He came out of his daydreaming, surprised to find me in the living room. “Jack Mooney? Not that I know of, bud. Check in his room, why don’t ya. Upstairs, first door on the left. Maybe he came in and I didn’t hear him what with the radio being on and all, ya know?”
“You from New York, too?” I asked, playing up my accent.
“Yonkers, ya know?” He turned his ears back to the radio. Dorothy Lamour was starting in on a solo number. The pilot looked like a man in love.
I went up the curly-cue staircase, to the room that Jack shared with Sel. My heart started beating out of my chest when I glanced at the fish bowl. I ran to it, relieved to see that the goldfish was still kicking. Phew!—I’d forgotten all about it. The fish was starved by then; its fins moved in slow-motion. I found a box marked fish food and poured what was left in the bowl. The fish swam to the top and began gobbling. Squadron Leader Kennard’s instructions came back to me just then: Not too much food, mind you, just a sprinkle. Using a fish net, I scooped out most of the fish food and some turds too. Goldfish will eat themselves to death if given half a chance. The thought of death, made me think of Sel. I hoped his brain had stopped bleeding. I said a quick prayer, invoking the name of Saint Simon of Cyrene.
That done, I looked around the room for a sign of my brother, thinking maybe he came back and then went out again. The officers shared a batman: five officers to one batman. Not batman, as in Batman and Robin, but a batman—as in a British soldier who does the dirty work. He made Jack’s bed, shined his shoes, pressed his uniform, and ran errands. Jack had come up in the world—not bad for the son of a drunk, out-of-work, Irish immigrant. The room was neat as a pin, meaning Jack hadn’t come home. The first thing Jack would’ve done was to get into civvies. He would’ve sat on the bed to take off his flight boots. But the bed didn’t have a wrinkle on it and his beat-around shoes were next to his dresser, not a spot of dirt on them.
Jack wasn’t back from Garsington.
To be sure, I searched around the house, knocking on every door, including the bathroom. I went back outside to break the news to Daphne.
“Odd, that,” she said, looking at her watch, which was pinned to her jacket. The dial faced upside down so that it could be read just by lifting it. “It’s been hours since he called the base. In the worst case scenario, he would have taken a train and made it back by now.”
“I smell a rat,” I said.
She started biting her nails, something she always did when she was nervous.
“I’ll cycle back over to the dispersal hut,” she said. “He’s probably there playing chess with his chums. Or poker—they love poker. Perhaps they’re at a game of Monopoly—one of the pilots brought one over from the States. A match can go on for a fortnight.” She paused to nibble on a thumbnail. “It could be he had to go on another op. I hope not—he’s so knackered, dear love. In any event, I should pop into the infirmary and see if they need a hand. I’ve been negligent in my volunteer duties.” She remembered I was standing there. “Look, you go to bed. It’s well past your bedtime.”
“I don’t have a bedtime. It’s the weekend.”
“Then go read a book or something. Just stay out of trouble, would you?”
Before I could argue, she mounted the bicycle and was halfway down the driveway, pedaling like she was in the Tour de France.
CHAPTER NINE
WITHOUT WHEELS, I was stuck out there at the officer’s mess. Yonkers was still in the parlor listening to the radio. Ringo leapt into the room and curled up in a laundry basket that was set next to a paraffin stove. I figured I’d at least listen to some tunes and talk aviation with the pilot.
“Be my guest, bud,” said Yonkers, pointing to the rocking chair across from him.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
“Just got through eight months training in Canada, only to get here and learn that they’re about to send me home again, ya know?”
I did know, as a matter of fact. Now that America was in the war, and fighting on two fronts—against Japan in the Pacific and the Jerries in Europe—the country needed their pilots back. Churchill didn’t like the idea of giving up the three Eagle Squadrons, not after all the trouble the British went to train them. But he couldn’t be too sorry about the deal. Most of them would be returning wearing U.S. Air Force uniforms, escorting B-17s while they bombed Berlin to smithereens. And the truth was, the pilots wanted to go home. Because of a cockamamie Neutrality Act, they lost their American citizenship when they joined up with the Canadians. Before America jumped into the war, if they went home to visit their mothers they would’ve faced two years in the slammer. The minute bombs started dropping on Pearl Harbor, those Eagle Squadron pilots were on the train to London to talk the American Ambassador into letting them back into the fold. For one thing, the U.S. Air Force paid a fella twice as much as the RAF. For another thing, they’d be fed hamburgers and hotdogs, peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread. They’d never see a kidney slobbered with Marmite again.
