A Troubled Peace

by L. M. Elliott

  Henry pushed himself to walk on, marching on a reconnaissance for forgetfulness. Speed silently padded behind him, sensing Henry’s tumult, cautious as when Clayton took him on a bird hunt.

  But Henry’s brooding thoughts kept pace with him. What about that kind old German sergeant who was supposed to have shot him dead and instead let him go? Would he have shown such pity and generosity to an American boy only to be roasted in an Allied bombing? After her capture, would anyone have been merciful to Madame Gaulloise, the aristocratic woman who got him safely out of Switzerland? And what about Claudette, the beautiful angry Resistant from the Morvan, whose thirst for vengeance would have landed her right in front of retreating Nazi tanks, shaking her fist and harassing them in her rapid-fire French. Would they have just run over her?

  The thoughts buzzed around him. He started to run, to flee their attack, but the faces followed, dive-bombing him like Messerschmitts. The image he feared most seeing, couldn’t stand thinking about, not knowing, was of Pierre, the solemn little boy who had sheltered him, fed him, taught him, and lost everything—his mother, his grandfather, his farm—because of Henry’s presence.

  Henry sprinted, stumbling over stones and knee-high meadow grasses, flailing at images only he could see. Henry had left Pierre with a priest when his mother had been dragged away by the French Gestapo, the Milice. Left him with nothing but Henry’s good-luck marble. What kind of protection would that be against an enraged, blood-soaked world?

  “It’s my favorite marble. Mon favori. I want you to have it. That way I’ll always be with you. Henri avec Pierre.”

  “Pour toujours?” the small boy had whispered.

  “Yes, always. Wherever I go, I remain with you.”

  Henry fell to his knees, heaving from his run and his guilt about what his escape had cost Pierre, and about leaving him behind. He couldn’t have taken Pierre with him, not on the almost suicidal run he’d had to make. He knew that. But was Pierre all right? Had the priest really taken him to a monastery for safety? Had he avoided the Nazi attack on Vassieux that came after Henry fled? Could his mother have survived the Ravensbruck prison the Milice sent her to?

  France was in complete upheaval, trying to piece itself back together as Allied forces and retreating Nazis cut a path of destruction across it. Complete victory in Europe was still battles and months away. There was no way to know the answers to any of the questions that hounded him.

  Stop thinking! Henry felt as though he was going mad. Patsy was right. He was frightening. He frightened himself. He had no idea what memories might grab him by the throat next, or what he might do in response.

  God help me. Henry looked up to the stars. Slowly, his panic eased. There, he thought, look how far a soul can stretch. Look at all that black, quiet serenity. Where up there, behind which star did God sit? Could God see the hell on his earth, the barbarity his creations were capable of? Did he weep to see it? How could he not do something to stop it?

  No answers came. But out of the darkness of Henry’s mind crept the words of “High Flight,” a poem that had kept him both grounded and inspired during his combat months, a long-ago faith of his own:

  “Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;…

  Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.”

  Henry leaped to his feet. That’s right. He could fly. In the sky, he could touch God. Salvation was there.

  Henry knew exactly where to find a plane that could take him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Old Man Newcomb’s place.

  Henry lit out across the fields. Newcomb had a Curtiss Jenny, a gorgeous, open-cockpit, WWI biplane—a real gem, since most had been junked long ago. He used it for barnstorming and wing walking. As a boy, Henry had watched Newcomb do daredevil loop-de-loops, whooping and hollering, for the local air circus. The wild-eyed pilot had even taken him up a few times, trying to convince Henry to do wing stunts. It was on those windswept jaunts, in that kite-like machine, that Henry first felt the rush of flight.

  In Newcomb’s Jenny, he’d leave his nightmares in the dust. It would be real flying, nothing between Henry and the clouds, just a big-ass engine and some fabric-covered wings. No bombs, no flak, no fighters, no worries.

  When he saw its brass radiator gleam in the moonlight, Henry didn’t even consider knocking on Newcomb’s door. War and living on the run had erased the habit of asking permission. He was going up. Now.

