Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  “Fred.”

  “Okay, Fred, you think I care? Some of the best tail I ever had was jailbait.”

  “And you’ve had lots of tail, I’m sure,” O’Hara snickered. This city kid put on a great act of being worldly.

  As he plunged his hands into the food basket, Lou said, “I get my share. What do you think her name is?”

  “I don’t think she’s gonna tell us. Let’s call her Heidi…and try not to slobber on her, okay?”

  “No promises, sir,” Lou responded as he brought the basket to Fred and sat down next to him.

  Through all this banter, the girl said nothing. Once the airmen’s mouths were full, she twirled toward the doorway, the motion flaring the skirt of her dress, giving both men a fleeting view of her trim thighs—and her panties—and causing them to nearly choke on their food.

  With a bemused smile, she said, in slightly accented but perfect English, “My name is actually Helga, gentlemen. Enjoy your breakfast.” She passed through the eclipse at the doorway once again—and was gone.

  DiNapoli turned to O’Hara, the stunned look on his face made more comical by the chunks of bread and cheese protruding from his stuffed mouth. He uttered something unintelligible, more of a grunt than coherent speech.

  Fred O’Hara was pretty sure Lou DiNapoli had just said, “Fuck me!”

  Chapter Ten

  Joe Gelardi had had enough of the wretched food from the kitchen of that damned police barracks. It was time they explored more of Malmö in search of decent chow and diversions to fill their time. It was a month since they crashed onto Swedish soil and they had not ventured more than a block or two from that cold, boring place that was their indefinite home. The government-issue Quonset Huts that were their quarters in England had held more charm. They had tried going to the movie house, but it was pointless: the films were all in Swedish with no subtitles. At least they had lots of stuff to read. Pola MacLeish had established a cache of English language books and magazines, for which they were most grateful. For Joe Gelardi, there was a box of mathematics texts for his amusement, from her personal library.

  Leonard Pilcher had become a ghost, only appearing—as briefly as possible—at the weekly sessions to pick up his subsistence money. The rest of the time he was invisible, either gone to places unknown or holed up in his room at the barracks, the door bolted, avoiding any contact with the remaining members of his crew. The only conversation with him lately had been the angry exchange at the last crew meeting, with chairs and harsh words flying.

  They did not miss Pilcher a bit. The boys now looked to Joe Gelardi and Pola MacLeish for guidance. Once, when Morris had wondered aloud where the captain was, Linker replied, for all to hear, “Who gives a shit?”

  Tony Moscone was like a ghost, too, just one who was always present. At first, they had tried taking him on their walks through the cobblestone streets of Malmö, but it proved too difficult. Enduring Tony’s swings between catatonia and manic outbursts in public was more than any of the crew could stand. There was no managing his moods; enduring was the only option. Better to leave him in the barracks with a pile of picture magazines. He actually flipped through them from time to time.

  Out on the street, Ed Morris complained, “I just can’t get used to these civvies.”

  “We’ve got no choice, Eddie,” Joe Gelardi said. “The Swedes insist…no uniforms. No military presence in public. We don’t want to scare the good people of Malmö, do we?”

  “Why shouldn’t they be scared,” David Linker chimed in. “They’ve got Krauts twenty-five miles away in Copenhagen. Just across the water.”

  “What?” Frank Hughes cried. “We’re only twenty-five miles from the German Army? That’s bad…real bad.”

  “It’s as good as a thousand miles now, Frank,” Gelardi replied, trying to soothe the troubled youngster. He cast a scolding look at Linker: “If the Germans didn’t march in here back when they had the chance, they never will. Now what do you say we give this café a try, fellas? Pola said the owner speaks English.”

  “Looks good to me,” Morris said as he scanned the narrow, unfamiliar thoroughfare, finding nothing more promising.

  “Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” Hughes mumbled.

  “Just so they serve kosher,” David Linker said as he viewed the sign in the window. “Oh, great! They do! I guess Mrs. MacLeish wasn’t kidding. There must be lots of us Jews around here.”

