He smirked, enjoying a private joke: At least that husband managed to inject her with a Scottish accent.
“Captain Pilcher, you arrived with a crew of six. We are used to many more in an American bomber crew. Can you explain?”
“What does it matter to you?” he snarled, his friendly charade suddenly over.
“It matters, sir, because we must accurately inform your government of the serial number of the aircraft in which you arrived as well as the name, rank, identification number, and physical condition of each of its crew. We must confirm the roster you provided…and we must be specific as to each crew member’s whereabouts. Any missing personnel must be listed as such.”
Dismissively, Pilcher replied, “Well, I’m not sure what happened to the other four.”
“I find that hard to believe, Captain.”
“I don’t care what you believe, miss. That’s the way it is.”
“As I mentioned a moment ago, Captain, it’s missus. Please remember you are a guest in this country and hardly in a position to set conditions, as Professor Steenslund took great pains to explain to you.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, miss. And that stuffy old guy was a professor? Of what?”
“Economics. We are economists at the Ministry of Defence.”
“That’s funny…economists processing ‘intu-ooornees.’ I would think we would be more of a political issue for your government, with a special agency to deal with us.”
“Oh, no, Captain. That is where you are wrong. The politics was decided long ago. We are neutral. We favor neither side. Accommodating aircrews of belligerent nations has become strictly an economic issue. And a burden for us. You’re not supposed to be here. There is no organization created for the specific purpose of catering to your needs.”
“Well, then…just give me what I want and I won’t burden you any more,” Pilcher offered, sounding more like a spoiled child than a grown man. He took great pains to mock her accent, pronouncing “burden” as “buooorden.”
“Out of the question, sir. You and your crew…or what’s left of it…will be accommodated here in the city of Malmö, at this police barracks, until further notice. I will be responsible for seeing that your basic needs are fulfilled.”
Pilcher glowered from across the table. This plain-Jane brainy bitch was not budging. But she would see…They would all see. He had no intention of staying in this dumpy barracks, no matter how much freedom of movement he was accorded. Once the word got out the son of Max Pilcher was here, he’d be getting the royal treatment. All the money Daddy made for these frozen blond clowns would do its own talking. He decided to change tack.
“Neutral, eh? How come I saw Luftwaffe airplanes with their markings intact? You painted over all the markings on the Allied aircraft.”
Pola MacLeish sighed and leaned back in her chair. She tapped the fountain pen on the table a few times, then replied, “Captain, German airmen can get just as lost and frightened as Allied airmen. Those aircraft you refer to only recently arrived, just as you did, and will be processed in due course.”
“You think we’re here because we were ‘lost and frightened?’” Pilcher shouted. “I had to nurse that plane all the way…so shot up that the landing was nothing but crash and burn! I’m a goddamn hero! My crew can thank me, and only me, for still being alive.”
Pola just nodded, making notes on the forms before her. Then, without looking up, she asked: “Even the crew members who are not here? Are they thanking you, too?”
“I told you…I don’t know what happened to the other four, and I don’t care if they’re thanking me or not. They left the airplane…that’s all I know. Anybody who says anything different is a liar.”
“Left the airplane, you say. They parachuted?” Pola probed.
“That’s a safe assumption, miss. Except for Lapinski…He got blown from the plane when the fighters got us.”
“Is it also a safe assumption that they parachuted…or fell…over Germany? Or perhaps Denmark?”
“What makes you so sure our mission was up that way?” Pilcher asked, confident this was one question for which she would not have an answer.
“Because if it hadn’t been, you’d be talking to a Swiss official right now.”
Pilcher stared away, sulking. He was still losing this game. His response was soft and distracted: “I suppose Germany.”
“What part of Germany?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, Captain, it matters greatly to your government. Can you name a city or region over which they parachuted?”
“I think we were near Flensburg. Why don’t you ask my navigator, Gelardi?”
“In due course, Captain. Now I can complete this report and forward it to your government. No doubt your loved ones will be glad to know that at least six of you are safe and sound. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Actually, that should be five, Pola thought. Sergeant Moscone might be safe, but he seemed anything but sound.
There was still something on Pilcher’s mind. “I’ve got a question,” he said. “Those Germans…how many are there? I don’t know, but it sure looks like you’re giving them special privileges.”
“Less than a hundred. There are far more Americans scattered around Sweden…over one thousand. And about four hundred Brits. Slightly more than one hundred American aircraft have landed here…many in perfect condition.”
“Are you saying we’re all deserters?” Pilcher shot back, angry and defensive.
“That is not for me…or my government…to determine, Captain. But as you say…your aircraft was severely damaged, was it not? In fact, now destroyed…and for your information, Captain, we frown on the aircraft of any belligerent nation entering our airspace without permission…for any reason.”
Pilcher was beginning to sound shrill. “And where are all these Germans?”
“They live among the general population of Sweden, just as you will.”
This was definitely not what he expected to hear. “Is that such a hot idea? Couldn’t Germans and Americans come in contact with each other?”
