Message For Hitler

by Cate M. Ruane

  While Daphne and me helped Geraldine to the infirmary, I used my free hand to hold my nostrils shut. People were throwing up into buckets or anything they could find. One soldier vomited into his tin helmet. Fellas who fought for a living called out for their mums. There were only two nurses and one doctor on duty. Normally, their job was patching up pilots: burns, bullet wounds or broken bones. Every squadron had an ambulance waiting near the airstrip, just in case. But they weren’t trained to handle an outbreak of food poisoning.

  I spotted Sel Edner laid out in a hospital bed, laughing his head off. Sel was my brother’s best friend in the squadron. Understudy for the best man job, should I get sent home before the wedding. He was from California and had seen more than his fair share of Hollywood starlets—doing ordinary things like walking their dogs, taking out the garbage or shopping. In his cockpit, he kept an autographed press photo of Deanna Durbin.

  “Hey, Sel,” I said. He waved to me with his bandaged wrist. “How’s the eye?”

  I didn’t have to ask. I could see for myself. The socket was crusty with blood and the eye swollen shut, black and blue. It looked like his nose might be broke too.

  “At least I skipped breakfast,” he said. “Took the rare opportunity to sleep in and missed it, see?” He handed me a pen so I could sign his cast. “And to think—a few minutes ago I was fantasizing about crispy bacon and fried eggs.”

  “Glad to hear you won’t lose the eye,” I said, punching his one good arm and returning the pen to a metal side table, next to a bunch of flowers. “Knew a kid once with a glass eye—Kenneth Backer was his name. It looked real enough to fool you. He’d pop it in and out to scare the girls. Worked every time.” Scared me too, if I’m honest.

  “No joke,” said Sel, focusing on a nurse with his good eye. “Woulda been the end of my flying days. They say I have a mild concussion, though. So I’m stuck in this bed with the nurses shining a flashlight in my eye every hour on the dot. Lets them know my brain is functioning right. Can’t say I mind—they’ve got some pretty nurses.” He let me feel the bump on his head. It was the size of a softball. “Doc says I’m out of commission for at least a coupla weeks, and that’s hard luck for the other fellers.”

  “I’m sure the Third Reich is happy about that,” I said winking.

  Sel didn’t get my drift. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said.

  “So give me the lowdown on the so called accident,” I said. “We’ll need the facts before ruling out foul play.”

  “Who? You and Scotland Yard?”

  “Just give me the blow-by-blow.”

  His one eye widened, the other fused shut. It was starting to dawn on him that something was fishy. He said: “It was like this, see? I came flying down the stairs, taking two at a time—thinking I’d beat the other fellers to the john. It gets mighty crowded in there, see? Didn’t notice Jimmy lying at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious-like. Tripped right over him and crashed into a table—bang! Well, on that table was a telephone, one of those of Bakelite models weighs at least ten pounds. Collides with my head—whack! Gave me the concussion.” He pointed to his bump. “Then a London phone book hits me square in the eye—bam! I tried to stand up, but my foot got caught in the telephone cord.”

  “Boom. Sounds like a Vaudeville skit. Go on,” I said.

  “Yeah, except no one was laughing. Jimmy, see, he comes to and lets loose a howl that sounded like a siren. Woke the fellers up. Everyone scrambling to get to their Spitfires. One minute later and a stack of bodies that looked like a football pileup—kind where everybody leaves the field on stretchers.”

  “How’d Jimmy trip?” I asked.

  “He don’t know. Can’t remember a thing, what with having a concussion too.”

  I was getting ready to ask another question, when in walked Squadron Leader Hugh Kennard, Jack’s superior officer. He was wearing a leather fleece-lined flight jacket and a Mae West inflatable life jacket. His goggles were pushed up onto his leather flight helmet and he was still wearing his flight gloves. I looked behind him hoping to see my brother, but there was no sign of him.

  “Tommy, old chap,” he said. Kennard was British. The only Brit in the squadron of American pilots. “Jolly good to see you.”

  “Where’s Jack, sir?”

  Kennard turned his eyes heavenward. For a second there, I went stiff.

