Papa and Konrad secured the cellar door after them. Heidi flicked on a flashlight for Gretchen and Lieselotte to stow their bags. At the edge of the weak beam, Mama sat on a cot, wringing her hands. Heidi turned off the light as Papa joined Mama and sighed. “Now we wait.”
Minutes passed in the underground blackness. Frequent explosions moved closer.
“Hagen is not escaping this time.” Konrad expelled his words in a sigh.
“How can you sound so calm?” A sniff in Lieselotte’s voice suggested she was in tears.
Huddled with Gretchen on a cot, Heidi rocked back and forth while twisting a lock of hair on her finger. The coiling in her stomach tightened with each blast and she swallowed hard against the bile that rose in her throat. She forced her fingers loose from her hair. Why hadn’t she grabbed her hairbrush on the way out? She’d left it on the bureau beside… Erich’s portrait. Why hadn’t she taken that to Bickenbach where it’d be safe?
Her breath caught as an ominous whistling came toward them, and Gretchen’s fingernails dug into Heidi’s leg. A loud crash sounded directly over their heads. Small items toppled from the shelves. Dust permeated the air, and she sneezed.
“The bomb didn’t explode.” Papa jumped up as Konrad cast a feeble beam around the cellar. “It might be an incendiary that will start a fire.” Papa shoved open the cellar’s outside entrance and ran out.
Heidi didn’t hesitate. She raced after him, ignoring Mama’s cry to come back.
The sky glowed a ghastly orange, and stank of smoke and sulfur. What an eerie tableau. Down the street, flames engulfed a neighbor’s house. More fires flickered to the north and east, flames shooting high. Hundreds of aircraft engines growled overhead, but the sound was receding.
They entered through the front door and hesitated. The big window in the living room had blown out from the air pressure of exploding bombs. Glass shards glittered in their flashlight beams.
Papa glanced at her, but didn’t send her back to the cellar. “Watch your step. Go check the kitchen. I’ll look upstairs.”
She tiptoed forward. Good thing her shoes were sturdy. A large dark spot on the ceiling didn’t belong there. She aimed her light at it and gasped. A hole opened up into her bedroom, and beyond that, another hole through the roof. She swung the light down.
“Papa!” She backed up and smacked her elbow against the wall, causing her hand to tingle. “It’s here. In the kitchen.”
At her feet lay a narrow, foot-long bomb. It started hissing like a snake. Did that mean the timer was about to set off the fuse?
Run! No, the bomb had to leave. A small flame ignited. “Papa!”
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. She flung open the back door. Papa threw a chair out of his way, grabbed the bomb out of its depression in the floor, and heaved it through the doorway into the backyard. The flame flared up. Heidi followed Papa outside after it. He grabbed a bucket of sand and poured it over the bomb, smothering the flames. With firefighters unavailable during bombings, the government had instructed residents to be prepared to fight fires on their own.
Chest heaving, Papa draped an arm around her shoulders. “That’s done.” He looked around. “But Hagen’s been hit hard tonight.”
About to brush back her hair, Heidi stopped. Her hands were black. The dirt wouldn’t rub off. Gritty, the mess only smeared. Back in the kitchen, the source became clear. The stovepipe had been jarred loose. Soot covered every surface.
Another walk through the house uncovered more broken windows, but no major problems. The bomb holes could be patched. They returned to the front yard.
Rumblings, screechings, and groanings suggested lots of buildings were tumbling into rubble. A cloud of soot billowed into the night sky one block over. The acrid smoke stung Heidi’s eyes, nose, and throat. Heavy cloud cover reflected an eerie glow over the center of the city. The scene came straight out of Dante’s Inferno.
In the weird lighting, the appearance of a house across the street appeared odd. A wall had collapsed, leaving everything else intact. All the rooms were exposed, as though it were a giant dollhouse.
An hour passed before the all-clear whistle blew. The rest of the family joined them. Up and down the street, neighbors emerged from their cellars. Papa watched the burning house down the way.
