Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Same Day

  The briefing officer droned on about the day’s mission. Paul couldn’t concentrate. Last night’s conversation kept intruding.

  Marvin Jones had received a letter from his wife. She had enclosed a picture of their baby girl whom Marvin had yet to see, and the photo depressed him. Grounded with an ear infection, Marvin wouldn’t be flying today with the rest of his crew. After they reached their thirtieth mission and went home, he would have to stay behind and make up the missed missions. It would be that much longer before he saw his daughter.

  What pain to have a child and never have held her, heard her cry, seen her smile. Paul heaved a sigh. His ache for Rachel renewed its grip.

  In their senior year of high school, their neighbors had welcomed a baby boy and held an open house for everyone to meet their new arrival. Rachel had been enchanted with the little guy. She’d cradled the baby in her arms, and he’d grasped her finger and wouldn’t let go. With eyes shining, she’d whispered, “I wish I could keep you, little one.”

  Last night he’d dreamed about Rachel. Again she held a baby, but this time, the baby girl was theirs. Paul hadn’t seen her yet and she was growing up so fast. She didn’t know her daddy. Suddenly, a fireball had filled his dream as a B-17 exploded. He awoke with a start, clammy with sweat, a baby’s cry echoing in his ears. Sleep had eluded him after that. He welcomed the sergeant’s wake-up call.

  Art nudged him. The briefing was over and he needed to get to the navigators’ meeting. “Are you feeling all right? You’re not getting Marvin’s bug, are you?”

  “I’m just tired. Lousy dream last night, that’s all.” He yawned. “See you in a bit. I have to get the dope on how to get to Luxembourg.”

  “Luxembourg? We’re going to Brunswick! Did you hear anything in there?”

  “Sure. I got it, and our route takes us over Luxembourg. I’ll point it out to you. It’s another country to mark down on our list of places we’ve seen.” Paul lifted his hand in a lazy wave and headed for the navigators’ briefing, leaving Art sputtering behind him.

  The weather was clear for takeoff and the formation quickly assembled. As they flew out over the coast, Paul marked his log and announced with a yawn, “Navigator to pilot, passing the final navigational beaker. Your heading is one-five-zero.”

  “Say again that heading, navigator,” Aubrey was quick to reply.

  “One five zero, sir. We’re on course and looking for trouble.” Paul yawned again. What had he just said? Looking for trouble? Where had that come from? He shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs.

  “Are you okay, Paul?”

  While they were with their enlisted crewmembers, the officers made a half-hearted effort to maintain some sense of military decorum, calling each other by rank. However, aircrews bonded tightly as they flew through danger from flak and fighters, and rank was often overlooked.

  Art responded to Aubrey’s question, “He’s a little short on sleep after a rough night of dreaming.”

  “Did you have fighters comin’ at you, sir?” Lester asked over the intercom.

  “Forget the fighters,” Herb chimed in. “I keep seeing Forts explode. Boom! I wake up and can’t figure out why I’m wrapped up in sheets. We don’t have any bed sheets on board.”

  As the others piped in with their nightmares of battles, Paul stared out the nose window, rousing only to test-fire his gun. He didn’t bother to explain that his malaise had nothing to do with exploding B-17s or attacking fighters, and everything to do with missing Rachel. Had war not interfered, would they have had that baby now?

  He rearranged his navigational tools. Was he ready to be a father?

  The lead plane made a slight adjustment, and all the other planes followed. Paul marked the turn in his log and broke into the chatter. “The coast of Belgium should be coming up momentarily.”

  “All right. Let’s concentrate on watching for fighters, men,” Aubrey admonished. “With this clear weather, they’re going to be waiting for us.”

  The pilot’s words proved prophetic when a flock of Focke Wulfs descended in a frenzy on the formation. Their Little Friends, a squadron of Mustangs, sped in to engage the German fighters. The B-17s continued on course with their own guns firing.

  A loud bang rocked the Spam Can.

  “Report!” Aubrey called. “Where are we hit?”

  “I think something fell off the tail fin, sir,” Lester responded from his tail gunner position. “A huge chunk of something fell past my window.”

