Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  “So double it over, or get me some better cloth. I don’t care. My daughter needs a dress.”

  Heidi should conjure up some fabric for the shrew? Did she look like a magician?

  The back door slammed and Karla’s son Ludwig skipped toward them, followed by the Rittgarn children. Hans and Gretel each held Lina by the hand. From their extra slow progress and the scowl on the toddler’s face, Lina had been roused from a nap. They arrived at her side and Lina pulled free of her siblings to wrap her arms around Heidi’s legs.

  Heidi draped the curtains over her shoulder to lift the little one, who yawned, nestled close, and closed her eyes.

  “We came out to help you,” Ludwig announced.

  Help in the garden? Or help get rid of the woman? Questioning the children in her presence would be a bad idea.

  The older children spied the refugee child hiding behind her mother.

  “Are you going to live here, too?” Ludwig stood with arms crossed.

  “No.” The answer was mumbled into her mother’s skirt.

  “That’s good.” Hans swayed from foot to foot. “We don’t have any more beds.”

  Heidi looked away to hide her smile. It was good to see Hans come out of his somber shell, but now was not the time to show her pleasure.

  An automobile drove into the farmyard. Otto and his pal, Rudy, climbed out, followed by Frau Eimermann and Frau Grote. Apparently, the Gestapo’s services included settling a dispute over cloth. Imagine that.

  Heidi stifled a sigh. More than two weeks had gone by since Ursula made her vile suggestion. Had she called Otto, and this visit to Bickenbach was the result?

  “What’s going on here?” Otto’s eyes zeroed in on Heidi.

  She refused to look at him. This confrontation wasn’t her fault. Needing her hands free, she lowered Lina to the ground. The toddler’s wail added a chaotic note to the scene. As Heidi lifted the curtains from her shoulder, she glimpsed Rudy’s darkening frown. So, he didn’t care for children. Good. She wouldn’t urge the boys to settle down instead of hopping around.

  “Frau Eimermann, did you offer these to be sewn into a dress?” Heidi spread out the curtains.

  The neighbor’s face reddened, but before she could speak, Frau Grote stepped forward to finger the material.

  “Why, this cloth is sheer. Hardly appropriate dress material.” She turned to the refugee woman, shaking her head. “This won’t do at all.”

  Frau Grote must be the only sensible member in her family.

  The refugee began her familiar mantra. “My daughter needs a dress.”

  Heidi held out the curtains to Frau Eimermann. The neighbor reached out grateful hands for her drapery and Heidi lifted the sobbing Lina.

  When Frau Eimermann addressed the Gestapo agents, she began inching away. “This is exactly what I’ve been describing to Frau Grote. This woman does nothing but sit around and complain. She expects me to do all the cooking and cleaning, but whines that I don’t prepare food the way she would.”

  The refugee jumped into the fray. “I’d make my own food, but you won’t let me use the kitchen. I lost all my cooking utensils in the bombing.”

  “You have used my utensils and left my kitchen in a mess for me to clean up.”

  Heidi grabbed Gretel’s hand and tried to gain the boys’ attention. She measured the distances to the house and to the barn. The barn was closer. She tuned back in to the refugee’s list of woes.

  “I can’t even smoke in the house. And then I come here and am treated with suspicion.” The woman spun and thrust a finger at Heidi. “You act so high and mighty. How would you like to lose everything? You have no idea what it’s like to sacrifice.”

  That did it. She dropped Gretel’s hand and marched forward. “I happen to be a city girl. I was home when the bombs fell. I’ve seen the death and destruction. I’m living here as an evacuee. And I lost my husband in this war. Don’t get all high and mighty with me about sacrifice.”

  Sensing the hostile atmosphere, Lina whimpered and buried her face in Heidi’s neck. Heidi patted her back, then cupped Gretel’s head, turning her in the direction of the barn. “Come, boys. Let’s see who can get to the barn first.”

  The thunder of feet outweighed what two boys should be capable of. Karla had shepherded the rest of the children outside and the older ones raced after Ludwig and Hans.