Problem was, for my brother, it meant he had to get hitched before the deal went through. Otherwise Daphne would be stuck in London, maybe start up with a viscount or something. Once Jack married her, she would be a war bride and an American citizen to boot. She’d sail away from England with him, leaving me behind.
Jimmy Dorsey started playing a jazz number on the radio and I became homesick.
“I’m a little worried about the transfer,” I told Yonkers.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“ ’Cause it’s gonna mean I’m stuck here in England, while my brother and his bride are billeted on Pearl Harbor, sunning themselves on a Hawaiian beach.”
“Have to stay with your folks, huh? That’s understandable.”
“My folks are on Long Island. My ma is missing me like there’s no tomorrow. She can’t sleep at night for worry. And she’s got an ulcer now and can’t eat anything but saltine crackers and milk. But there’s no way to get across the ocean, not with the war full-blast—not unless you’re lucky enough to get on a troop carrier. I’m a civilian if you haven’t noticed.”
“Why don’t ya just come back with us?” Yonkers asked. “We’ll sneak you on the ship—piece a cake.” He had a good idea there—one, funny enough, I’d never considered.
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Piece a cake, I’m telling you, piece a cake.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He banged the pack against this knuckles, then held it out to me saying, “I won’t tell. Go ahead.”
“Not on your life,” I said. “Might as well call those things coffin nails.”
“Original. Like I haven’t heard that one before,” said Yonkers, reaching into his back trouser pocket for a lighter. “Well, suit yourself.” The blue bud of a flame lit the wick, lighting up his face red and orange. The radio switched to a new tune just then: Vera Lynn singing We’ll Meet Again. I couldn’t help but notice the engraving on the side of Yonker’s brass lighter: an eagle with outreached wings, grasping something in its talons. I leaned a little closer, so that I could be sure of what I was seeing. The eagle should’ve been grasping arrows and an olive branch, like an Alaskan eagle. But Yonker’s eagle was holding onto a wreath with a swastika in the center. I knew the symbol: a Parteiadler—emblem of the Nazi party.
“That’s some lighter you got,” I said, looking around the room for a weapon.
Yonkers took a long drag from his cigarette, pointing his mouth to the ceiling and blowing three smoke rings before speaking. “Took it off a Luftwaffe pilot whose Messerschmitt I downed with an expertly aimed three-second squirt, ya know?” He stared at me without blinking, every muscle in his body flexed.
I took a good look at my situation: we were all alone in the house. He was at least six-foot tall and 185 pounds. His shirt size was something like 17-17½ inch neck and 35-36 inch length. Once my brother came home, we’d take him out together. For now, it was
best to play it cool.
“Messerschmitt, ja?” I said, with a perfect Deutschland accent. I’d learned the lingo during my preparations to rescue my brother. I never made it to Germany, but it was coming in handy now. “Beeindruckend,” I added. “Impressive.”
Yonkers’ eyes went blank, pretending he didn’t understand a word I’d said.
I rose from the rocker. “Well then, gute nacht. It’s past my bedtime.”
The news broadcast came on just then and Yonkers got up to re-tuned the radio, stopping on Marlene Dietrich singing You Do Something To Me. He began grinning like Rommel in a black and white taken the day the Wehrmacht rolled into Paris.
I backed out of the room and out the front door. Then I spun around like a top and ran down the cobblestone driveway like an Olympic gold medalist in the 100-meter dash.