  “Well, there are now, thanks to good ol’ Uncle Adolph,” Joe Gelardi said, ushering the boys toward the café door. Their escort, an old policeman, waved to them as he window-shopped half a block away.

  The droning of airplane engines rose above the street noises. The Americans stopped and looked wistfully skyward. Frank Hughes quickly returned to gazing at the ground sullenly. “Civilian…DC-3,” Morris stated with certainty, even before it came into the narrow field of vision the buildings allowed. When the plane appeared, it proved him correct. It was indeed a civilian DC-3.

  Irritated, David Linker demanded, “How the hell could you tell that?”

  Dismissively, Morris answered, “Different engines on pre-war export models. Completely different sound,” as if this bit of trivia should be common knowledge to any airman.

  The café’s patrons turned to stare at the Americans as they entered. It was obvious who these strangers were; they looked out of place, even in their Swedish-issued civvies. As the airmen moved to a free table, they offered uneasy smiles and nods to the other patrons. The nods were returned; the smiles were not.

  “I sure don’t feel real welcome here,” Ed Morris whispered.

  “For crying out loud! Don’t worry about it,” David Linker said. “At least nobody’s going to shoot at us.”

  “They’ll get used to us,” Joe Gelardi added. “Probably.”

  Frank Hughes just stared into space. Then he began to whimper softly.

  “Frank, what’s the matter?” Gelardi asked, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he thought: This is one moody kid...I think he’s spent too much time alone at the tail guns.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant…I just don’t want to be here. I just can’t be here…”

  “This restaurant...or Sweden?” David Linker sniped.

  Annoyed, Joe Gelardi said, “Come on, David…cut us some slack here.” Softening his tone, he turned to Hughes: “Look, Frank, we don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter right now. Don’t tear yourself up over this.”

  “Captain Pilcher did us wrong,” Hughes sobbed. “He shoulda never done this. We’re trapped…and then we’ll all get executed…”

  “And that rich bastard Pilcher will walk away scot-free while we all face the firing squad,” Linker offered casually.

  Gelardi had had enough. “Oh, come on, you guys…Stop! Pilcher’s the only one who’s got to explain anything to the brass. Believe me!”

  Hughes slumped back in his chair. “I wish I could, Lieutenant. I really do. I just wanna go home. I can’t take much more…the missions, now this…” He wiped his eyes and said nothing more.

  Skeptically, David Linker said, “We’ll see, Lieutenant.”

  Ed Morris shook his head and said, “I don’t care what anybody says…we ain’t no deserters.” He folded his arms and looked away. This conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

  An old woman, with two young children in tow, rose from an adjacent table to leave. She stopped at the Americans’ table. Joe Gelardi looked up at her and smiled, hoping this old woman would break the ice and usher them into the bosom of Swedish hospitality.

  “Amerikan?” the old woman asked.

  “Yes, ma’am…I mean ja,” Joe Gelardi replied as he rose in greeting.

  “Yngkrygg,” she spoke. Somehow, it did not sound like a welcoming word. More like she was clearing her throat.

  “I’m sorry?” Joe responded, gesturing to indicate he did not understand.

  “Yngkrygg. Överlöpare. Desertör.”

  A man at th
e next table turned to Joe and spoke hesitantly in English: “I mean no disrespect, sir. The lady just called you a coward…and a deserter.”

  Flustered, Joe replied, “Yeah, I got that last part.” He watched glumly as the old woman led her charges out of the café.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pola was leaving the police barracks for the day, heading home to supper. She spied Joe Gelardi alone in the day room. He did not look very happy.

  “How was your lunch? Did you try the place I told you about?” she asked.

  “Not so good, I’m afraid,” Joe replied. “We tried that place, but some old woman called us cowards and deserters right to our faces.”

  The sight of the dejected Joe Gelardi changed her mind about going home. She set down her battered leather briefcase and pulled up a chair next to him. “Joe, I’m sorry that happened to you. But it’s inevitable that some people will think that of every American and Brit in this country right now. Most of us don’t. You know that.”

