Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  Paul looked up. Walt Kressle watched him, the top-secret Norden bombsight perched behind him by the huge Plexiglas window. “Sure.” He flicked on the panel light switch before tugging at the fire extinguisher. “Although we never had any drills with this thing.”

  Kressle huffed a laugh.

  A civil response. Good. They needed to find common ground. “I understand you can get a more accurate drift reading through the bombsight than the drift meter here because the optics are superior.”

  Kressle nodded. “If you want me to take a reading for you, just point to your own meter.”

  They donned their headsets for communications checks. Soon the group of participating bombers trundled into position for take-off. Loud squealing and groaning reverberated through the plane. Paul raised his eyebrows at the bombardier. He had to raise his voice to be heard. “Is that the normal hydraulics symphony we’ll get to listen to every time we taxi?”

  Walt Kressle laughed out loud.

  They started their bomb run. Aubrey had engaged the automatic pilot, which allowed Walt to fly the plane laterally through the bombsight’s connection to the autopilot. Paul stood behind the bombardier and observed everything Walt did. If anything ever happened to him during a mission, Paul would have to perform his duties. Hunched over the bombsight, Walt made final adjustments and corrections until he flipped the bomb release switch.

  From his position in the nose, Paul couldn’t track the bombs, but an onboard camera aimed at the ground was recording their progress. The sand-filled practice bombs contained a small explosive charge that gave off a flash of light and puff of white smoke on impact.

  “Bull’s eye!”

  Paul winced at the yell over the headset. One of the gunners had followed the bombs down.

  “At least two of ‘em landed right on the mark and the others were clustered around there.”

  Walt leaned back, his gloved fingers laced behind his head.

  “Time to check the Mississippi.”

  Paul couldn’t identify the voice, but a chorus of agreement sounded in his ears. This should be interesting.

  From Springfield, they were soon over the river, following it south. They flew a lot higher than the treetop level Quinn had mentioned. Walt offered an explanation.

  “This time of year, we have to go further south to find river activity. So we’ll fly past Dyersburg and make our run between Arkansas and Mississippi.”

  An hour and a half passed before they dropped down. Their speed did not slow. They barreled along at one hundred sixty miles an hour, swinging around bends in the river with tree branches reaching out to them. Paul’s eyes bugged. They hadn’t been kidding about this being a sport. “What happens if we meet a plane going the other way?”

  “We won’t. The acknowledged course for checking the Mississippi is north to south only.”

  Uh-huh.

  They whipped around another bend. Dead ahead, a fisherman lounged in his boat. The roar of four Wright Cyclone engines snapped the fisherman’s head up. As the behemoth plane bore down on him, the startled man stood and attempted to leap overboard. The boat rocked, and the man belly-flopped into the river.

  “Whoo-wee. That guy’s mad,” one of the gunners with a rear view reported. “He’s shaking his fist at us.”

  They disappeared around another curve. “On to our next victim.”

  Paul slumped down on his chair and expelled his breath. Great sport indeed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Friday, February 25, 1944

  “What are you doing?”

  Gretchen’s voice came out of nowhere and Heidi jumped. “Do not sneak up on me when I’m working with these chickens. For that matter, don’t sneak up on me at all.” She pressed a hand to her pounding heart. “I’m gathering eggs. What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “With a falconer’s glove? Where’d you get it? And how can you pick up eggs with such a heavy glove and not break them?”

  Heidi smirked at her sister. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often your arms are scratched. Mine never are.” With her left arm encased in the protective gear, she pushed aside a hen that promptly attacked the glove. Using her right hand, Heidi scooped up the two eggs revealed in the nest. “Ta da.” She placed the eggs in her basket, and waved her hand toward the wall behind her. “I found the glove hanging on one of those nails among Herr Ziemer’s farm paraphernalia.”

  “You might have mentioned your technique.” Gretchen glared at the chicken. “That old hen is the meanest. If she weren’t such a good layer, I would recommend smothering her in dumplings.”