CHAPTER TEN
IN MY MAD ESCAPE from Yonkers, I didn’t pay attention to which direction I’d bolted. Stopping to gulp air and get my bearings, I realized I was someplace I never was before. Cows mooed in a pasture next to the road. The moon wasn’t up yet and I didn’t have a flashlight. I’d taken my jacket off in the over-heated parlor, and was wearing nothing but a flannel shirt topping an undershirt. A white cloud blocked my vision whenever I let air out of my lungs. I picked up the pace, hoping to keep warm.
Then I fell to the ground and banged my fists against the asphalt: I’d stuck Ringo with a Nazi. Squadron Leader Kennard would never recommend me for the RAF.
After a long hike, I found myself near the Southend-on-Sea pier. Before the war it was the English version of Coney Island. “Sun and fun,” Daphne moaned, back when she told me about it. “All gone because of Hitler.” She had a point: in front of my face was a naval base, taking up the pier and most of the town. They’d renamed it HMS Leigh, thinking that the original name—Peter Pan's Playground—didn’t work for a military installation. I wanted a look at the fleet. Problem was, they’d never let me past the gatekeeper without an escort, and a fella could get shot trying to sneak in. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t even be let back into RAF Rochford without Jack being there, or someone else who could sign me in.
I sat on the curb hugging my shaking body, rubbing my arms and stamping my feet to get the circulation going. A thick fog was rolling in off the English Channel. Overhead I heard a bomber plane flying back from a mission. Sounded like one engine was out. I squinted, trying to figure out if the bomber was American or British; even through the fog I seen flames coming from one of the engines. I yelled into the pea soup, “Good luck, boys,” giving them the thumbs up, too. I just hoped the navigator could find the runway with such low visibility, and I prayed his instruments were in working order after battling anti-aircraft guns all the way from Berlin. A group of sailors got out of a taxicab, looking up at the sky, too, shaking their heads. One of the sailors raised his arm and pointed in the direction of the nearest runway, as if that might help.
I jumped into the back seat of the taxicab.
“Where will it be, lad?” asked the driver, looking at me by way of his rear-view mirror. He was wearing a tweed cap, just like mine, only his was holding down a head of curly gray hair.
“The WAAF mess, sir.”
“More than one, you’ll have to be a wee more specific than that.”
“The white building with the shrubs in front, two stories, circular driveway.”
“That narrows it down to four possibilities. Can you do better?”
He put the car back in park as he waited. I had to employ all my powers of observation to conjure up a picture of the building. To bring it into sharp focus, I pressed my forehead. Then I snapped my fingers: “The one with the letter S worked into the iron gate.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? The old Sheffield place. Know it well.” He wound up the meter, moved the gearshift to drive, and slid away from the curb. “Have to take it slow, being that I can’t use the headlights. But don’t you worry none—it won’t cost you a cent more. There’s the waiting charge and the moving charge and it don’t matter if you’re moving fast or slow.”
“Oh, I trust you,” I said, not that a New Yorker trusted a cabbie.
“You’re not from around here, are you, lad?”
“Laclede Ave, East Hempstead, Long Island, New York, U.S.A. I’m visiting my brother who’s with the Eagle Squadron. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Get all kinds these days. Used to be locals and holidaymakers come down from London—mostly day-trippers. Now it can be anyone: Yanks, Poles, Czechs, Frenchies, you name it. I’ve had them all in that seat you’re in. Had one from Trinidad once. I had to ask where that was. He was an Indian too, even though the island turns out to be in the Caribbean.”
“Apache Indian?”
“India Indian.”
“And Germans?”
He rubbed his chin and squinted his left eye. Everyone has his own method for deep thinking. “Now that you mention it, yes, I have. There’s been one or two tell me how they fled tyranny. Come over to help us get rid of the blighter. And then there’s the girl married a Southend boy right before the Great War. Although, after all these years we consider her one of us.”
We were pulling into the driveway of Geraldine’s mess when I asked, “And this German lady who married the English boy. You wouldn’t know her name by any chance, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, name’s Sheffield.” As we rolled past the gate, he pointed to the ironwork letter. “This place is hers. Till it was requisitioned for war use, that is.”