“The Schmitts aren’t leaving their cellar. They could be trapped.” The Steinhorsts hurried over.
The combined effort of the neighborhood men finally raised the Schmitts’ cellar door. Smoke billowed out.
“Anyone in there?”
Papa and another neighbor covered their noses with handkerchiefs and eased down the stairs. The neighbor pointed, Papa nodded, and they disappeared from view. They soon reappeared, dragging bodies. The Schmitt family, parents and two young teenagers, had been asphyxiated. Heidi turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks.
After trying in vain to sleep for the rest of the night, Heidi’s eyelids threatened to close but the family wanted someone to learn whatever news could be heard. She hurried to attend the Confessing Church late Sunday morning. From a vantage point near the church, she spotted the first piece of good news. Steinhorst and Company still stood.
Pastor Stromstad stepped up to the pulpit with a cheerful greeting. “‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,’” he quoted from Psalm 46. “‘Be still and know that I am God. I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.’ Let us turn to page 26 in our hymnals and sing that excellent German hymn, ‘A Mighty Fortress is Our God.’”
Heidi gasped at his bold words. Pastor Stromstad appeared to be looking straight at the attendant Gestapo agent as he spoke. Throughout the service, she glanced toward the agent. He listened without fidgeting and often looked down. Taking notes for his superiors or for himself? If it weren’t for his occupation, he might be genuinely interested.
The pastor paused before concluding his sermon. He studied his congregation. “Hagen has led a charmed life it seems. Up and down the Ruhr valley, cities have been reduced to rubble and ash. The Allies know this is where Germany’s industrial might lies. But we’ve been spared until last night. Why?
“Make no mistake, many people died in last night’s attack. Not as many as might have a year ago, since the children were evacuated in recent weeks. And the weather favored us. When the British planes flew overhead last night, a dense cloud cover hid the city. Early estimates figure half of the bombs fell not on the inner city and the suburbs, but on forests and uninhabited areas. The AFA Battery Works, probably the primary target, was hit, but should be repaired and producing again soon.”
He braced his hands on either side of the pulpit and leaned forward. “Can we say that the good hand of our God was upon us? What about the devastation wrought on Hamburg, and Essen, and Cologne, and so many other cities? Such questions have no answers. It’s easy to blame God, but we must remember that God is not the author of war. Men’s inability to live in harmony with each other grieves Him. Now we must all roll up our sleeves and help our wounded neighbors.”
After the service ended, Heidi greeted the pastor.
He smiled. “Good morning, Heidi. How did the Steinhorsts weather the bombing?”
Heidi described the incendiary that crashed through their house. “I doubt I’ll ever forget the sound it made, like a living thing set on destroying us.”
She kept her hands hidden behind her back. No matter how hard she’d scrubbed, she couldn’t remove all the soot staining her fingers and under her nails. “And despite how carefully we thought we swept the floors, glass still crunches underfoot. But we were fortunate. Some of our neighbors were not.”
“Amazing, isn’t it, how random the bombing was? Two houses close together. One’s destroyed and the other’s barely touched. Say, that reminds me of the Bible verse in Luke. ‘Two men shall be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.’” He smiled. “I have no idea if that applies to our situation. Of course, Hagen may be bombed a
gain with an entirely different outcome.”
Smoke continued to hang in the air as Heidi hurried home. Her eyes stung, and must be as red as those she’d seen at church. If the railroad tracks remained intact, she’d be on her way back to the security of Bickenbach in the morning. The quiet of the countryside and small children to cuddle never looked so good.
Chapter Fourteen
Dyersburg, Tennessee
Monday, December 13, 1943
The Army Air Force put out a call for navigators. Pan American Airways Navigation School graduated its latest class, and sent their newly commissioned Second Lieutenants immediately to Crew Training Bases without leaves. Paul didn’t mind. Sure, he’d like to see his folks, but this way he wouldn’t have to answer questions about how he was doing.
He, Chet, Vern, and Charlie arrived at the air base in Dyersburg, Tennessee, in time to watch a group of bombers take off. They gawked like tourists.