  Arnie concurred from the top turret. “Part of the leading edge is gone. I can see the ribs at the top of the tail, but I don’t think it will make a significant difference. At least, I hope not.”

  The crew fell silent as they continued toward Brunswick. After three missions, the Spam Can had collected an assortment of minor damage from bullets and shrapnel but, so far, they’d avoided serious threats. A disintegrating tail was not a cheery thought.

  Paul marked their position in his log, reached forward and poked Art. Keying his mike, he announced, “Navigator to crew. If I may direct your attention out the left side of the plane, you will see the tiny principality of Luxembourg. Enjoy it. In a minute, we’ll be over the Third Reich.”

  “I thought they were supposed to be neutral. Or did the Krauts grab them too?” Bob grumbled. “Cuz there are a dozen bogies coming at us from nine o’clock low.”

  Their Little Friends held off the German fighters as the B-17s continued on without breaking formation. A Messerschmitt broke through the melee with the P-51s and came straight at the Spam Can with guns blazing. Paul jumped up from his desk and manned his gun.

  “That guy’s not very friendly,” yelled Howard. His gun fired back, along with Bob’s and Paul’s. Smoke and flames erupted from Spam’s number two engine. The fighter flipped over, exposing its heavily armored underside, and roared past as the intercom came alive with calls about the burning engine.

  “We’re on it. Activate the fire extinguisher on two, Quinn.” Aubrey sounded as calm as if he were discussing the dinner menu. “Shutting off the fuel. Feather the prop. We’ll have to increase the manifold pressure on the other engines to keep up with the group. Anything else hit?”

  “Yeah, we got a row of holes going up the side,” Howard answered from the ball turret.

  “Some of those bullets came in the waist window.” Bob laughed. “I swear, they went right by me on either side, but didn’t hit me.”

  “That’s what you think,” Ben retorted. “You got a hole in your sleeve.”

  “Why, that dirty Kraut,” Bob fumed. “No wonder it seemed extra drafty all of a sudden.”

  “Here comes another one,” Arnie cut in. “He’s sneaking down toward you, Lester.”

  “I see ‘im,” the cowboy drawled as he fired away. “Got ‘im! Smoke’s spewing from the fighter, and the pilot’s bailing out. At least he doesn’t have to worry about his reception when he hits the ground. Oh, mother!” The gunner’s voice filled with horror. “He just fell into a prop on another Fort behind us!”

  “Forget about him, Lester,” Aubrey cautioned. “Just keep watch for his pals.”

  The battle raged around them until they turned north for Brunswick. The strategy of flying south of the target was to confuse the Germans about their destination, but it put them over Germany longer. Paul stared out his side window at the dead engine. Getting back to England could be a problem.

  Another German FW-190 fighter swept into view with an American Mustang hot on his tail. The American pilot shot a volley of bullets into the German plane. Its pilot attempted to maneuver away but black smoke billowed from his engine. Paul had a ringside view of the canopy tearing off and the pilot flinging himself out of his mortally wounded fighter. Before the pilot disappeared from Paul’s sight, he looked straight at the Spam Can. He looked Paul right in the eye. The German threw a fist in his direction, his mouth open, yelling at him. Then he was gone.
r />   Paul dropped down on his chair, sucking in his breath. What had that man yelled at him? His face had twisted in rage. He’d raised his fist. Had he been able to hear the pilot’s words, he probably would have gotten an earful of German cuss words.

  The red ball in his Oxygen Flow Indicator bounced up and down at a frantic pace. His breathing was erratic. His pulse thundered in his ears. He inhaled a slow, steady breath. Why should the incident affect him so?

  Because that was his first up-close look at the enemy. Flying at twenty thousand feet or higher, they didn’t see the people their bombs fell on. It was easy to imagine they were all brutal Nazis who had brought this war upon themselves. But they weren’t. Heidi Steinhorst wasn’t. Her family couldn’t possibly be like the Nazis.