The taxi came to a sharp stop, kicking up gravel. The cabbie pulled down the meter handle, stopping the clock. “You know,” he said, “this meter here was invented by a German—Baron von Thurn und Taxis was his name.” He pointed to the fare. Getting out of the taxi, I reached into my pocket and found the right change. Lord Sopwith paid me for running errands. I even had enough for a tip. The cabbie deserved a tip since he’d given me one. He pulled away, honking the horn and waving goodbye.
Warning bells told me there was a German spy living on the property. Light peeked from the sides of a blacked-out bedroom window. A light was on downstairs in a room at the back of the house. Wedging myself between two shrubs, I spied between a chink in the curtain, spotting Blanche bent over a desk. Her eyeglasses perched on the end of her nose. Her lips were pouted and her nose wiggling. A palm was placed on the desk and she was using her fingers to count. It was like she was taking a whack at a trigonometry equation but forgot her times-table. I’d seen my sister Mary with the same look while trying to do simple addition.
Spinning around, I noticed a small stone cottage, set back from the house in a patch of woods. Smoke came from the chimney. Faint and flickering light escaped from a downstairs window. It was a wonder the Home Guard didn’t come down on the lot of them for violating the blackout laws. Pressing my nose against the window pane, I seen a lady sitting in a wing-backed chair facing a stone fireplace. A sheepskin rug draped over her legs. She wore men’s gray felt slippers and a man’s bathrobe, too big for her bird-like frame. A book laid on her lap. By the way she turned the pages, I knew she was a speed-reader. Her hair was twisted up in a tight bun. For a split second, firelight refracted off a diamond ring. It must’ve weighed two-carats, at least.
Fräu Sheffield. The German.
She was riveted to the book. Probably Mein Kampf, that nasty book by Adolf Hitler. Being a bookworm myself, I knew the book would distract her long enough for me to have a look around. A rose trellis, leaned up against the wall, served my purposes. By the time I reached the upstairs window, my right hand was torn-up by thorns. Pulling up the window sash and shoving aside a blackout curtain, I entered the room and turned on a reading lamp that sat on a night table next to a canopy bed. And so I wouldn’t leave a trail of blood behind me, I wrapped my hand in a stocking I found laying on the floor.
The night table was piled with books, every one of them English. I read the spines: Wilkie Collins, Josep
hine Tey, and Agatha Christie—detective novels. My ma read books like that. Her favorite was The Woman in White. It made perfect sense for a German spy to study English detectives; I slipped a paperback into my back pocket, thinking that it wasn’t a bad idea. The night table on the far side of the bed was empty, with not so much as a reading lamp on it. I wondered what happened to Mr. Sheffield.
I found his photograph on the mantelpiece: a handsome man with a handlebar mustache, wearing the uniform of a cavalry officer of the Great War—jodhpurs and all. A bayonet stuck from a sheaf strapped to his waist. Must’ve been strange, having to fight against his in-laws. There was also a wedding photograph, the sort taken in a studio—Woolworths was my guess. The couple stood leaning against a fake Roman column. The bride was decked out in a long lace number, trimmed in pearls. The long train was wrapped around her legs. For sure, that dress set her father back a truckload of Deutschmarks.
Returning to the night table, I opened the top drawer. There in plain sight was all the evidence I needed. Hefting the pistol, I eyed the markings: Jäger-Pistole was engraved on the barrel. Cocking the gun, I saw it had one bullet left in the chamber. Before I had a chance to think what to do, Fräu Sheffield was standing on the landing, looking right at me.
She let out a blood-curdling scream. I swung to face her, aiming the pistol right at her foot by mistake. She screamed again, and I dropped the gun in fright. It went off, putting a hole in the carpet. Fräu Sheffield kicked the gun under the bed so’s it was out of reach.
“Wer bist du, wirklich?” I asked.
“Who are you to question me?” she said, wagging her finger in my face.
I heard stomping on the stairs. Any second and I’d be outnumbered. Turning, I jumped back to the window, thinking to make my escape. But as my wounded hand reached for the rose trellis, another hand grabbed my back trouser pocket, pulling me onto the bedroom carpet.
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