  “It makes me mad, though, Pola. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but in America, most people think the Swedes...and the Swiss...are chickens for not fighting Hitler.”

  “Chickens? Did you say chickens, Joe? What on earth does that mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe continued with an uneasy laugh. “Chicken means coward.”

  “Cowards? For having the good sense to keep their country out of a war that would be ruinous for them? We are not a militaristic nation, but let me tell you something, Joseph…we Swedes would fight to the death to defend our land when necessary, but this time, it just wasn’t.”

  “How’s that, Pola? I think maybe you Swedes protest too much?”

  “That’s nonsense, Joseph. We’re fortunate…all Hitler wants from us is steel and the occasional safe transit of German troops between Norway and Finland. Our iron ore is the finest in the world…everybody wants our steel…Britain and America, too. Germany figured out in 1940 that it’s much cheaper just to keep buying it from us rather than invading and taking it and having to occupy Sweden. Poor Norway wasn’t so lucky…Hitler wanted ice-free Atlantic ports for his surface warships to better challenge the British Navy. You can’t buy them…and it’s certainly not like we became co-belligerents with the Germans, like Romania, Hungary, Finland…”

  “Of course, it helps that you’re more than willing to sell it to them.”

  “Why wouldn’t we be willing to sell it…to anybody?”

  “Okay, but you’re selling much more steel to the Germans than the Allies, no?”

  “Of course, Joseph, but that’s because the Germans blockade the North Sea. Opening that route up to maritime trade again would change everything. We still sell ball bearings to Britain, you know. Vast amounts, in fact. They send special aircraft to collect them, ‘Mosquitos’ I believe they’re called. They’re very fast…the Luftwaffe can’t catch them.”

  “So this war is just a big business deal to you?” Joe sneered.

  “Isn’t that true for everyone? Just the means of closing the deal differs. It’s strange, Joseph…in your country, big business gets you into wars. In mine, it keeps us out.”

  He had no answer for that one; he had never considered such a position. Served him right, he supposed, for trying to argue business with an economist. He was trained—no, indoctrinated—to believe this war was about principles, about freedom. Obviously, not everyone saw it that way.

  His scowl turned into a sheepish grin. He really did not want to argue with her, to seem ungrateful and combative; he felt indebted for all her help. “Okay, Pola. Point taken. You win.”

  “Oh, no, Joseph…that’s the problem. Nobody wins,” Pola said, her eyes downcast. After a moment, she added, “I have an idea…why don’t you join me for supper?”

  “Is that allowed?”

  A devilish smile lit her face as she took his hand in hers. “Of course not! That will make it all the more fun!”

  Supper was a simple affair: just some beef soup, bread, and a bottle of terribly dry red wine. But it looked and tasted wonderful to Joe Gelardi.

  “Damn,” he spoke between mouthfuls. “This is the best meal I’ve had since England. No offense, but the food at the police barracks is pretty awful.”

  “Ah, the gratitude of the uninvited guest!” Pola replied, not entirely joking.

  “What do you mean? You invited me here, didn’t you?”

  “I mean in Sweden, laddie. You’re an uninvited guest in Sweden. But you’re a most welcome guest tonight.”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am,” Joe replied, with a little, sweeping gesture, as if bowing to nobility. “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “Not at all, Joseph.”

  “What does your job at the Ministry entail when you’re not looking after us wayward airmen?”

  “Unfortunately, my job now entails little else. You can be quite a handful.”

  “And where are all these other crews?” Joe pressed. “How come we haven’t seen any of them?”

  “We scatter you around. The first arrivals were placed in small camps, but your numbers grew. The camps filled up…it caused too many problems. Animosities surfaced between the crews who flew here out of necessity and those who did so by choice. A few times it got quite messy. Ironic, isn’t it? Now, we just sprinkle you all over the country, in whatever lodging we can find…hotels, boarding houses, police barracks...Less headaches for us. And of course, we separate you from any German crews than might be here.”

  “Are there other crews…Allied and German…in Malmö?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So where are they?”

