With his belly full, Paul yawned. Kyle removed his tray, and his friends eased him down in his bed and tucked him in. Good friends. What would he do without them?
The next day, Paul awoke with improved mobility and no headache. The doctor released him from the infirmary and sent him back to his empty barracks to convalesce. Sly Buccaneer was absent from its hardstand. His crew was off on the day’s mission without him. The Radcliffe crew didn’t seem to be around. He ambled slowly about the base, the sun on his face and the breeze ruffling his hair.
A picnic table stood near the ground crew’s work area, and he eased down on a bench to watch the mechanics repair battle-weary bombers. His crew chief had a proprietary attitude toward the Sly Buccaneer. The sergeant considered it his plane, which he allowed them to borrow for their missions. The combat crew teased him, declaring his main concern was the safe return of the plane, never mind the men. Paul’s smile faded. Had the crew chief cleaned up his and Ben’s blood?
A bird fluttered overhead. What species was it? He never saw any chickadees or cardinals or any of the birds from home. He ought to look for a bird book to identify the English species.
At the distant rumble of planes, he headed over to the control tower to sweat out the return of his crew. Floyd Radcliffe was among the gathering throng of base personnel. The pilot nodded to him before looking back up. Paul’s gaze turned skyward as well. He’d been in the crowd on other days when they hadn’t flown on the mission, but never before with the suspense of waiting to see his own crew, his closest friends, come back.
Flares indicating wounded aboard were fired from the three planes queued up first to land. Come to think of it, Aubrey had told someone to fire a flare for him and Ben the other day. Those ambulance guys did a good job.
There it was! He grabbed Floyd’s arm. “There’s Sly Buc! Look at that! They’re back!”
Floyd laughed, but who cared? Paul raised a fist in victory and waved a wild greeting, injuries notwithstanding. Life could still be good.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bickenbach, Germany
Monday, April 24, 1944
Heidi fished in her apron pocket for another clothespin. Gretchen must have borrowed another handful to make more dolls. A village of clothespin people was great for the girls to play with, but how was she to hang the wash without them? Nothing left to do but reposition all the clothes to share pins. The bed sheets would have to drape over the line without pins and risk a wind blowing them off.
She was nearly finished when the crunch of gravel signaled someone’s approach. “Is that you, Gretch? I know the children need toys, but you have to stop using our clothespins.”
Rudy stepped into view. The Gestapo agent’s intense gaze raked her. One hundred butterflies took flight in her stomach. He stepped close, too close, invading her personal space. She backed up into a wet shirt, and ducked under the line. He followed.
“Guten morgen, Heidi.” His hand reached out to her. She tried to back away, but he was quicker. He snatched the blue kerchief holding back her hair and yanked it off, pulling her hair in the process. The kerchief fell to the ground and his fingers thrust into her hair, dragging a lock over her shoulder. “Much better. You are very beautiful.”
Her heart accelerated to triple time. She was in so much trouble. Was anyone outside? Would anyone hear if she screamed?
“How long has your husband been dead?” His head lowered.
He intended to kiss her. She ducked back under the clothesline and grabbed the wash basket, holding it in front of her like a shield. Oh, God, send me help.
He laughed as though enjoying a chase. “No need for games. We both know who will win. I like spirit.” He yanked on the basket but she tightened her grip. “I know you want me. You want my protection.”
Protection from what? She needed protection from him. Did he hope to entrap her with a self-incriminating statement? She clamped her jaw. Mama had often said, “If you can’t find anything good to say, keep your mouth shut.” Maybe throwing up on his shoes would discourage him.
“What’s going on here?” Herr Ziemer’s gruff voice never sounded more wonderful.
Heidi jerked the basket free from the agent’s grasp when he turned to confront her rescuer. She snatched up her kerchief, now trampled with dirty footprints, and fled for the house. Rudy’s voice drifted across the yard. “She needs a man.”
She paused inside the door.