“Of course, Captain, but fraternization would be unlikely. You have all been disarmed, and you will find it a daunting challenge to obtain any sort of weapon in this country. It has been our experience that most crews who arrive here no longer exhibit much of a will to fight. Feel free, though, to strangle each other with your bare hands all you like.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Pilcher asked.
Pola Nilsson-MacLeish just smiled, shook her head, and left the room.
Max Pilcher flung the telegram onto the huge desk and spun his chair to face the penthouse office window. This had been the second telegram from the War Department in two weeks. The first announced his son’s aircraft had failed to return from a mission, declaring him “missing in action.” The current one told of his son’s internment in Sweden “for the duration.”
Max Pilcher frowned. At least that foolish boy was alive and well. But still he thought: That idiot son of mine better have a damn good reason to be in Sweden. His plane better have been shot to hell.
He turned to the enormous intercom on his desk and beckoned to his secretary: “Dorothy, ring up General Marshall.” Settling back into the plush, high-backed chair, he lit a cigar and waited for the call, still pondering the situation.
A few minutes later, Dorothy’s voice spilled from the intercom speaker. “General Marshall on the line, sir.”
“George, how the hell are you?” Max Pilcher bellowed at the Army Chief of Staff. Brief pleasantries aside, the industrialist and the general got down to serious business.
“George, my boy Lennie’s gotten himself…and me…in a bit of a pickle. Seems he and his bomber have ended up in Sweden…I’m told he’s okay…No, I don’t know anything about battle damage…Yeah, I’ve heard those stories, too, but desertion? No son of mine would ever pull something like that, George!” Max Pilcher hoped the laugh th
at accompanied that last sentence would not sound forced. He knew full well that his son was capable of all sorts of irresponsible foolishness. Fortunately, Marshall did not know his son personally.
“Anyway, you know I’ve got that patent fight with the Swedes over that precision milling process. Lots of money riding on that one…lots they’ll owe me if they lose. I don’t need them putting me over a barrel by holding him hostage…I know he’s not a POW, George, but isn’t it pretty much up to them when he can leave? I don’t need them using him as some goddamn bargaining chip. Getting him out of there might do us both some good…Surely they can’t deny a request from the US Government, can they? You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you?”
Max Pilcher listened silently for a moment, then spoke: “I appreciate your help, George. Give my best to Katherine.”
Chapter Five
The train was heading south, deeper into Germany. Fred O’Hara sat in the small coach car along with a dozen other POW airmen—ten American, two British. He had been able to use the hands of his wristwatch as a compass, just like he was taught in flight school:
In the northern hemisphere, point the hour hand in the direction of the sun. Halfway between the hour hand and the 12 is south.
The five Wehrmacht guards seemed like a ragtag collection of teenagers and old men. Their big, bolt-action field rifles seemed unsuited for guard duty in quarters so confined as this railway car. They could hardly point the weapons without hitting something—or somebody—with the barrels. Small automatic machine pistols would have been much more practical. No wonder they all seemed so nervous.
Thirteen of us POWs in all…a real lucky number.
Lou DiNapoli was in the seat in front of O’Hara. The officer who captured them—the man with the bizarre facial wounds—had assured them POW officers and enlisted men would remain segregated. This motley crew now watching over them—as they were being transported to Stalag Luft Who-Knows-What—had not bothered with segregation. The train had at least five coach cars, as far as O’Hara could tell. The other four seemed to be full of civilians. This was just an ordinary passenger train, with a handful of very special guests.
At first, the POWs had not talked, a few out of fear, the rest just trying to size up their surroundings and their captors. After all, it was their sworn duty to try to escape. The specter of their less-than-formidable guards was raising some hope that escape from this train might actually be possible. A series of winks, nods, and sidelong glances among the captives was spreading this hope like wildfire.
The POWs began to talk amongst themselves, murmurs at first, then full-voice. It was clear that none of their guards spoke English; repeatedly, they shouted Ruhe! Ruhe! at their prisoners, these ignored demands for silence adding to the mutual miscomprehension, raising the volume level and tension in the car. The guards sensed their control slipping away quickly. They backed against the walls of the car as trembling fingers tightened around triggers.
Lou DiNapoli turned to Fred O’Hara and asked, “Whaddya think, Lieutenant…should I make a go at this kid?” as he eyed the nearest guard, a smallish, pimple-faced boy who seemed barely 16. “I’ll grab his rifle…you other guys jump the rest, right? It’ll be all over in a second. Then we hop off this damn train and take our chances in the woods again. You think your ankle can handle it?”
“What ankle?” was O’Hara’s cocky reply. He liked the odds. So did every other POW in earshot. If nothing else, they’d be a thorn in the side to the Germans for a while longer. He did not kid himself; even if he escaped this time, eventually he would wind up a POW for the duration. Or he would be dead, buried like Larry Harkin in a POW graveyard while the people back home lived in the false hope of his MIA classification.
But before anyone could make a move, the wooden roof of the rail car exploded in a shower of splinters, smoke, and dust. Some of the windows, so clean a moment ago, were now splattered with blood and human tissue. A few of the seats were shattered, along with their occupants. Then came the unmistakable roar of aircraft engines flashing by low overhead.