  Heidi sneaked a peek back at their uninvited guests. The refugee woman looked like she’d swallowed a peach pit. Her daughter peered around her at the children. Heidi pursed her lips. She ought to invite the girl to join the children’s play. Of course, her mother was unlikely to allow that. From the looks of the argument brewing between Otto, Frau Grote, and Frau Eimermann, the woman’s days in Bickenbach were probably numbered. Rudy’s gaze remained locked on her. She swallowed hard. He needed to go back to wherever he came from.

  Gretchen pedaled furiously up the lane, kicking up a cloud of dust. The reason for her haste became clear. Right behind her came Ursula.

  Heidi’s shoulders sagged. “God is good. God is great. And we thank Him for this day.”

  Gretel looked up with her big blue eyes. “Is it time to eat?”

  “No, sweetie. I’m trying to think of blessings.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Thursday, April 20, 1944

  The Sly Buccaneer flew out in late afternoon for German rocket gun installations just across the English Channel in Cocove, France. Paul looked back for a glimpse of the chalk cliffs of Dover. For as long as he lived, that welcoming sight on their return flights would be etched in his memory. Before donning oxygen masks became necessary, he turned to Art and yelled over the roar of the engines, “Next time we have some down time, let’s go see Stonehenge.”

  “Not London?”

  “No. London’s crowded, and it’s obvious a war’s on. At Stonehenge, there shouldn’t be crowds. And that place has stood for centuries. No reminders of war or the senseless destruction of war. Quinn will join us. Maybe Aubrey, too.”

  Art nodded. “Sounds good.”

  They encountered heavy flak at the target, followed by a swarm of Messerschmitts swooping in on them as they circled for home. Paul yanked his machine gun around. As he blazed away at a fighter that streaked past in front of them, something sucker punched him in the ribs. The hit spun him around, off balance. As he crumpled to the floor, a starburst obliterated his vision when his head struck the drift meter.

  Burning pain in his side indicated a significant injury, but how bad? He tried to shift into a more comfortable position and the pain stabbed him with a vengeance. Spots danced before his eyes. He fumbled for the press-to-talk button on his mike. “Nav…gator…down.”

  Art whirled away from his gun. “Paul?” He rushed to Paul’s side. “Oh, man, Paul. You’ve got blood pooling under you. What happened?”

  Art yanked away Paul’s flak vest, searching for the wound. He ripped open Paul’s fleece-lined, heated suit. “Too much blood, too much blood. Why didn’t the flak vest help?”

  Arnie poked his head in the nose. He held a first aid kit. “How is he?”

  “It doesn’t appear to be a serious injury. Looks like a bullet got through the flak suit, went through his clothes and laid opened his skin but didn’t penetrate. We need to stop the bleeding. We’ve got about two hours flying time before we get back to base and a doctor.” Art eyed the kit. “What kind of bandages are in there?”

  Together, they placed a pad on the wound and secured it. Art zipped up Paul’s flight jacket, but his teeth didn’t stop chattering. They wrapped him in an electric survival blanket.

  “If you don’t need anything else…” Arnie stood. “I’d better get this kit back to the waist. Ben’s hit as well.” At Art’s nod, he left.

  Paul’s eyelids flickered and his vision darkened. Sleep called to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Paul! Paul, can you hear me?” Someone patted his cheek
and gripped his hand. “Come on, buddy, talk to me.”

  Paul’s eyes roved around. He couldn’t focus. Where was he? Who was shaking his hand? Bright sunlight streamed through the curved window. Curved window? What kind of window was that?

  Oh, yeah. They were at a plant nursery. Schroeder’s Greenhouse. With Easter just around the corner, Schroeder’s held a flower show. Lilies, orchids, and all manner of colorful spring blooms filled the nursery. The colorful beauties entranced Rachel.

  “Look at these daffodils. They’re absolutely gorgeous. I love them most of all.” She traced a gentle finger along the delicate golden trumpet of a large bloom. “I’m glad we planted lots of daffodil bulbs in our yard. Soon we’ll have all this splendor at home.”

  Paul studied a display of hyacinths. “These offer a full rainbow of color.”

  Rachel barely spared them a glance. “They’re nice.”