  Henry stood on tiptoes to peer at the old-fashioned dial gauges on the control panel. Everything looked fine. He fished around for goggles, finding the long white scarf Newcomb always wore like a flying ace. Like a knight of the skies, thought Henry, as he wrapped it around his throat, his heart filling with the romance, the mystique flying had once had for him.

  Then he noticed a tank and a spray boom crammed into the backseat. Newcomb was using the Jenny for crop dusting. Despite his reputation for brewing stump liquor, the old man was getting almost respectable. Last summer, during a polio outbreak, authorities had even trusted Newcomb to fly over the city of Richmond, dumping DDT, an insecticide that killed flies carrying the crippling disease.

  But on this night, Henry wasn’t interested in respectable. He couldn’t stand the idea of anything being dropped out of a plane he was flying. This night was about freedom. This night was about baptism—washing himself clean of death and regrets and disappointment and fear, then beginning life reborn, redefined. This was about the “long, delirious, burning blue…the high, untrespassed sanctity of space.” Henry heaved the tank out of the plane, laughing wildly when it hit the ground and cracked, releasing a stream of stench.

  A jug of moonshine whiskey sat next to the Jenny’s wheels. Newcomb was obviously using it to prime the engine. Henry poured the liquid into the engine’s little brass cups on the intake manifolds and shut their levers. He rotated the Jenny’s thick, wooden propeller five times to suck in the alcohol. Next he’d have to swing the heavy prop hard enough to spark a jump start and pop the engine into running.

  Henry threw himself on it. One swing. A cough and sputter.

  Another shove. A rattle and die-off.

  A third. Nothing at all.

  Henry still weighed next to nothing, starved as he’d been on the run in France. He chugged some of the jug’s bitter, rancid booze. Feeling it knife through him, Henry hurled his whole being against the prop.

  This time it caught and whipped around, nearly whacking Henry as it sped into a whir. The engine spit smoke and the little plane shimmied all over. The delicate cables connecting its two wings hummed, beckoning.

  Henry kissed the yellow-painted fuselage, pulled out the wheel chocks, and scrambled into the bucket seat as the Jenny rolled along the grass. He was vaguely aware of Speed barking along behind him, then the sound of another dog howling. He paid no attention.

  Henry opened the throttle. He braced his feet against the wooden bar that controlled the tail rudder, wrapped his hands around the long, thin wooden control stick, and pulled.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce. The Jenny hopped happily along the ground like a child skipping, so light, so carefree, so different from his B-24, heavy with menace and five-hundred-pound bombs. Each hop lifted the Jenny a little higher for a little longer, until it finally vaulted up over the walnut grove at the field’s edge, its wheels brushing the barren treetops with a musical swish. Air rushed through the plane’s spiderweb of struts and wires, vibrating them like wind chimes.

  Henry’s soul rang with a long-forgotten joy. He shouted lyrics to a new hit: “I haven’t felt like this, my dear, since I can’t remember when. It’s been a long, long time.”

  Between that and the steady seep of Newcomb’s whiskey into his thinking, it didn’t occur to Henry that he was stealing a plane. And he didn’t hear the shotgun blasts below.

  C’mon, girl. Give me some speed. Henry closed his eyes and held his face up to the winds. C’mon, a little faster. That’
s it.

  The Jenny putt-puttered up to its maximum 75 mph, nothing like his B-24’s 180 mph, but good enough to smack Henry’s face with a bracing current. He dipped his right wing and skimmed around in a full circle, then tilted left to arc the opposite way in a figure eight, as gracefully as an ice-skater, sliding his way across a vast lake of air.

  Henry looked toward the stars that pinpricked the black sky. The Milky Way was so clear, so thick with shimmering lights, it looked like a runway laid out for him. There, girl. He pointed. That’ll take us. It’s got to be a pathway to heaven. Let’s go chase some angels.

  He pushed the throttle’s control knob to open it more and pulled back gently on the control stick to tip the plane’s nose up into a climb angle. The little Jenny began to tremble. But she dutifully inched higher, about 200 feet per minute.

  “I’ve chased the shouting wind along…,” Henry recited. He chortled to himself, his laugh catching in a hiccup of overwrought, tangled emotions—relief, regret, hope.