  “Jack?” he said, “at the moment, I suppose, he’s floating somewhere above Slough. Unless the wind has blown his brolly a bit further east.” A brolly, I knew, was an English way to say umbrella, but in the RAF it could also mean parachute. Kennard consulted his military issue Omega watch. “Actually, by now he ought to have his feet on the ground. Dare say he’s sitting in a tavern with a Guinness in his hand as we speak.”

  “He had to bail out?” I asked, my eyes bulging from their sockets.

  “His Spitfire caught fire. A group of bandits had gone after him—mighty cheesed-off after we’d shot down a Do—that’s a Dornier bomber, as you undoubtably know. Must have hit his fuel tank. We were over a rural area, so I ordered him to get out of the plane. No worries though—I circled back and saw that your brother was tip-top. Gave me the thumbs up as his parachute opened. Looked well enough—not even a scorched eyebrow, from what I could see. He’ll be back before long. Well, off for another sweep. Just thought I’d check in on you, Sel. Then get a bite to eat. I’m famished.”

  “I’d order out for a pizza, if I were you, sir,” I said, forcing myself to add, “Daphne packed a picnic lunch and you could have half of my vegetable pastie, sir—the biggest half.”

  “No kidding, sir,” said Sel. “Looks like the food’s gone off in the canteen.”

  Kennard turned down my offer to share a pastie, but he took a stick of chewing gum. I couldn’t do enough for the man—he was one of my heroes. He’d flown in the Battle of Britain. Awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT SMELLED GOD-AWFUL in the infirmary, so I went for some fresh air. It would be a long wait for my brother to get back and I had plenty of time to poke around in the mess halls. Jack and the other Eagle Squadron pilots bunked and ate their meals at their own mess. That’s what they called it, but it was really an elephant of a mansion, requisitioned for war use. They ate under a crystal chandelier covered in a burlap bag, to protect it during food fights. Jack’s mess was off-base, a couple of miles away, and so I headed first for the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess, since that’s where Geraldine would’ve eaten. And I’d seen at least two stricken sergeants in the infirmary.

  The building was what you call a Nissen hut: a corrugated steel contraption shaped like a tunnel. Wasn’t anybody inside, which figured. It was going to be a while before people got their appetites back. I jumped over a stainless steel counter used to slide trays while you picked your food. The sinks were stacked with dirty dishes, probably because the crew was sick too. In warming trays I found greasy slices of the ham they’d served for breakfast. It smelled so good made my stomach start rumbling, but I wasn’t fool enough to eat it. There were fried eggs with the yolks broken and cooked. Toast cut into quarters and lined up like dominoes. And beans. English people ate them with eggs—instead of with frankfurters like you’re supposed to. They’d also served kidneys in gravy. Not kidney beans, mind you, but the actual bodily organ.

  Disgusting, I thought.

  There was a gallon of Marmite, enough to feed an army—or in this case, an air force. In the Great War, British soldiers were issued the stuff in their rations. Daphne loved Marmite, even though it was made from yeast, first used to brew beer. Jack hated Marmite, said he’d rather get his yeast in a frosted glass. I preferred mine in a chocolate layer cake.

  While I was examining the Marmite, a blindfold came down over my eyes. I figured it must be my brother, pulling a gag. I began squealing, squiggling, giggling, expecting Jack to start tickling me.

  I stopped laughing when I was dragged backwards into a walk-in Frigida
ire.

  Before I could scream, the door slammed shut and I was trapped, impossible to open the door from the inside. It was pitch dark in the fridge. I felt around for a weapon and hit upon a stack of potatoes, filling my pockets with spuds. If only I’d remembered to bring my slingshot. Carrots were the only thing with a point.

  Nazis had Lugers. I had a carrot.

  As tight as I pressed my ear to the ice-cold stainless-steel door, it was almost impossible to hear anything outside the refrigerator. If Daphne hadn’t come to my rescue, I might’ve suffocated. When I heard her shouting my name, I banged my fists against the door. Yelled at the top of my lungs, too. Opening the latch, she said, “What on earth? You were looking for cake, weren’t you?”

  The nerve, I thought. I ignored her and ran toward the leftovers. The kidneys were gone. The warming tray was cleaned out and set on the drying rack.

