The Wings of Morning

by Murray Pura

  He did a barrel roll with the plane and smiled. Barrel Roll Kurtz. He saw again her bun falling loose, the pins scattering into the air like startled blackbirds, the color of the hair a sudden and welcome burst of light. He thought about both Emma and Lyyndaya often during the hard, cruel days at the army base and the images of their beauty warmed his mind and body and helped him endure. That and the strength and presence of God in an environment that appeared utterly forsaken by Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. All the men lived only to see their loved ones again and to thank God. A Thanksgiving visit had been denied, so now they could only wait another month until Christmas, hopeful but tormented by the nagging thought that even on that solemn day they might be denied a visit from the home folk. Unless…

  Unless I tell the army I will fly.

  Jude pictured himself in a uniform standing by a fighter plane. The thought repulsed him. He had been taught since he was ten that war was wrong, that the Amish did not embrace a military solution to conflict though they did pray for the souls of the soldiers on both sides. Other young men might dream of flying at high speeds and shooting down enemy planes and being called an ace. He simply dreamed of doing cartwheels in the sky and calling upon God to enjoy the tumult and exuberance of flight with him.

  For a few moments he drifted off with the aeroplane on his chest. Words from the Bible entered his sleep—the Son of Man came to give himself as a ransom for many. It seemed as if the phrase was addressed to him. He protested, But I am not the Son of Man. Immediately, more words clustered in his mind—He that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me. Then Lyyndaya was smiling and touching his hand and telling him, Even if others turn their backs, I will always believe the best of you, and God himself will never reject or shun you. That’s two of us. His eyes opened and everything was suddenly crystal clear. He placed the plane carefully back under his bunk and waited for the corporal’s arrival.

  Soon enough the door to the barracks flew open and once again the shouts of “traitors!” “spies!” and “Huns!” were hurled at them as they were ordered out of their bunks and onto the floor to do fifty push-ups.

  Jude tumbled out of bed with the others and lowered himself to the floor. David Hostetler and Samuel Miller could scarcely move. They each did one or two push-ups and collapsed. The corporal ordered men forward, who poured buckets of cold water over them. Jude could see the chunks of ice. Samuel and David gasped and each produced three more push-ups before their arms gave out again. The corporal kicked both men in the ribs.

  “Get up!” he roared. “It’s important you have your breakfast. It’s waiting for you at the officer’s mess and it’s piping hot. We don’t want it to cool off, do we? So we must run for our breakfast and make sure we get to it in time.”

  The corporal’s men hustled them out of the barracks and into the dark morning and made them run half a mile to the officer’s mess hall. Then he took them around to the back and ordered them to fish through the garbage cans for something to eat.

  “It’s cold, it’s cold!” he raged. “I warned you. None of you ran fast enough. Swallow what you can—it’s more than you filth deserve, and it’s better than what our real American boys are eating in the trenches right now.”

  Jude took in mouthfuls of cold porridge with his hand. He noticed several officers walking past after leaving the mess hall by the front doors. They ignored the knot of men bending over the trash cans scraping bits of food from among the ashes of cigarettes, coffee grounds, and brown apple cores. He made up his mind and suddenly ran toward them.

  The corporal was hot on his heels. “Get back here, Whetstone!”

  But Jude reached the officers first, stood at attention, and saluted. Their lips curled at the condition of his clothing and the stains of rubbish on his hands. He spoke quickly, “I am a friend of Lt. Brendan Cook. He is a British flying officer. He—”

  One of the men, a captain, was startled by Jude’s words. “I know Cook,” he interrupted. “How is it a prisoner like you knows him?”

  “I flew with him.”

  The corporal hit Jude from behind with a truncheon, using all the force he could muster. Jude fell to his knees. Face purple with anger and embarrassment at his prisoner’s actions, the corporal was about to swing at his head when the captain snapped, “That will do, Corporal. I want to hear what the man has to say.”

  “Sir, I apologize for this insubordination. Rest assured—”

  But the captain waved his hand impatiently. “Stand down, Corporal. Let him get to his feet.”

  “But, sir—”

  The officer’s eyes turned the color of gray iron. “Stand down.”

  The corporal saluted awkwardly and backed away. Jude got to his feet and returned to attention, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose in the silver dawn light.

  “How do you know Cook?” the captain demanded.

  “I was flying over the field where we were holding our church picnic in July—the lieutenant and his men engaged in mock combat with me.”

  “Really?” The officer looked at him with doubt glazing his eyes. “What were you flying?”

  “A Canuck.”

  “Stick or wheel?”

  “All Canucks have joysticks, sir.”

  The captain gave a small smile. “So they do. What is your name?”

  “Jude Whetstone, sir.”

  “Whetstone. That’s not a name easily forgotten. Are you one of the Amish prisoners? The ones who refuse to fight?”

  “It’s against our religion, sir.”

  “Yes. Would to God it was against the religion of more of the Germans.” He stared at Jude with eyes that cut. “You Amish are supposed to be over at the other end of the camp. Not at our end. What do you want?”