  Come on, sweetheart. Old Man Newcomb said you could reach 6,500 feet. He pulled the stick back a little harder.

  The Jenny shook.

  Darn it, girl. I’m on a mission, here. Henry’s words were slurring. Don’t quit on me now. If I can just get a little higher.

  The Jenny quaked.

  C’mon!

  The engine belched, gagged, then suddenly silenced. The Jenny’s nose dropped and she began to drift earthward, gliding on air. Newcomb did this kind of stunt all the time for the air show. It was like she knew exactly what to do.

  For a few long, glorious moments, Henry just grinned and listened to the quiet, waiting to hear a voice—God’s voice, any voice of salvation. But when the hum of the struts turned to a shrieking whistle and the wind rushed so fast along his face that it felt like scraping along gravel, Henry realized that he was plummeting. The Jenny could go into a spin. Henry could die.

  He didn’t care.

  It might be better to go this way—quick, in flight, not pulled down and picked apart by his own mind. He sat still a little longer.

  Look at that, girl. Dawn’s coming. There was the slightest glow of pink along the horizon. He watched it slip along the flat terrain below, tickling the edges of a farm. With the dispassion of a traveler passing through, Henry recognized the layout of his own home.

  The Jenny kept falling.

  Then a voice did come: Pull out of this stall, lieutenant. Now, Hank!

  Captain Dan? Henry sat up straight, battle-ready. Captain, where are you?

  The vision of Dan, wounded, drifting to safety in his parachute only to be strafed by a Messerschmitt, slapped Henry to attention. NOOOOOO! His scream sliced through the silent sky.

  Henry grabbed hold of the control stick and pushed forward to regain speed and control of the plane.

  The little Jenny bucked, caught some wind, lifted, floated, dipped again, surfaced again. Henry struggled against the flood-water-strong pressure on the foot bar controlling the rudder. The Jenny fishtailed back and forth grotesquely, careening downward toward Clayton’s chicken houses. Henry shoved the control stick to bank away, almost flipping the Jenny into a roll. But he righted her and lowered her, and for a few seconds, he had her on the ground, rolling along, soft and smooth.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Henry cheered.

  But the Jenny had no brakes, and the tailskid wasn’t slowing her enough. Henry was fast coming face-to-face with the tree line separating his farm from Patsy’s. There was no way to stop. Before he could react, he slammed into it. A wing caught a low-hanging branch; the struts twanged and snapped, and the Jenny tumbled about wildly.

  Henry cracked his head against the instruments. The world went black.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Henry floated in darkness. His head throbbed with a percussive pounding, like bombs hitting. His ears rang like an air-raid siren. This can’t be heaven. Is it Hell? Just don’t let it be another bomb run, please God.

  Henry could make out small, babbling voices. Angels? Devils? The airplane radio? He struggled to hear against the racket in his head.

  “Pull off that scarf so I can see his face good. Wait a sec.” There was the cold click of guns being cocked and readied.

  “All right. Step back quick once you pull it off. There’s no telling what this Nazi might do. Six POWs run off two days ago. One of ’em pulled a knife on poor Widow Moore. I about shot that one. Got ’em all rounded up but this one. Beats all. Suppose this stupid Kraut thought he could fly back to Germany?”

  Nazis? POWs? Germany? No, no, no. Henry couldn’t survive another round with the Gestapo. He willed himself to lift his fists, just like Clayton had taught him. Go down fighting, boy. Don’t let them take you easy.

  “Look out! He’s coming to.”

  Two gun barrels rammed up against Henry’s chest.

  “Hold still, you SOB.” A hand jerked the cloth away from Henry’s head and bright light hit him like a hammer. Blinking, Henry forced his eyes open.

  He heard gasps. The guns pulled back.

  “Good Lord!”

  “It’s Henry Forester!”

  “I’ll be…”

  Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Henry looked around him. He was surrounded by people—the sheriff, Old Man Newcomb, a couple of neighbors, and…oh, no…Clayton. Lilly. And here came Patsy running, trailed by her father carrying his shotgun.

  Even with his head thundering, Henry knew. This was no nightmare. This was real.