  “I know the feeling.” Setting aside the egg basket, Heidi scattered feed for the chickens. She pointed to the papers Gretchen clutched. “What do you have there?”

  “Oh!” Her sister plopped down on a bale of hay and unfolded the pages. “Herr Grote was in Sankt Goar and brought back some mail for Bickenbach. We got a letter from Lieselotte.”

  They hadn’t been home since Christmas, nor heard from their family in a month. Heidi settled on another hay bale. “What does she say?”

  “The school children in their jungvolk uniforms went door to door on collection drives for paper, cardboard, and tin. Papa had decided there’s no point in saving the three boxes of Christmas ornaments broken when the bomb fell through our house. Lieselotte asked the schoolchildren if glass was acceptable. They didn’t seem to know, but their eyes bulged at all the pretty colored glass and they took it, along with a few others things damaged by the bomb.”

  Three boxes of glass ornaments. Some frosted, some glittery, all beautiful. And all broken. Heidi sighed. They’d be easily replaceable. Someday. Hardly worth considering them a sacrifice. Except for last Christmas and their years in America, she’d never known a Christmas without the decorations. Her eyes watered and she dashed a hand across them. How shallow could she be to mourn bits of colored glass?

  “She writes that they got new rations cards, but they’re useless because all the stores have are empty shelves. Konrad asked Herr Metz—”

  “Will you give me a hand with this?” Heidi raised her voice to interrupt. When Gretchen looked up in surprise, Heidi pointed at the window and whispered, “Someone’s out there.”

  Jumping up, she ran to the door. After checking that her sister was right behind her, she flung the door open.

  “Why, Ursula Grote!” Gretchen exclaimed at the girl who stumbled into them. “Whatever are you doing, listening at the door like that?”

  “My father told us he delivered a letter from your family. Is everything all right with them?”

  A year older than Gretchen, the neighbor constantly attempted to insinuate herself in the younger girl’s activities. Gretchen avoided time spent in her company. Ursula couldn’t be trusted. Herr Grote probably encouraged Ursula’s nosiness. The more the town leader could report to the Gestapo, the more favor he would curry.

  Now she practically drooled in eagerness for some juicy tidbit. She held her fingers outstretched as though to grab a scandal. Heidi leaned away from her.

  “Of course everything is fine. Our home suffered minimal bomb damage. We’d already cleaned out the attic of anything flammable.” She gave away nothing of significance before directing the questioning to Ursula. “You are fortunate to live out in the country where bombs are unlikely to fall on your house. Do you have any refugees living with you?”

  Heidi encountered more strangers than familiar faces when she ventured off the farm. People continually evacuated the endangered cities and were assigned by the government to settle in towns and villages. Bickenbach’s population had swollen to double its pre-war size.

  “Of course not.” Ursula raised her chin. “We have to keep our home open for official visitors. But we coordinate housing assignments for the refugees sent here. I help keep track of them.” Her preening smile grated like fingernails on a blackboard. “Otto Schmitz is very pleased with my assistance. He is a capta
in in the Gestapo, you know.”

  “Really? Well, you’ll have to excuse us now.” Heidi turned her back on Ursula. “Gretchen, we need to get those eggs in to Frau Ziemer. The children are hungry.” She retrieved their baskets, thrusting one at her sister. Closing the barn door with a thump, she started for the house. “Bye, Ursula.”

  “You need to turn in your egg quota. I’ll be glad to take them for you.” The girl never quit.

  “No, thank you. We want to be sure we get our count right.”

  “Have a good weekend, Ursula.” Gretchen’s voice sounded like she was gritting her teeth. “Be sure to tell your father how very much we appreciate him taking the time to deliver our letter.”

  Heidi sneaked a backward glance to see Gretchen impart a sweet smile. Ursula stared after them for a moment, her breath expelling puffs of steam in the winter air, before she flounced off with clenched fists.

  “Imagine that.” Gretchen’s free hand clenched, too. “She’s too eager to help. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few eggs went missing and she reported we short-changed the Ziemers’ required donation.”