  “Someone’s been tampering with the food—the kidneys, as a matter of fact,” I said.

  Daphne paused for a beat, “Odd that you say…because we were just observing that only we British are sick. The American pilots eat at the officer’s mess, but a few were in the infirmary this morning and ate the food from this kitchen. Yet we noticed that none of the Americans are sick…and Americans do hate kidneys. We’d been wondering if maybe the tea was spoiled, but you could be right.”

  “Is Squadron Leader Kennard still here? I have to warn him.”

  “Re—ally, Thomas. But since you mention it, he wants a word with you. That’s why I’ve been searching high and low.”

  I rushed over to the dispersal hut, hoping I’d find Kennard before he left for another mission. He was sitting in a wicker chair, placed out on the grass. In front of him was a low table with a chess set on top. I figured that while he waited for another battle with the Luftwaffe, he wanted me to play a game with him. I usually lost, which made me the perfect opponent.

  “Look here, old boy,” said Kennard as I walked up. “Have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Happy to oblige,” I said, taking a seat opposite him.

  “Jolly good of you,” he said, putting two fingers into his mouth and making a whistling noise before shouting, “Here girl!” A scrawny black and white mutt came tearing toward us—stopped short, backed up until her legs straddled my foot, and then saturated my sneaker. “Daphne has volunteered to help with the sick—good sport that she is—and it’s been proposed that you two might bunk here rather than heading back to London. We’re terribly understaffed, you see.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a key. “Sel has suggested that you bunk in his and Jack’s room. Daphne will bunk with that gal Geraldine. Sel asked that you feed his goldfish. Not too much fish-food, mind you, just a sprinkle. And then there’s Ringo to see to. As I said, we’re short staffed with all these casualties. You’ve met Ringo, I’m sure—the squadron mascot?” The mutt growled at me. I kept myself from barking back.

  “Happy to oblige, sir.” I had an aversion to dogs—more like a phobia—but I was no fool. If I ever wanted a place in the RAF, I’d have to follow orders without grumbling.

  “Well, then that’s settled,” said Kennard.

  The phone rang in the dispersal hut and he answered while adjusting his Mae West inflatable vest and parachute harness. “Off for another Rhubarb,” he said after hanging up the phone. He didn’t mean a slice of pie. A Rhubarb was what they called a sweep over occupied Europe: two pilots hunting for German depots, supply trains, air traffic control towers, and armament factories.

  Another pilot was napping on a chair inside the hut and Kennard shook him awake. “Off we go into the wild blue yonder,” he said, quoting the brand-new American Air Force song. Kennard was always trying to make the fellas feel at home. He’d once bought a tub of peanut butter for the squadron. Had to be special ordered from Fortnum & Mason in London.

  A mechanic from the ground crew, an Englishman named Wilson, came up to Kennard. “Everything’s ready to go, sir. We’ve rearmed and the kites are ship-shape. Have you had a chance to think through—”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t the time to discuss it, Wilson. And what you are suggesting is against regulations. End of conversation, I’m afraid.” Kennard leaned down and patted the dog on the head.

  “Best of luck, sir,” I said. “Give it to them good.”

  “Try to walk Ringo every couple of hours, would you? She’s got an active bladder.”

  “I noticed, sir,” was all I said, and then saluted.

  Kennard ran to his Spitfire. The ground crew rolled away the trolley accumulator and removed the chocks out from in front of the airplane’s wheels. Kennard jumped into the cockpit and slid the Plexiglas hatch shut. When the propeller began turning, my heart started racing. The plane began moving toward the airstrip—trundling, you call it. As the wheels left the ground and then retracted, I waved goodbye. There was always the chance he wouldn’t come back. Ringo must’ve been thinking the same thing. She took a big gulp of air and then let out a sigh.

  I reached into my pocket and threw a potato. Ringo went racing to fetch it.