  The weather deteriorated as they approached Brunswick. They had to locate the aircraft assembly factory by radar. Flak bursts lit up the increasing clouds. As long as it stayed minimal and inaccurate, and the fighters didn’t come back, they’d survive to fight another day.

  Or maybe not. The weather became their enemy. Groping their way through the clouds, the formation was an hour late returning to Ridgewell. Visibility was less than a mile, with heavy drizzle. Paul rubbed sweaty palms together. Good thing he didn’t occupy Aubrey’s seat, trying to find their runway. Or any runway. Several planes reported their intention to land at the first available base. That had to be a last resort. Their accommodations at Ridgewell may not resemble a posh resort, but they were home.

  Paul studied his map. “I figure we’re about twenty minutes out, although there’s an R.A.F. base just ahead of us. Can we make it?”

  “We’ll make it.” Steely determination threaded Aubrey’s voice. “We’ve got a wounded bird that wants to go home to roost. The other engines are running ragged from the boost to keep up. Once we’re down, it won’t be taking off again without a lot of repair.”

  “Number three engine is starting to spit,” Arnie reported from his position behind the pilots.

  “Feather it, Quinn. We’ll make it on two.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Thursday, March 30, 1944

  Doll trotted into the Ziemers’ yard. A metallic screech filled the air, and the mare tossed her head and pranced sideways. Heidi slid from her back, keeping the reins in a firm grasp.

  Herr Ziemer hurried over to take charge of the nervous horse. He nodded toward the yard. “See what you can do about keeping the boys out of the way.”

  A salvage operation was underway at the downed plane. A Hanomag halftrack with a recovery crane mounted on its back hoisted an engine from a shattered wing. Six little boys hopped around the sergeant in charge, pleading for souvenirs. Heidi hastened to join them.

  “I think it would be all right for you each to have one small piece as long as you don’t take any ammunition or flares that might still be live.” The sergeant surveyed the wreckage. “In fact, I have an idea what would make dandy prizes.”

  Heidi’s brow rose. A prize might be something off an enemy plane, but from one of their own?

  “Viktor,” the sergeant called to a man working in the cockpit. “Can you pull out some of the gauge faces?”

  Viktor pulled loose the instrument panel and dropped it to the ground. Willi pounced on it.

  “You can’t have that, son.” The sergeant pried it from his grasp and tossed it aside. “That can be reused.” He worked a handful of gauges free from their slots. The boys hopped up and down at the sight of all the gauges, their excited chatter filling the air.

  “Let’s see what we have here. Who’d like the air speed indicator?”

  “I would, sir.” Hans Rittgarn wore such a hopeful look that Heidi’s eyes filled with tears. The heartbroken youngster was finally breaking free from his mantle of grief.

  “We also have an altitude indicator, a turn and bank indicator, rate of climb indicator, even a clock.”

  “I want the clock.” With hands on his hips, Willi scowled at the sergeant.

  The sergeant eyed the boy. “A Drei Käse Hoch pugilist.” He held out the clock and Willi snatched it.

  Heidi crossed her arms and sighed. Willi did indeed resemble a pint-sized boxer spoiling for a fight. His reaction to the hardships of war was to get mad.

  “The clock isn’t what I would consider a trophy, being such a common piece,” the sergeant told her as he doled out the rest of the gauges. “These others are unique to aircraft.”

  She shrugged. “I suspect it’s the only name he recognized. Are you sure it’s all right for them to have these? Can’t they be reused?”

  “These are only the faces. Bullets tore through the instruments and caused a fire. Some of these are scorched. Maybe some could be reused, but here they bring a bit of happiness.” He nodded toward the boys. They had their heads together, comparing their gauges. He pressed a few more into Heidi’s hands. “Keep these. Maybe you’ll get more boys, or maybe the little ladies would like one, too.” He pointed behind her.

  Frau Ziemer had come out with the girls. Christobel skipped to Heidi’s side and peered at the gauges. Her nose wrinkled, and she pointed to one of the twin tail fins. “Can we have that?”

  The sergeant threw back his head and laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart. That will find its way onto another plane.”