  “Precisely why I didn’t accept her offer. She acts concerned about our family, but I’m sure she hopes to find a tasty morsel of gossip. We have to be very careful about everything we say in her hearing.”

  Heidi’s face heated just thinking about Ursula’s interference. Germany was being destroyed by the Allied bombings, but that wasn’t enough for the Gestapo and their cohorts. They added their own harassment and bullying. Those brave souls who resisted, how did they do it? If she could grow a little backbone, she’d join them in a bit of resistance. But how?

  While waiting for a pot of potato soup to simmer for lunch, she drummed her fingernails on the kitchen counter. An idea bloomed. A year ago she’d read a pamphlet by the White Rose resistance group, before the leaders were arrested and executed. One comment remained buried in her memory. Passive resistance and sabotage were the only means of opposing the National Socialists. Sabotage was out of the question for her, but passive resistance? Her fingers drummed faster. They could hide chickens and sell eggs on the black market. Doing so would be cause for arrest and jail time, maybe even being sent to a concentration camp. Could she do it? Not if it endangered the children.

  The soup bubbled and she lowered the flame. Tonight after tucking the children into bed, she’d have a war council with the Ziemers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dyersburg, Tennessee

  Saturday, February 26, 1944

  Aubrey scanned his crew. “Okay, men, tomorrow we head out to Kearney, Nebraska. We’ll pick up a shiny new airplane and, in a matter of days, we’ll be heading off to war.”

  Practice time was over. Paul searched the faces of his crewmates. They presented a cohesive unit in their flights here, but overseas would surely be different. For one thing, the enemy would try his utmost to kill them. Determination, apprehension, even boredom marked their faces. The boredom had to be a front to hide their true feelings. Nobody wanted to be the one to foul up his assigned duties and cause the downfall of their crew. As in, shot down. Paul straightened his spine. He was a good navigator. He’d keep them on course.

  “Be sure you have all your gear loaded,” Aubrey continued. “Don’t stay too late at tonight’s dance, and get a good night’s rest. We’re going to war, gentlemen. Life as we’ve come to know it is about to change again, and not necessarily for the better. Our accommodations overseas will not be as deluxe as they are here.” He smiled at all the guffaws.

  Paul, Aubrey, and Quinn headed for the officers’ mess where they joined Art and his copilot at a table. Art pushed out a chair with his foot. “Did you get your marching orders?”

  “Yep, we catch a train tomorrow for Kearney, Nebraska.”

  “That’s great,” Art exclaimed. “Same as us.”

  Excellent. Art had forgotten his snit. The past couple weeks had been reminiscent of their school days when sports and girls preoccupied his mind, not ranks and honors. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Just think. We’ll soon be sight-seeing in Iceland.”

  Art chuckled at his inane remark, but the other officers stared at him in silence. Art addressed Aubrey. “You’re going to have to keep an eye on him, you know. He’s always wanted to see the world. He’ll be plotting a course to overfly all the highlights wherever you go.”

  Quinn perked up. “Really? Say Paul, I’ve always wanted to see Stonehenge. Could you manage that?”

  “Sure thing.” Paul pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, and glanced at Aubrey. “Any requests?”

  Aubrey studied his navigator through narrowed eyes. “That little jaunt over, what was it, Vicksburg, the other day—?”

  “Wasn’t that interesting?” Paul interrupted. “Did you know, during the Civil War, the fall of Vicksburg came at the same time as the Union victory at Gettysburg? The tide turned in a big way for the Union that week.” He smiled and shrugged. “As long as I had a little leeway in fulfilling the exercise, I tried to make the trip as educational as possible.”

  Aubrey laughed. “Did you bring a camera, Quinn? Sounds like we’re going to be tourists as much as warriors.”

  That evening, Paul stopped by the dance with Art and Quinn. They’d been inside less than a minute when a pretty blonde joined them. “There you are. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  Paul dredged up a memory. “Uh, hello, Mary.”