“We’ve been strafed by our own guys!” an American lieutenant cried, as he clutched the remnants of his severed left arm. He had been a fighter pilot until he was shot down by ground fire two days ago, doing the same thing that his fellow pilot had just done to them: shooting up any target he could find. He said nothing more; he slipped into shock and would bleed to death quickly.
Fred O’Hara and Lou DiNapoli seized their chance. Two of the guards had been killed outright, a third was mortally injured. Jumping over debris and human carnage, they rushed through the eerie shafts of dusty sunlight the bullet holes in the roof now projected to the floor. Each quickly overpowered one of the remaining two guards.
Another POW yelled encouragement: “Kill the Kraut sons of bitches!”
That sounded just fine to Lou DiNapoli, who leveled the rifle he now possessed and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The two guards wordlessly decided that perhaps this was not the time to explain the workings of the rifle’s safety mechanism. They wheeled and leapt from the train, their tumbling bodies quickly vanishing into the vegetation that bordered the track.
O’Hara realized the train was braking, slowing to a stop. More than this car had been devastated, no doubt. And no telling how many more German soldiers might be on board.
“It’s now or never, boys!” he bellowed as he hobbled to the doorway. DiNapoli was right behind him, the useless rifle thrown away. O’Hara’s injured ankle, forgotten in the heat of action a moment ago, was making itself felt again.
With DiNapoli’s help, O’Hara lowered himself from the rail car to the ground. Then the two of them set off into the woods, heading west.
They never looked back to see if any of the other POWs followed.
Chapter Six
Some quiet and solitude at last...
At the police barracks, Pola finally had the small room that made do as an office to herself. Professor Steenslund had gone home for the day. She was finished, for the moment, with the odd, incomplete crew of The Lady M. Civilian clothes had been purchased and issued. Uniforms collected and stored. Medical examinations completed. Billets assigned. Subsistence money handed out; the monetary system explained. Guidelines for the expected behavior of internees spelled out. Enough for today…just give me a minute to rest before I trudge home to my empty little flat, eat some supper, and spend another of countless bloody nights with my face buried in research for my thesis, wondering if I’m still a married woman. Reginald…I can hardly remember your face. Our brief time together in London and Edinburgh now seems lost in all that has happened since. I’m not sure I even know you anymore...or if I ever did.
Her mind returned to those strange young Americans that had consumed her day. She and the professor had a dozen other crews under their supervision, all American but for two British—and one German. When each of the other crews had arrived, it had been obvious by their words and faces the calamity or conspiracy that had brought them to seek collective refuge in Sweden. But not this time. None of these boys gave a clear indication why they were here.
She felt nothing but contempt for that insolent dullard Pilcher. The circumstances of Lady M’s arrival in Sweden—and her destruction on landing—seemed to support his assertion that she had, indeed, been crippled. And he did have a severely impaired crew member and several that were somehow absent. As Pilcher had put it, he made a command decision to bring his damaged airplane to the nearest safe haven and save his crew, or what was left of it. The correct decision, he insisted. But the story sounded like blatant lies coming from his lips. His words seemed contrived and defensive, full of false bravado, so unlike the other crewmen of severely damaged aircraft, whose naked fear of the imminent death they had just faced bonded them like family and was evident long after they had safely returned to earth. They were simply too terrified not to be telling the truth.
Yet, Pilcher�
��s demeanor seemed equally unlike the sullen and reclusive aura projected by those crewmen who had conspired to desert in perfectly airworthy machines. She had one such crew under her supervision. They shunned their fellow airmen from other crews, as if contact with those who had actually faced the fears they had fled would turn the rationalizations for their actions to dust. She had thought it wise to house them in a remote facility—a boarding house outside of town—far away from other crews. Pilcher, she felt sure, was something altogether different: a shirker masquerading as a hero, hiding behind a wall of arrogance and privilege, completely indifferent to those under his command.
He even had the bloody gall to mock her English; she who could speak five languages fluently. He seemed barely fluent in his own. He would be trouble, she was sure—this upper crust twit who insisted on privilege when he deserved none.
The other crew members seemed far less convinced of the wisdom of their commander’s decision. Understandably, they did not want to talk much—at least not at first—and she had no interest, officially, in the details of their mission.
Case in point: Staff Sergeant Edwin T. Morris, the flight engineer, who would only repeat his name, rank, and serial number over and over again, no matter what she asked. Her questions never involved anything about mission or objective other than to confirm they had not been participating in military action against Sweden. Not much of an issue with the Allied aircrews, who usually responded to that question with incredulous laughter; the Germans also answered the question in the negative but with ominous seriousness, as if such military action was actually in the realm of possibilities. She just asked personal questions to ensure the internee’s needs would be met, like confirmation of pay grade (Yes, you’ll be paid accordingly while you are here), clothing sizes, special medical needs, religious preference, dietary restrictions, smoking habits (All but one does); those sort of things. It had taken some doing, with the help of the crew’s two officers, to convince Morris he was not a POW; he was in a neutral country and would keep his personal freedom within that country. He just could not leave. He had struggled to grasp the difference.
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