Herr Ziemer responded, “She had the best man, and will never be satisfied with anyone less. No one can measure up to Erich Wetzel, and that’s the truth.”
Those were fighting words. Heidi closed the door and sagged against it. Rudy had to realize Herr Ziemer meant to diminish him. He might try to incriminate the farmer now. She massaged her forehead where a headache began to throb. God had sent her help. Now protect him.
Her heart still hammered. Being rebuffed wouldn’t stop Rudy. He’d come again. He’d probably arrest her and take her to headquarters where no one would interfere. Gestapo agents had no scruples. What about Adele’s husband? Could he get Rudy reassigned to Bavaria or somewhere far away?
“Oh, there you are.”
Heidi nearly jumped out of her shoes.
Karla came into the kitchen with Gretchen. “Time to take the children outside for fresh air and exercise.”
A frown creased Gretchen’s brow. “What’s wrong?”
Heidi moved away from the door. “Is that Gestapo agent still out there?”
“Hmm.” Karla peered out the window. “He’s stalking around the corner of the house now, and Herr Ziemer is standing there like an avenging angel with a pitchfork. What happened?”
“Herr Ziemer informed him no one could measure up to Erich.”
“Of course not, but why were they talking about Erich?” Gretchen leaned over the sink to look outside. “Did Rudy ask you for a date?”
“He didn’t ask.” Heidi sat at the table, too jittery to stand.
Her sister gasped. “Did he try to force himself on you?”
Heidi squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry about him. She would not.
“That monster.” Gretchen rubbed her shoulder. “All the good men are dying. As I’ve been saying, by the time the war’s over, there won’t be any left for us.” Gretchen looked gloomy, but at least not desperate enough to settle for any man who asked.
“Nonsense. Thousands of men will be coming home from the prison camps, like my Wolfgang.” Karla flung open the door and called for the children. A stampede of little feet resulted.
Heidi counted heads as the children flowed outside. Karla’s words dug like goads. What her cousin neglected to mention was that thousands of those returning prisoners would be returning to wives and sweethearts. Not that it mattered. The whole idea of going through the getting-to-know-you phase of a relationship in a country devastated by war left Heidi weary to the bone. She’d rather run away to someplace untouched by war. Did that make her a coward?
And poor Gretchen. Would she be so boy crazy if the war hadn’t taken away all the boys when she came of age? No one had asked her to share a soda at the drug store when she was sixteen like Heidi’s first date in Milwaukee.
She captured a phrase flitting about in her brain. Ne’er was heard a discouraging word. Must be from an American poem, maybe a song. She’d love to go back to Milwaukee. But she was a German, an enemy. She probably wouldn’t be welcome.
Ridgewell Air Base, England
Same Day
Midmorning found Paul back at the picnic table, too distracted by the goings-on around the base to write a letter home as he intended. Guess what, Mom! I got a new medal: the Purple Heart. She’ll love that.
A voice called on his left. “Smitty, fetch your jeep and head into Colchester. See what you can requisition on this list.”
Paul stood and hailed the driver. “Mind if I catch a ride with you?”
An hour later, Paul ducked into a shop on the town’s main road.
&nbs
p; “What can I do for you, Yank?”
Paul grinned. Quinn’s southern indignation had flared the first time he’d been called a Yank. “I’m told you’re most likely to have a book identifying the local birds.”
“I have a selection of used books along the back wall there. I think you’ll find one on birds.”
Together they located the book. As Paul turned away to make his purchase, he spotted a small, old book on a lower shelf. He picked it up. Psalms und Proverbs, written in old German Fraktur script. He thumbed through it on his way back to the counter. “I’ll take this one, too.”
“You’re wanting a German book then, Yank?”
“It’s part of the Bible. Boy, this old-fashioned script is hard to read. I can’t tell the difference between an s and an f. But look at this. Someone wrote inside the cover. If I’m ever shot down, this will help me look native.”
The shopkeeper shrugged and accepted his money. “If you say so, Yank. And good luck to you.” He touched an invisible hat in a salute.