  “Nice? They’re nice?” He laughed. “Rachel, they’re stunning. They give depth to your daffodils.”

  Rachel slipped her arm around his waist. “Okay, fine. They’re stunning.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “But not as beautiful as the daffodils.”

  “How very generous you are in your praise, milady,” Paul retorted. With a quick look around, he leaned in and stole a kiss.

  “Ahem.” Rachel’s pesky little brother’s voice sounded behind them.

  Paul turned to confront Wesley Mikolsky. He blinked. Why did he see Art Jensen instead of Wesley? And where had Rachel gone? He was supposed to be irritated with her, wasn’t he? They must have quarreled. About…flowers?

  He turned his head to look for her. Pain lanced through his skull and he groaned.

  “Paul, can you hear me?” Art sounded worried as he jiggled Paul’s hand.

  Paul moved his eyes back to Art. The greenhouse had changed. The flowers were gone. Thunderous noise roared in his ears, and he was so cold. What was going on? His stomach was roiling. And why did his head feel like it was splitting in two?

  “How’s he doing?” A voice came from behind him.

  Art looked up with a frown. “His eyes are open, Quinn, but he’s not responding. He must have a concussion as well as too much blood loss, but there’s nothing we can do for him.”

  Quinn? Who was Quinn? What was happening? Trying to lick his lips, Paul forced out his primary concern.

  “Where’s Rachel?” his voice croaked. What was covering his mouth?

  Art leaned down. “Did you say something?”

  Paul turned his head and nausea swept over him. Pain ricocheted throughout his skull. He tried to roll away from it and more pain stabbed him in the ribs. The nausea engulfed him and his stomach heaved. Art yanked a mask off his face and pulled him up while, from behind, someone thrust a box in front of him as his stomach emptied. A towel pressed to his face as Art eased him back down and put the mask back in place. He was dropping back into darkness and would have welcomed it, but Art started slapping his hand and yelled, “Stay with us, Paul. Come on, buddy, wake up!”

  “I’m sure he’s got a monster of a headache, but we shouldn’t give him morphine with a head injury. Try to get him comfortable. I need to check on Ben. Sounds like he’s as good as lost a leg.”

  Who was that behind him?

  Art grimaced and nodded. He looked back through the strange greenhouse window, touched his throat, and asked, “Aubrey, are we safe?”

  He nodded again and made a response.

  With his eyelids half raised, Paul gazed around. A machine gun stuck out the window and his eyes snapped wide open. A gun in the window? Of course! He was the navigator on a B-17 Flying Fortress. That explained the noise; their four Wright Cyclone engines were powering them across the sky. And Quinn, he was their copilot. What had he said? Someone had lost a leg?

  Wait a minute! What was he doing on the floor? Was he the wounded crewman? Had he lost a leg? Paul tried to curl his toes. They felt like they were still there.

  “Easy, Paul. Don’t move.” Art pressed a hand to Paul’s shoulder. “Hold still. We wrapped you up and the bleeding appears to have stopped, but don’t do anything to get it started again.”

  “What happened?” He reached up a hand to shift his helmet into its correct position, and winced.

  “A slug took out a chunk of skin along your ribs.” Art helped adjust his helmet into position so the receivers covered his ears before pointing to Paul’s bandaged midsection. “And you’ve undoubtedly got a concussion.” Then he asked a peculiar question. “What street do your parents live on?”

  Huh?

  “Why? You gonna write ‘em right away?” Art could be so irritating. “You know they live on Cherry Street.”

  Aubrey’s voice sounded cheerful in his earphones. “Guess we can stop worrying about Paul. He’s alert and getting ornery.”

  The shorter duration mission worked to their benefit. Aubrey instructed Arnie to fire red flares indicating wounded aboard the Sly Buccaneer, and they were among the first to land. A waiting ambulance rushed Paul and Ben to the base hospital.

  Paul’s head throbbed as medics undressed him and a doctor treated his torn-up side. He was then ensconced in a bed in the ward. This might not be so bad. Unlike the hut he lived in, the hospital Quonset was wonderfully warm. Sleep enticed him, and this time, no one held him back.