  Pola let out a laugh. “Sorry, Joseph, but I’m not going to tell you that. I can’t have all of you ganging up on me!”

  “Isn’t there a chance we’ll meet them on the street?”

  “Yes, it’s possible…but it really hasn’t been much of a problem.”

  She decided not to mention the recent repatriation of several hundred American airmen. The American government had transferred ownership of 10 of the more serviceable interned bombers to Sweden, to be converted to airliners. It had settled for the airmen in return; what the US had really wanted—and did not receive—was bases in Sweden from which to bomb Germany, just a short flight away. It had been so much easier in the war’s early days, when repatriation of the few Allied and German aircrews on a one-to-one basis was practical and reinforced the tenets of neutrality; then came 1943 and the Luftwaffe’s wholesale decimation of the American daylight bombers. The flood of American crews to Sweden and Switzerland, for reasons real or concocted, began.

  They fell silent as they finished the meal. Pola poured them both another glass of wine and suggested they move to the sitting room of the small apartment. Joe offered no resistance.

  “Can you at least tell me something about the other crews?” Joe asked, lighting cigarettes for both of them. The wine was relaxing him, loosening his tongue again. But not enough to voice his real question: Are they deserters?

  Pola, seated on the other end of the small couch, turned to him and tucked her legs under her, not caring how much her skirt hiked up and exposing a good bit of her thighs—and the tops of her stockings—in the process. “I suppose that would be okay,” she replied in a hushed tone, as if conspiring to include him in some great secret. Her wire-rimmed glasses, which he had never seen her without, plunked onto the coffee table before them. Her hair, suddenly freed from its usual bun, spilled like so many strands of spun gold to her shoulders.

  Suddenly, Joe found himself startled and uneasy. Not that he did not find her attractive—quite the opposite—but he was a married man and she a married woman. Maybe her behavior was just the wine talking. He tried to cast his gaze anywhere except up her skirt or on the lacy pattern her bra traced firmly on the thin fabric of her blouse as she leaned back and drew deeply on her cigarette.

  A smile crossed Pola’s face as she blew out the smoke. Joe’s embarrassment at her immodest play was som
ehow sweet and surprising at the same time.

  “Do you find me shocking, Joseph?”

  Great… now she thinks I’m an immature idiot. Shit…maybe I am. What would Clark Gable do now?

  Taking a deep drag on his own cigarette, Joe looked her straight in the eyes; a feeble stab at feigning the composure that was so obviously eluding him. “You were telling me about the other aircrews.” Somehow, that didn’t come out like “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  Pola was starting to take pity on his discomfort. So he pretends to play coy, eh? So beautiful, so silly, this laddie is.

  Her head back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling, Pola continued. “There is another American crew that lives not far from you...I won’t tell you where…but they are a very strange lot. Perhaps stranger than you and your lads.”

  “How so?”

  “They consider themselves religious refugees. Apparently, they collectively decided that war is against God’s will…and they are doing God’s work by refusing to fight anymore. Their commander considers himself some sort of messiah. He’s even starting to look like Christ, with long hair and beard. Very strange bunch.”

  “And they’re stranger than us, you say?”

  “Oh, yes. Your Captain Pilcher is a self-centered, manipulative sod but definitely no messiah. Just an over-privileged wanker. Those of you that are here in Sweden were afraid to go against his orders, dishonest though they were. Those of your crew who aren’t with us saw the lie beneath those orders.”

  Joe Gelardi could not think of a thing to say in defense or rebuttal. She was probably dead on the mark.

  “But you were a surprise to me, Joseph Gelardi. You are obviously a man of great intelligence. But you consider deference to authority a duty. Otherwise, I don’t think you’d be here. You would have parachuted with the other three.”

  “I prefer to call it patriotism, Pola.”

  “Aye. You would.”

  He tried to decide if what she had just said was a compliment or condemnation. She sensed his discomfort; she reached over and eagerly took his hand in hers, asking: “Tell me about your doctoral thesis, Joseph.”