  Herr Grote returned to the farm in time to hear the laughter. “What’s going on here? Why haven’t you gotten this cleared away? Ziemer needs to work his land.”

  The sergeant eyed the mayor and his lip curled as he turned to find the farmer. “Were you planning on planting anything here in the yard, Herr Ziemer?”

  “No.”

  “Are we in your way?”

  “No.” Herr Ziemer maintained a serious expression, but his eyes twinkled.

  “Good.” The sergeant scooped up the discarded instrument panel and sent it winging onto the growing pile of broken wings and fuselage. He moved on to assist Viktor in fastening the crane’s hook to the cockpit, totally ignoring Herr Grote.

  The mayor’s lips thinned. Heidi inched over toward Frau Ziemer before he could find fault with her.

  “Once they have it hooked up, the crane will lift the plane onto the trailer,” Frau Ziemer explained to the children.

  “That’s right,” the sergeant said with a wink. “It’ll be the last flight for this plane.”

  “Heidi, dear,” Frau Ziemer claimed her attention, “did you have any success in Sankt Goar?”

  “I did.” Heidi fished a hand in her pocket and pulled out two spools of thread. “Ta da! The clerk sold me two because, as a seamstress, my work depends on having thread.”

  Before the war, she would have laughed at her delight in finding white thread. Spools in a rainbow of colors existed only in her memory now. Her hand closed around her two spools and she tucked them back into her pocket.

  “Anton, where is your flag?”

  The flag! Heidi eased her hand from her pocket and pivoted as Herr Grote advanced on Herr Ziemer. Here it comes.

  “It’s in the barn.” The farmer helped the soldiers guide the fuselage into position as the crane lowered it. He didn’t spare a glance for the mayor.

  “Why is it not on display?”

  “We have not had a special occasion, and prolonged exposure to the elements will cause it to deteriorate.”

  “Just because you are out in the country is no reason not to display it.” The mayor’s voice grew strident. “Put it up at once.”

  With his back to Herr Grote, Herr Ziemer heaved a sigh. The sergeant took his place with the fuselage and Herr Ziemer made his way to the barn.

  Heidi twisted her mouth to one side. They were about to see fireworks. She organized the children in a game, more to keep herself occupied than them.

  A minute passed before Herr Ziemer appeared at the barn door with a puzzled look. “Irmgard, that flag was left on the workbench, wasn’t it? It’s not there now.”

  “I certainly didn’t move it. I remem
ber it was there when the milk wagon was here to pick up our milk and leave new bottles.”

  Herr Ziemer nodded. Something caught his eye. Heidi turned to follow his gaze. The two little sisters wore bright red trousers below their shabby coats. Her breath stalled in her throat. She should have soaked the material in hot water before cutting it up. Maybe the red would have faded to pink.

  “Let’s line up in two rows and march around the house.” She placed the two sisters in the outside row, away from Herr Grote.

  Herr Ziemer’s voice floated to her in the still air. “I wonder if the driver set his supplies on it and then gathered it up with everything before he left.”

  Frau Ziemer agreed. “With all the stops he makes, he would have no idea where he’d acquired it.”

  “Get another one,” Herr Grote shrilled. “You must display the flag on the führer’s birthday next month.”

  “There are none to be had around here.” Frau Ziemer’s hands were on her hips.

  “I’ll see that you get another one.”

  The crunch of gravel suggested feet stumping away. Heidi circled the children back around. Herr and Frau Ziemer stood by the sergeant. Spotting her, Herr Ziemer walked by her on his way to the barn.

  “I never noticed the little girls’ red clothes,” he mused. “Very patriotic.”

  Heidi offered a weak smile. “I thought they look Christmassy.”

  “Mm hmm.” The farmer’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as he headed back to his barn.

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Friday, March 31, 1944

  Something woke Heidi early the next morning. She raised her head. No child cried. The house was silent. No sounds came from outside.

  She pulled the clock close to her eyes. Half past five. No doubt the Ziemers were up. She may as well get up, too.

  She swung her feet to the floor. Today was Friday, housecleaning day. That meant her oldest dress. She paused midway between sitting and standing.