  No one said anything. They waited, dumbfounded. The looks on their faces mortified Henry. Only Lilly’s carried pity. Patsy’s had the same expression as when she’d turned him down and said he scared her. The moment dragged on and on and on.

  Finally, Clayton strode to the cockpit. “Get your butt out of that plane, boy,” he ordered.

  Clayton offered no helping hand. Henry crawled out and stood shaking, knock-kneed on one of the wings. It was fine. But the other was torn and split, the tip-end of the top wing dangling down. He’d managed a pretty decent crash. Back at the base in England they’d crow over a salvage landing like that. But he’d still broken her. She might never fly completely straight again, no matter how good the repair.

  What an idiot.

  “Dad…Mr. Newcomb…Ma…I’m so sorry.” He looked over at Patsy, so innocent looking in the coat she’d thrown over her nightgown, her hair cascading loose. All he could end with was a shrug. He hung his head, ashamed, confused. Blood trickled down his nose and splashed onto his hands.

  “He’s hurt!” Patsy and Lilly rushed to him as Henry’s knees buckled. Gently, they brushed back his hair, wiped his face.

  “How bad is it?”

  “The blood’s coming from his forehead.”

  “He’s going to need a stitch or two.”

  “That’s all right, I can do that.”

  “We’ve got to get him into the house.”

  “Can you stand?” Henry felt Patsy slip herself up under his arm, wrapping it across her slight shoulder. “I’ll help you walk.”

  Clayton stood stock still, glaring.

  Lilly took Henry’s other arm. She whispered into his ear, “Don’t cry, honey lamb. Don’t let your dad see you cry.” Henry hadn’t realized tears were mixing with his blood.

  The three stumbled toward the house as Old Man Newcomb started whining, “Ain’t you gonna arrest him, sheriff? He destroyed my Jenny.”

  Inside, the kitchen already smelled of morning coffee and bacon. Lilly had been cooking, preparing for a normal day, while he’d been gallivanting like a crazed fool and nearly killed himself. How could he explain himself to her?

  But Lilly didn’t ask—just pulled down her first-aid basket to clean and stitch up the gash in his scalp. He bit his tongue to keep from cursing when she dosed it with peroxide. She was quick, though. She’d have made a good doctor, Henry thought fleetingly, if such things were allowed.

  When Patsy handed him water and aspirin, he grabbed her hand. No wonder
she was afraid of him. He’d disintegrated into a crybaby, a freak. No words came, but his face pleaded forgiveness.

  “It’s all right,” she answered softly.

  “The hell it is.” Clayton entered, slamming the door so hard all the plates and cups in the china cabinet rattled. He shot his most withering look toward Patsy. “Go home, girl.”

  Patsy straightened. “No, sir.”

  Henry almost smiled. But Patsy’s refusal infuriated Clayton. “I said, go home. Now!”

  “No, sir.” Patsy held firm. “Henry’s asked me to marry him. So I’ve a right and a duty to stay here with him.”

  Clayton’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I know about that. Another one of his dang-fool ideas. And how’d you answer the boy?”

  Patsy hesitated. Henry knew the lag would send Clayton in for the kill. He staggered to his feet. “That’s enough, Dad. Patsy had nothing to do with last night.”

  Clayton stepped close, toe-to-toe with Henry, looking for the fight. Well, maybe this time Henry would give it to him. What did he have to lose?

  “Just what was that stunt, boy?” Clayton’s voice surprised Henry. There was something beneath the scowl, something new, something akin to concern.

  Henry longed to trust that voice, to find the flicker of love he’d seen when he’d stepped out of that taxicab on Thanksgiving Day and his father had realized he was alive. But how could he describe the flashbacks, the mess of past and present, his confusion between waking reality and nightmare? It was hard enough for Henry to understand how lost he felt while standing right there in his own home, with the three people he cared about most.

  Clayton actually waited.

  “Tell us, honey,” Lilly coaxed. “What’s troubling you so?”

  “Oh, Ma. I just can’t forget France. My friends who died. All those missions where I rained death on people, on civilians. All the people who helped me and may have been tortured and killed because of it…because of me. And that little boy, Ma. Pierre. I keep worrying about where he is. If anyone is helping him.”