  He would have slept through to the next day if someone hadn’t kept waking him to ask how he was feeling.

  “I’d feel just fine if you’d quit waking me up every five minutes,” he groused at the latest disturbance.

  Someone laughed on the other side of his bed. Rolling his head in cautious increments, he saw Aubrey, Quinn, and Art. “They’re waking you every hour, not every five minutes,” Aubrey informed him. “Standard procedure for a concussion.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Paul muttered. Waves of pain battered his head and drilled a hole in his side. Trying to ignore the throbbing, he focused on his crewmates. “How’d the mission go?”

  The three men shared a glance. Quinn answered. “The target was to Cocove, France. Remember that?” At Paul’s blink of acknowledgement, Quinn continued, “We couldn’t bomb because of poor visibility, but the flak was so intense and accurate, several Forts were damaged, including Judgment Day. They’ll have a few days of stand-down while their plane’s repaired. Marvin’s already volunteered to take your place so he can get his mission count back up with the rest of his crew.”

  Paul wouldn’t be flying for a while. “How long are they keeping me here? Do you know when I’ll be back?”

  Falling behind on his mission count held no appeal. Good thing he had that extra mission in the bank.

  “You know the rule. A wound grounds you for at least three days. You’ll be here for a night or two, so enjoy the pampering while you can,” Aubrey kidded him. “In a week or so, the doc will check you out and see how you’re doing. So take it easy now, you hear?” He placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder as he and Quinn prepared to leave.

  Paul stopped Quinn. “You were my nursemaid when I was heaving my guts up there, weren’t you? I’d offer to return the favor, but I’d just as soon not have a repeat scenario, okay?”

  Quinn burst out with a chortle that he quickly muffled in the sick ward. “My thoughts exactly, pal. My thoughts exactly.”

  With a wave, he and Aubrey left.

  Art remained, and he sat down on the vacant bed beside Paul’s. He’d been silent until now. “This whole war is lunacy, you know that? Ben gets a leg shot off, and you’re all messed up. The High Command doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing.”

  Just how messed up did Art think he was? Paul tried to spot their crewmate among the other bedridden fliers, but Ben wouldn’t be in the officers’ ward. “What happened with Ben? Where is he?”

  “He’s at the hospital in Braintree. He got his knee shattered by a slug. There was no saving it. The mess was amputated.” Art got up and stalked around before coming back to the bed. His voice was low and fu
rious. “Aerial warfare is just a big experiment, and we’re expected to pay with our lives. Precision bombing is a joke. We should be plastering Germany in the dark of night, like the Brits. Send all the Krauts to the devil, that’s what we should be doing.”

  Shock curled Paul’s toes. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. They’re all guilty as sin.” Art glared at him.

  The pain pounding in Paul’s head ratcheted up its intensity. He turned away and caught the eye of a medic who stared at Art. The medic hurried over. “It’s time to leave now, sir. Visiting hours are over, and the lieutenant needs to rest.”

  Art looked ready to snap at the medic before stalking away without another word. Blistered by the force of Art’s verbal attack, Paul whispered, “He didn’t mean that. He’s just scared because he realizes it could have been him losing a leg or, or something.”

  The medic sponged Paul’s face before laying a damp cloth across his brow. “Lots of fellas in the aircrews reach a breaking point, sir. Having people try to kill you isn’t normal. At least your friend is venting his anger. Hopefully, tomorrow he’ll be in a better frame of mind.”

  Paul closed his eyes. If he’d been killed, he’d be with Rachel now. That wouldn’t be so bad, except his parents would be grief-stricken.

  “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

  He prodded open an eye. “I’ve been better, Doc. Am I going to live?”

  Captain Bland chuckled and consulted his clipboard. He recited the military lingo. “Your diagnosis is, one, wound, lacerated superficial, half inch by four inches, over eighth rib, posterior, auxiliary line, right, accidentally incurred by 30 caliber machine gun bullet on operational mission over enemy territory; two, contusion, of chest wall, posterior line, over eighth rib, sustained as above; and three, concussion, mild.”