  Darn, I thought. I tried to warn Kennard, but my voice was drowned out by the Spitfire propellers. Here he was, flying off to France to fight Nazis when there were some right here at the base.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Somewhere in London

  THE CLOCK ON HIS DESK reads four minutes to nine, and Brigadier A.W.A. Harker—Deputy Director General of MI5, the British Security Service—puts down his fountain pen, listening for the chime of Big Ben, not a quarter mile away, wishing that he could work from home more often. Since the beginning of the conflict, MI5 has had its headquarters over in Wormwood Scrubs, a Victorian prison in West London; depressing as all hell. This study of his—with its embossed leather wallpaper, dark oak bookcases, Turkey carpet, and windows overlooking the Thames River—is much more conductive to problem solving.

  Intelligence, he thinks. How is one to use it with the rat-a-tat-tat of typewriters in the background, and the heels of women’s shoes, and their chattering gossip whenever they think he’s not listening?

  And Agent Ellis—his biggest nuisance at the office. How many times that day were his thoughts interrupted by the man, wanting to relay a report from some busybody claiming to have seen a Nazi spy—at the grocery buying chipped beef, checking out a book from the library, watching Pathé newsreels at a local cinema? It is Ellis’ job to sort through these reports, but why can’t he leave it at that?

  When was the last time a citizen actually caught a German spy? thinks Harker, tapping his chin. Best leave these things to the professionals.

  His wife calls, “Jasper, I’m off to bed. Will you be joining me?”

  “In a minute, dear,” he says.

  “All because of that Mabel Somebody-Or-Other,” he says to himself, looking at a small desk calendar in a silver frame.

  Two years ago, almost to the day: Carl Meier, Charles van den Kieboom, Sjoerd Pons—he can’t remember the name of the fourth one. Dutch born Nazi party members, most of them. Sent in by the Abwehr in advance of the feared invasion, equipped with radio transmitters and supplies for a week or so: corned beef, baked beans, and chocolate. Spotted by a tavern keeper—Rising Moon, was it? Mabel Something-Or-Other—who thought it odd when Carl Meier, with his guttural accent, requested a cider at nine o’clock in the morning. And then he’d gone and bumped his head on the doorpost. When any Englishman would know to duck.

  “A cider for breakfast!” says Harker. And now this ridiculous campaign to put citizens on their guard against Nazi spies. Posters plastered on every wall in England. Busybodies with nothing better to do than spy on their neighbors and then report the slightest change of habits. He remembers Ellis bothering him with a report from Bristol—a veteran of the First World War, claiming that there were Nazi spies selling oil paintings from door-to-door. They wasted valuable time uncovering a ring of amateur copyists, selling “original” Van Goghs to anyone foolish enough to part with five-bob. Why
, one of the confiscated sunflower paintings is sitting beside Harker’s rubbish bin at the office. If it’s there in the morning, he’ll burn it himself.

  “That settles it!” he says aloud, pulling the chain on his desk lamp. “I’m going to have to have a word with Petrie, put an end to this nonsense. Time we got down to the real business of fighting this war.” He smiles, thinking about the success they’ve had recently by turning enemy-aliens into double agents and sending false intelligence back to Berlin.

  “The Double-Cross!” he says as he mounts the stairs to his bedroom.

  “What was that, Jasper?” says his wife.

  He sucks his lips in and then pulls back the coverlet.

  “That’s right,” says his wife. “Like the poster says, Loose Lips Sink Ships.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CIRCLING BACK TO the infirmary, I went straight to Sel Edner’s bed. The only thing laying on it was a rubber hot-water bottle. The invalid in the next bed pulled back the curtain that separated us. He said, “They rushed ’im to the ’ospital—a big one in London where they’ve got neurosurgeons.”

  “What! Why would he need a neurosurgeon?”

  “’E passed out cold. Bleedin’ in the brain.”

  This was a life-threatening predicament. I remembered the time I crashed my tricycle into a milk truck, hit my head on the hubcap and started seeing stars—just like in the cartoons. After a few minutes, everything seemed fine; I’d broken a collarbone, was all. Jack and Ma rushed me to the emergency room. After the doctor put my arm in a sling, he gave me a lollipop and we headed back to the pickup truck. Then Ma asked if I wanted to stop off at the five-and-dime for an ice-cream soda and I said, “Nope.” Right then and there she knew something was wrong. Turned out I had bleeding on the brain and my life was in jeopardy. Jack carried me back into the emergency room piggyback. The doctor said, “What’s your name, son?”