man smiled and gestured to a chair. “Please. Sit.”
Ace sat. In slow motion.
Dar
ko Dor poured wine and chatted one-sidedly. “I have inquired about you. You were a pilot. You brought down a Falke with only a SPAD. Congratulations, Miss Carroway.”
Ace sat rigid and straight-backed. Her golden skin and short hair contrasted with the white of her grease-smeared coveralls. She said no word.
“Nothing to say? Well, perhaps try the wine. It is delicious. It is only a light wine, a Reisling, nothing heavy. A small token of my esteem. My respect for such an accomplished young woman. It is not poisoned, see?” Darko took a long sip, perching on the seat opposite Ace. “I want to help you, you understand. I want to get you out of the—” he pursed his lips in distaste, “the hovel you are forced to stay in. You are used to much finer accommodations, I think.”
Ace pinched the bridge of her nose where it met her forehead, as if trying to calm a headache. Her voice sounded full of suffering. “If there is a point, please get to it.”
“I think you get the point already, Miss Carroway. I can take you away from all this. Find you employment. See to your needs. Ease all those burdens you carry.” Darko’s voice was sympathetic and soft.
He reached a soothing hand to stroke her shoulder.
Ace seemed to hear Jitsuko’s voice in her ear.
“Wing Chun brings inner peace. Why?”
“It unites body and mind,” Cecilia guessed.
“Yes, all right. But also it is the knowledge of personal power. Knowledge. This I can do. That is an inch too far. The ability to judge.”
“Personal power. I am swift. I am strong.”
“You are swift. You are strong. And now that you know it, you need never mention it again.”
Darko Dor’s reaching hand did not arrive. Ace stood up tall, very suddenly. The chair she had been sitting in bounced off her straightened knees and skidded backwards across the floor. “I’m not interested,” she said flatly.