  “I want to fly, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I want to fly for our country, sir. I see that I have been mistaken in refusing to join our boys in Europe. I long to take up a plane against the Hun, sir. I want to fight.”

  “Do you?” The captain turned to his companion. “Major, does his name ring any bells?”

  The other officer shook his head. “No, but I can get to the bottom of this quickly enough. I’ll get a motor over to the general and ask him here to clear this up. Meanwhile, we should get this whole crew to stand down.”

  “All right.” As the major hurried off, the captain glanced over to where the corporal was venting his frustration on the other Amish men, having them empty the garbage cans on the ground and then return the contents to the metal barrels using their hands. “That’s enough, Corporal. We’re going to figure out what’s going on with this Whetstone and the other prisoners, and until we do, I want you to leave them be.”

  The corporal shook his head. “Sir, I can’t do that. I’m authorized to make sure—”

  “You’re authorized to obey the orders of a superior officer. No more of this. You men—you prisoners—step back from those trash cans. You must be freezing. Corporal, get them some coats.”

  “There are no cold-weather coats authorized for the prisoners.”

  “Give them your own.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “There are six of you and six of them. Give up your coats and then go get some more for yourselves. Tell the quartermaster that Captain Peterson and Major O’Shea need your old ones.”

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “Right now, Corporal. Or the next thing you know you won’t be giving your coats to the prisoners. You’ll be trading places.”

  Swallowing his bewilderment and fury at the sudden shift in the prisoners’ fortunes, the corporal indicated to his men to do as the officer had ordered. He did not remove his own coat as they handed theirs over to the Amish men.

  “Give yours to Whetstone here,” the captain said.

  The corporal saw the superior’s dark eyes and didn’t bother arguing. He peeled off his long brown coat and walked over. Then he threw the coat on the ground by Jude’s feet.


  The captain narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, Corporal—you’re relieved.”

  “But I have to take care of these prisoners, sir.”

  “I’m in charge of them now. Take your men and do your nasty little business somewhere else.” Then his voice dropped to a harsh whisper that only Jude and the corporal heard. “America may not like men who won’t bear arms in this conflict. But it likes men like you who bully them even less. Get out of my sight.”

  Jude slowly bent down to pick up the coat as the corporal and his men, visibly shivering in the icy dawn air, shuffled around the corner of the mess hall and away. He pulled the coat on over his shirt. It covered him to his knees.

  “How’s that?” the captain asked.

  “I haven’t felt this warm in weeks, sir.”

  “I don’t know your whole story, Whetstone, but Cook did talk about it and bits and pieces are coming back to me. The coat is the least I can do on Uncle Sam’s behalf.” He looked around as a pale sun rose in the east. “Imprisonment for refusing to serve in this conflict is one thing. Torture is something else. Cook would not believe what we’ve done to his prize American.”

  A car raced up with an officer and a driver but no Major O’Shea. The long, unsmiling man in a trench coat and uniform unfolded himself from his seat and came towards them with purposeful strides, stones crunching under his shoes. They both caught the glint of the star on his collar.

  “Captain Peterson?” the man snapped.

  Peterson saluted. “Yes, General.”

  The general saluted in return. “You are dismissed.”

  “But, sir—”

  “You can wait for me in the car.”

  Peterson shot a look at Jude, hesitated, then walked to the motorcar. The general stared at Jude.

  “Are you Whetstone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The flier?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m told you want to enlist.”

  “I do.”

  “You think you are ready to take a plane up in combat?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” replied Jude, meeting the general’s gaze.

  “To kill?”

  Jude hesitated a moment and then decided to salute. “I want to fly, sir. Please let these other men return to their families. Let them grow corn and wheat and feed America. They’re a waste to you in the trenches.”

  The general put his hands on his hips. “As are you, Whetstone.” They continued to stare at each other for several long moments. Then the one star said, “The others can go home now. But you stay.”

  Jude nodded. “Thank you, sir. I should go and tell the boys what I’ve decided. Even though they won’t understand.”

  “I suppose they’ll think you’ve turned your back on your faith.”

  “Yes. It will be like that.”

  “If it helps, you may tell them a truck will be taking them to the train depot within the hour. They will be given new clothes and fed and their wounds looked after.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jude responded.

  Jude turned toward his friends who had been sitting out of earshot. Hosea came up to him anxiously before he reached the group.

  “What is going on, Jude?” Hosea asked.

  “A truck is coming to take you all to the train station, and the train will take you home.”

  Hosea frowned. “Just like that? Months of this and suddenly we’re going home?”

  “Yes, that’s all there is to it.”

  “No, there’s more to it than that. What were you talking about all that time?”

  “I’m not going with you,” Jude said.

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I’m—I joined up—I’m going to fly—”

  “You’re going to fly? You mean—in the war?”

  Jude met Hosea’s shock with a steady gaze. “I will try not to hurt anyone.”

  “You can’t do this, Jude.” Hosea tripped over his tongue. “I don’t—I don’t believe it. You negotiated something. You worked out some scheme for our release, didn’t you?”

  “Just go home to your father and mother. Tell Emma I will write.”

  “From where? England? France?” Tears started in Hosea’s eyes. “You don’t need to do this, Jude, we would have survived.”