“Here’s where we start earning our keep.” Vern craned his neck to track the airplanes.
Paul shouldered his duffel bag. “Since they took off without us, I guess they know where they’re going.”
“Exactly what part of the country are we in?” Charlie had slept through the entire train trip.
“We’re sixty miles north of Memphis. Missouri is just over that-a-way.” Chet waved a hand toward the west. “Where do we check in?”
As they headed for the likely building, a familiar voice hailed Paul. “Hey, buddy, where you going?”
Paul gaped at Art Jensen. “What are you doing here?”
“Practicing with my crew. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d have shipped out months ago.”
“Yeah, well, I had appendicitis. Can you imagine?” Art slouched with his head down, as though becoming ill was something to be ashamed of. “I’m glad it happened before going overseas. I got to convalesce at home. I ended up in a later bombardier class.”
“I never heard a word.”
“I didn’t want attention. Did you hear Homer Jenkins came home from Italy minus a leg? He did something heroic, like kick a grenade away from his squad.” Art demonstrated the kick before his face soured. “The neighborhood made a big hero out of him, and there I was, nursing a sore gut without ever having left the country. Nope, I didn’t want people to know I was back. I even slipped out of town under cover of darkness.”
Paul forced a laugh. “Well, great. Maybe we’ll have some time to catch up.”
Art eyeballed the four of them. “You’re all second lieutenants.”
He emphasized loo-TEN-ants as though the rank was a dubious distinction. Art wore the insignia of a flying officer, a step below second lieutenant.
Chet nodded. “I heard the regular army complained the air force branch was commissioning too many officers, so they had to cut back to keep the peace.”
“I got top scores on my practice runs. I should have been commissioned before a lot of the fellows who were.” Art glared at Chet as though it were his fault he’d been bypassed. “It’s hardly fair to me.”
Paul shifted his bag to get on their way to check in, but Charlie wanted to chat. “So you’re a bombardier? Is it really possible to plant your bombs in a pickle barrel from twenty thousand feet up?”
Art’s mouth turned down at the corners. “We don’t aim at pickle barrels, but my bombs always land on the bull’s eye.”
Before he could again emphasize the unfairness of being denied a commission, Paul stepped forward, blocking Charlie. “We’re on our way to check in. Is that the administration building?”
Too busy scowling at them to look in the direction Paul pointed, Art muttered, “Yeah, that’s it.”
Paul nodded. “See you later.”
Vern watched Art stalk off. “He’s got an attitude. Have you known him long?”
“Since we were in kindergarten.” Paul sighed. Some explanation was in order. “Art doesn’t like to be outshone by anyone. Homer Jenkins was a classmate and, alphabetically, came right before Art. When we graduated from high school, Homer was extolled for being an honor student and valedictorian. He got lots of applause, and then came Art. I think his mother applauded.” He glanced back in Art’s direction. “He’s nursed a grudge against Homer ever since. Now he’s been slighted by the Air Force with that appointment as a flying officer.”
“That doesn’t mean he ranked low in his class, does it?” Chet pulled open the door to headquarters. “Pilots get that same designation. If pilot flying officers ranked the worst in their class, who would feel safe flying with them?”
They reported to a major who took his time studying their papers. “You’ve probably heard of the shortage of navigators. Our crews have been training without you, so expect to start flying right away.” Someone passing his open door caught his eye. “Lieutenant Stiles!”
A tall man skidded to a stop and backed up. “Yes, sir?”
“We’ve got some navigators here. You can have…” The major looked at the top file. “…Paul Braedel. He’s ready to jump right in. Show him around.” To Paul he added, “Stiles is your pilot and plane commander.”
Just like that, Paul became a member of a combat crew. He gathered his gear and followed his new crewmate into the hallway. “Is that the normal way of assigning a crew?”
The pilot chuckled as he offered his hand. “I don’t know how the rest of my crew was assigned to me. At least he didn’t tell me to pick one of you. That would have been awkward. Good to have you with us, Paul. I’m Aubrey Stiles.”