That afternoon, Paul sauntered around the base with his bird guide. He found Floyd Radcliffe painting the pastoral English landscape, and settled down to watch him work and offer suggestions.
“How about adding a greenfinch? They’ve got a touch of yellow on the leading edge of their wings. See here?” He held out his bird book.
Floyd chuckled. “Tell you what, Paul. I’ll give you this painting when I’m done, and you can add as many birds as you like, if only you’ll go pester someone else for a while.”
Paul grinned and headed for the barracks of the 532nd squadron. They were on stand-down today. Maybe he could find Chet. On a sprawling base like Ridgewell, they frequently went for days without bumping into each other.
Chet lay flopped on his cot, staring at nothing. “You’re looking better. I no longer get the impression a stiff breeze will blow you over. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion my head’s not going to come off. As long as I don’t move too fast or jerk around, that is.” Paul sat down gingerly on a neighboring cot. Something wasn’t right here. He waited in silence.
“Vern’s dead.”
Paul leaned forward. “Vern? From navigation school?”
Chet nodded. “He was based at Bassingbourn with the 91st Bomb Group. Not too far away. We planned on visiting Cambridge together yesterday. I went to Bassingbourn Saturday, after seeing you, to spend the night. His plane hadn’t returned from the Oranienburg mission. They’d ditched in the North Sea. I was told the crew was in good spirits and wise-cracking on the radio.” He delivered his words in a monotone, but now his lips pressed together as he continued to stare at nothing. His chest swelled as he inhaled. “I just got a message. Vern’s body washed ashore at Great Yarmouth. Air-Sea Rescue never found them.”
“I’m not a strong swimmer,” Vern had said in Florida. Drowning probably wasn’t the cause of death, though. Hypothermia was more likely. Locating tiny rafts in the middle of the sea was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Innumerable crews ditched because of battle damage, or empty gas tanks, and were never seen again. Or they washed ashore and were identified by their clothing or the contents of their pockets. Lots of lousy ways for a man to die in war.
Chet cleared his throat. “When we last talked, Vern planned on shopping for a ring in Cambridge for Betty. She was a nice girl. Doesn’t deserve this.”
Paul nodded. “Lots of that going on. Too much.”
“Are you and Livvy in touch?”
“I’ve heard from her twice. She’s met a guy who’s caught her interest. Says all Betty talks about is Vern.”
Chet winced. “I should get her address from you so I can send her a note to pass on to Betty.”
Paul nodded. They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Paul checked the time. “Planes should be back soon. I’m going to the control tower.”
“I’ll join you.” Chet swung his legs off his cot. “This place is too gloomy.”
They found Floyd in the crowd gathered in front of the control tower for the sweating-out-the-final-moments ritual. Tonight, Paul and Art would talk. His friend might have annoying quirks, but didn’t they all?
The airplanes appeared on the horizon. He, Floyd, and Chet watched the bombers come in. A spotter on the control tower balcony watched with binoculars. “There’s Century Note, and Pella Tulip. Seven oh six, that’s Don Glenwood’s plane. Here comes the new Stage Door Canteen.”
Nineteen landed safely, with no more in sight. Paul stared hard toward the south. Come on, Sly Buc, where are you? The sky stayed empty.
“No.” A horrible sick feeling swept over him, and his knees buckled. Floyd and Chet gripped his arms and led him to a bench. Floyd then jogged over to Valiant Lady and spoke with the crew. He returned slowly.
“I’m sorry, Paul. John Rose said the Buc was hit by flak right after the bomb doors opened. Probably hit a bomb. The plane turned into a fireball. No one got out.”
Aubrey and Quinn. Marvin. The gunners. Art. They were all gone. Oh, Art. Paul dropped his head in his hands. They couldn’t be dead.
He passed the next two days in a fog thicker than that of an English morning. Searing pain settled into a curious numbness. It didn’t pay to care too deeply about anything. He watched as Marvin’s belongings were removed, along with Aubrey’s, Quinn’s, and Art’s. Marvin would never see his baby girl. They all had reasons to live while he had a reason to die, yet he was left behind.