  He followed Jude’s glance to the young men behind him, some too weak to even lift their heads.

  “No,” Jude responded, “you wouldn’t have.”

  “And if we didn’t we would have died for Christ, we would have died for the gospel.”

  Jude put a hand on his shoulder. “Why not live for Christ and the gospel instead?”

  “Don’t do this, Jude. No one at home will accept it. Such a sacrifice on your part is not needed.” Hosea’s young face was streaked where the tears cut through the grime. “The boys love you.”

  The general in the trench coat had walked up to the two of them and was listening. He coughed to get their attention and looked directly at Hosea. Jude was reminded of a bird of prey.

  “It’s necessary that your people back home understand that Whetstone did this of his own free will,” the general said in a low voice, his eyes dark. “It would not do to suggest otherwise. It would not do to mention that you think he might have been forced into enlisting in the army. In a time of war the country needs to be united. This unfortunate episode of you and your Amish brothers is over—please do not consider speaking in a reckless manner that may cause something like it to reoccur. Your friend has freely chosen this course of action. Whetstone puts on the uniform of an American military pilot in response to his country’s call to arms. He is a patriot.”

  Hosea stared at the officer. “You’re asking me to lie?”

  The general set his lips tightly. They had no blood in them. “Tell your church exactly what Whetstone has told you. Don’t offer your own perspective on the affair. He has said he wants to fly for our country. It happens to coincide with your release from this camp on time served. Let it go at that.” His features sharpened. “You don’t want to be arrested and detained again, do you? Risk being sent to Leavenworth? Have your homes vandalized? Your crops set on fire?” He leaned down to Hosea in a kind of swoop. “You and your people are German-speaking. You don’t fly the flag and you don’t buy war bonds. You don’t fight. It would be easy to convince a mob you want Germany to win the war. No one would come running to rescue a pack of Krauts if certain persons took matters into their own hands. It’s already happened to Mennonites and Hutterites. So seal your lips and keep your mouth shut.”

  Hosea’s face had gone white. He thought a moment and suddenly put a hand on Jude’s arm. “Is that what it is? You have not negotiated our release? No one has twisted your arm? You really want to get back into an aeroplane so badly you will shoot other men out of the sky to do it?”

  Jude shrugged and went along with Hosea for the general’s benefit. “God has put it in me to be a good aviator. There is nothing more to it than that. I want to fly as God intended.”

  “As God intended?”

  “Yes, my brother. God gave me wings and I am going to use them.”

  Hosea turned away from him and the trench-coated general with a broken look and headed back to the other four, who were slumped on the grass. The sky was a mixture of dawn and darkness as he walked. “May God have mercy on us all,” Hosea whispered, closing his eyes.

  The five men returned to Paradise with a military police escort. Their families and friends were waiting, and the men had hardly stepped down onto the train platform before people swarmed over them, hugging and kissing. They were in new clothes and their wounds and bruises had been cared for. Yet it immediately became obvious that someone was missing.

  “Where is Jude?” asked Mr. Whetstone. “Where is my son?”

  “What has happened to him?” Lyyndaya demanded of Hosea.

  Hosea had one arm around his young brother, John, who clutched one of his precious books, and his sister Annie, who had knitted a woolen scarf
he wound about his neck. The easygoing smile dropped from Hosea’s face as he explained. “Jude enlisted in the army. He’s going to fly in France.”

  “What?” Bishop Zook’s face crisscrossed with lines. “Impossible.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but it’s true. He’s in training camp right now and soon he will be going overseas.”

  The bishop stood rooted while others swirled around him, laughing and praising God, unaware of what Hosea was saying, overjoyed to see the young men safely back.

  Bishop Zook’s lips scarcely moved. “I cannot believe it. I cannot believe Jude would do this.” He looked sharply at his son. “There must be an explanation. What is the explanation?”

  Hosea shrugged unhappily. “He wanted to fly, Father. That’s all. He wanted to fly.”

  Lyyndaya found she could no longer enjoy the joyous occasion and returned to her buggy. What on earth had happened? Had Jude’s love for flying now become more important than his faith?

  TWELVE

  Weeks and months passed until 1917 became 1918. No one heard from Jude or the army—not his father, not the bishop, not Emma, and not Lyyndaya Kurtz. The snows of January and February swept over Pennsylvania and the Lapp Amish prayed, unwilling to believe one of their own had gone off to war, hopeful they would soon receive news to the contrary, that somehow Hosea had misunderstood what had happened at the camp. Then it was March, and still not a word. Until one gray morning found Emma and Lyyndaya moving rapidly along the road in a carriage, heading toward town.

  “And Mrs. Stoltzfus said there were two letters from Jude?” asked Emma.

  Lyyndaya flicked the traces for Old Oak and nodded. “Ja.”

  “A letter for each of us?” Emma’s eyebrows had come together in a dark line of anxiety.

  “No. He wrote both letters to me.” Lyyndaya glanced at Emma’s troubled face and laughed. “Oh, you silly girl, of course he wrote you a letter. You know he has feelings for both of us. He has said so many times.”