After a stop at their barracks, they headed to the crew’s assembly point. Aubrey seemed to be a good man to be in charge during the dangerous situations they were sure to encounter. Paul scrutinized the rest of the men.
Aubrey started introductions. “We’ve got our navigator, Lieutenant Paul Braedel.” He turned to another man. “Quinn McPhee is our copilot.”
A man straightened from leaning against a workhorse. “Glad to have y’all join us. Maybe now we won’t be wandering all over the map during single plane exercises.”
Paul blinked. McPhee’s southern drawl was more pronounced than any he’d heard, and he’d heard a few while in Arkansas and Florida.
“I’ll be glad to tell you where to go.” Inwardly, he groaned. Why’d he have to say a dumb thing like that?
McPhee and one of the enlisted men snickered, but the other officer present snorted in derision.
Oh, great. Way to start off like an idiot, Braedel.
Aubrey indicated that officer. “Our bombardier, Walt Kressle.”
Kressle sneered.
Paul nodded, ignoring the man’s scorn. Unlike Art, he wore a second lieutenant’s insignia, so that didn’t explain the unfriendliness.
Aubrey instructed the enlisted men who manned their guns to recite their names and positions. They rattled them off in machine gun fashion. If Paul was expected to remember their names by day’s end, he’d be in trouble.
“Did you wash out of pilot training, too?” One of the gunners inadvertently gave him a clue for Kressle’s attitude.
“No.” If he laid out his situation, maybe he could prevent invitations to party from those so inclined. “I was in flight training until I went home on bereavement leave after my wife died. When I returned, a navigation class was about to start and I was told to report.”
Amid murmurs of sympathy, Kressle shot him a quizzical look lacking his ill humor. There had to be more to his story than washing out of flight school.
Aubrey offered him a brief explanation of their days. “We fly together nearly every day. By the time we head overseas, we’ll be a strong, effective unit, able to anticipate each other’s reactions and needs. Today we’ll fly a multi-plane formation north over Illinois and target Springfield.” A chorus of groans rose from the enlisted men. “After that, I thought we might check out the Mississippi.”
The men cheered and punched each other’s shoulders.
Quinn McPh
ee enlightened Paul. “It’s great sport. We buzz the Mississippi below treetop height. The river’s got so many curves and bends, no one knows we’re coming until we’re on top of them. Their reactions are pure slapstick.”
Even Kressle managed a slight smile.
The crew checked out their equipment and headed for their bomber. Paul stared at the planes lined up along the runway. This would be his first flight in a big four-engine plane. Approached from the rear, it looked like a huge, hulking beast with a length over seventy-four feet, and a wingspan of nearly one hundred four feet. The Flying Fortress dwarfed the little Stearman he’d learned to fly.
They entered through the rear door. Paul absorbed everything around him. All the way in the back stood a bicycle-type seat for Lester, the tail gunner, to hunch on, isolated from the rest of the crew. Midway forward, at the waist, open windows held the machine guns manned by the left and right waist gunners, Ben and Bob. Just ahead of them, the ball turret protruded from the belly of the plane. Paul wouldn’t care to trade places with Howard, the gunner who had to curl up in there. He passed through the radio room, where Herb, the radio operator, already fiddled with his equipment. Traversing the bomb bay on a narrow catwalk brought him to the cockpit. Arnie, the engineer, manned the top turret guns just behind the pilots.
Since he hadn’t been expected, someone else had done the preflight work. As Paul passed through the cockpit, Quinn pressed a copy of the afternoon’s flight plan into his hands. Paul gave it a hurried glance before he and Kressle dropped down into the narrow hatchway in the floor leading into the nose compartment. Just before crawling through, he spotted the emergency escape hatch. It’d be great if he never needed to use it for that purpose. Inside the nose, he sat at his navigation desk on the left. He raised the cover over the radio compass indicator for a peek, ran a hand over the drift meter, and tapped a finger on the oxygen regulator.
“Do you know how to work all that stuff?”
Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1) Page 8