He was reassigned to the Radcliffe crew, and a new crew moved into their billet. An objection rose in his throat when a new man arranged his belongings over Art’s bed, but no, it wasn’t Art’s anymore.
He escaped outside, and sucked in the fresh air. He roamed around the perimeter track, unable to outpace the demons of grief. Finding the chapel, he slipped inside and slumped onto a pew. At some point, Kyle joined him. Together they sat in silence. Kyle would be lifting him up in prayer. Good. The only prayer he could manage was a heartbroken, Why? Why did Art have to die? Why my good friends Aubrey and Quinn? Why did Marvin’s little girl have to lose her daddy? Why didn’t they get a chance to bail out? Losing Rachel was bad enough. Now my friends here, too? Why, God, why?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bickenbach, Germany
Thursday, May 4, 1944
Two weeks had passed since they’d found Max Stauffen’s body. Twice, Heidi had dreamed about him. The first time, he’d been in Erich’s U-boat, laughing ghoulishly as the boat plunged in its fatal dive. In the second dream, he and Rudy had been in cahoots, stalking her. She’d awakened before discovering what dastardly deed they planned. Good thing, too, or she’d probably have screamed loud enough to bring Ursula Grote running.
The Gestapo hadn’t suspected them of involvement. Of course, when they’d come to the house, Karla had put on quite an outraged performance of indignation over such macabre goings-on around young children.
No friends or family had come looking for him. Maybe Karla’s optimism that no one had any idea Max had been there was well founded. They should have left his identity papers with him though. Heidi had thought of that too late. He’d probably been thought a coward as Karla suggested. Were cowards brave enough to kill themselves?
Except he was SS. The SS didn’t attract cowards. Maybe he had been as nasty as Rudy. He hadn’t looked cruel, but death may have erased any sign of his capability for misdeeds. If only she could erase him from her memory. And her dreams.
Reporting the find had been the right thing to do. His wife may be dead, but someone must care about him. Karla hadn’t considered all aspects with her impulsive wish to hide the body. Heidi would give anything to know Erich was properly buried.
“Is this good?”
Heidi blinked and the scene changed. She sat at the kitchen table in the Bickenbach farmhouse where four young refugees practiced the alphabet. She looked at the painstakingly printed letters.
“That is very good, Hans. Your letters ar
e perfect and in correct order.” He beamed and she turned to the boy on her right. “How are you doing, Dieter?”
The boy pushed over his sheet and raised solemn eyes to her. Heidi reviewed his work. “You are doing very well. Almost finished.”
She rewarded him with a smile as she passed the paper back. He pulled it close as Heidi laid a gentle hand on his back. Dieter had not said a word since he arrived several days ago. His mother had died in a bombing and his father had disappeared on the Russian front. Imagine the horrors that traumatized him. She would enfold him in her arms if she didn’t think she would embarrass the boy in front of the others.
Suppressing a sigh, she looked across the table. “How are you doing, Willi? Almost done?”
Willi gave her a gap-toothed grin. “I think it is almost time for lunch.”
The little imp was notorious for trying to avoid lessons and chores.
Heidi gave him a firm look. “If you would practice telling time, you would know lunch is hours away. Besides,” she winked at Dieter, “you didn’t catch enough crickets down at the barn yesterday.”
Willi sat up straight, the fastest she’d ever seen him move. “No, that is not lunch. I caught those to scare the girls.”
“That was wrong of you,” she admonished him. “But remember, Frau Ziemer said since you like them so much, she would fry them for you.”
“I will not eat them.” The boy crossed his arms and thrust his nose in the air.
“Then I guess you do not need to be concerned about what time lunch will be for the rest of us, since you will not be eating.” Heidi concealed her smile as Willi snorted in disgust and hunched over his paper.
If only all her problems could be solved so easily.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ridgewell Air Base, England
Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1) Page 18