  He allowed no enthusiasm in his voice. He and Chet had met her outside the commissary two days earlier and he’d held the door for her. Big mistake. She’d decided he was sweet on her. Even fiddling with his wedding band hadn’t discouraged her.

  A frown appeared and disappeared so quickly he might have imagined it. Her smile heightened. “Millie.”

  Right. Silly Millie. In five minutes, he’d learned she’d graduated from high school two years ago, answered phones at a local office, had a brother who was a sailor in the Pacific Fleet, and adored cherry cobbler. Millie wanted a man in uniform. Make that an officer in uniform. She’d snubbed a besotted enlisted man.

  With a hand at Art’s back, he pressed his friend forward. “Have you met Art? We grew up together and,” he paused, “he’s not married.”

  Art shot him a quizzical look, but stepped forward. “Would you care to dance?”

  “I’d love to.” With a look promising Paul she hadn’t given up, Millie grabbed Art’s hand and pulled him out onto the floor.

  Paul rocked back on his heels. “Silly Millie, what a filly.”

  Soda spewed out of Quinn’s mouth, prompting squeals and dirty looks from two debutantes.

  Chet joined them and pounded Quinn’s back. “What’s the matter, Paul? Don’t you want another pen pal?”

  “Not her. No, sir. Those few minutes with her the other day made me feel like spiders were crawling on me. She talks too much.”

  “You and Livvy agreed to write, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. With Livvy, I enjoyed intelligent conversations with no pressure to commit to anything. But with her…” He flung a hand toward the dance floor.

  The song ended and Paul prodded his friends away from the door. Maybe Millie wouldn’t spot him. A trio of girls eyed them and, by unspoken agreement, the men asked them to dance.

  “Don’t look now.” Quinn’s voice held laughter as soon as the dance ended. “But here comes your spider girl, zeroing in to entangle you in her web.”

  Millie flounced up to him. “Your turn, Paul.”

  Had he given his name the other day or had Art tattled? Her sing-song soprano rasped on his ears. He stared hard at Quinn. Maybe his crewmate could extricate him from her clutches and offer to dance. Quinn got a different message.

  “We’ve got an early wake-up tomorrow. We should probably pack it in, don’t you think, Paul?”

  “You bet.” He sounded too eager to leave.

  “Where are you going tomorrow?” Millie snuggled against him.

  “M
ore exercises,” Quinn responded.

  Millie stiffened. She gazed at Paul with puppy dog eyes. “You’re shipping out, aren’t you? But we just met.”

  Rachel, if you can see me from heaven, you’d better not be laughing your head off.

  Art grinned at them. His grin looked more like a smirk. “You can write to Paul. Mail’s always welcome to us airmen.”

  “Oh, yes. Does anyone have some paper?” Millie scrawled her address on the scrap Art offered. “Write me as soon as you know your address, and I’ll write you every week.” She pressed the paper into Paul’s hand.

  Paul smiled without agreeing.

  Returning to the barracks, he scolded Art. “I am not interested in corresponding with that chatterbox. Why’d you suggest it?”

  “You need to get interested in other women, Paul. Rachel’s been dead for months. You planning on living the rest of your life like a monk?”

  Art may be his good friend, but if he didn’t watch out, he’d get a kick in the backside.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Thursday, March 16, 1944

  Heidi trudged behind the Ziemers’ barn to a tiny building that looked like a storage shed. At the front, a door opened to reveal seldom-used equipment. Around back, however, a disguised door led into a secret rabbit hutch. Before opening the door, Heidi assembled a trellis around the shed’s back wall to serve as a fence.

  “Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, come out for some fresh air.” The rabbits tumbled outside. She watched, tempted to pet them, but held back. Best not to become attached to the furry animals destined for the stew pot. She’d feel like a cannibal eating her friends.

  If the Grotes discovered the Ziemers had twenty more rabbits than the few housed in the barn, they would register these too. Most would be requisitioned. The Ziemers agreed with the need to support their troops and less fortunate compatriots, but they also needed to feed themselves and the children. That became harder to do with declining rations. The rabbits were an easy form of passive resistance.