On Wings of the Morning

by Dan Verner

  “Yes, I’m here,” Otto murmured, looking at Mata, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m finally here.”

  “You’re so young, Hans. I thought you were older like me. But you look the same as you did the day we were wed.” She sat back in her chair and resumed absently gazing at the table.

  Otto sighed. There was not much to do. He followed Mata into his bedroom, which had not changed since he had left for basic. The pictures and models seemed childish now, given all he had been through. He sat on the bed. Mata went out, closing the door. “I know you probably want to be alone and rest for a while. We’ll eat in about an hour.”

  Otto suddenly felt very tired. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  ***

  The next morning, Otto rose early, made himself some coffee and went out to look around the farm. Mata would be up soon, but he wanted to see what she had done in his absence. He went into the barn where the cows were beginning to stir, anticipating feeding and milking. All was in order and perhaps cleaner and neater than when he had left. He went back out to walk around the barn and saw a new building, a kind of shed. Then it occurred to him. The Model T was not in its place in the barnyard. He idly wondered what had happened to it. It was old, but cars were not being made for the duration, so he couldn’t imagine that Mata would have gotten rid of it. He pushed open the shed doors and the T was there, covered with dust. Next to it was a 1936 Model A pickup. Mata had probably forgotten to mention it to him with all the other news she had.

  He went back into the kitchen. Mata was there fixing sausage and eggs for breakfast. “There you are,” she smiled.

  “Yes, I’ve been checking out the property to see how the farm has been run in my absence. I would say it has been run very well. Apparently it is quite a prosperous farm because the farmers have acquired a new truck.”

  Mata’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. “Oh, Otto, I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. I bought the truck from the Hansens when Roger joined the Marines.”

  “It’s a wonderful truck.”

  “The T was getting so old, but I kept it and we use it to transport hay for the herd and other things. Actually, I learned to drive on the A, before I bought the sedan. I thought you’d like to have something newer to drive when you came back.”

  “So we’re a three car family now.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I’m proud of you, sis, for all you’ve done here.”

  “And I’m happy you’re home, brother.”

  “So am I,” Otto said.

  Chapter 38

  Fall and Winter—1944-45

  Otto soon became aware of just how greatly Mata had expanded the scope of their little dairy farm. He spent some time visiting the farms she had acquired. Each farm had its own manager, and the roads leading to them were busy with tanker trucks coming to load the milk produced by the dairy herds. In truth, there was not much for him to do, so after a few days, he stayed put on the family farm and helped with small chores. He didn’t want to go to town and be exposed all over again to stares and questions.

  The summer passed into autumn. The three of them had a small Thanksgiving. They ate; Mata cleaned up, Maria continued to sit at the table and Otto retired to the living room and listened to the radio. The Allies continued to move into France, headed for Germany. He thought the war in Europe might be over by the end of the year. Then the Germans counterattacked in mid-December. The news called it the Battle of the Bulge. As he followed accounts of the fighting on the radio, even on Christmas Day, Otto was concerned that weather prevented air support. The weather broke shortly thereafter, aircraft could fly support missions, and the Germans were pushed back.

  The heavies continued to pound German cities and manufacturing. It was still just a matter of time until the Third Reich was destroyed. How much time, he couldn’t tell. He supposed no one could.

  New Year’s passed quietly.

  ***

  Otto stumbled on the frozen rutted mud as he came in from the barn. Christ, it was cold, even for the first week in February. Maybe he could prevail on Mata to buy some electric heaters for the milking barn. The cows would appreciate it and so would he.

  The weather had turned exceptionally frigid a week ago and had stayed that way. He thought back to a brief warmup, when was it, the second week of January? That was the week Mama had died. She just continued to decline in front of their eyes. The doctor could find no reason, other than to say she was not in her right mind and seemed to have given up the will to live. Mata came in from the barn one afternoon and found her sitting in her usual place in the kitchen chair, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. They had a traditional service at the church and buried her beside Hans in the graveyard. Mata wanted Ein Feste Burg in German sung at the end. Otto thought of the English words:

  A mighty fortress is our God

  A bulwark never failing

  A helper He, amid the flood

  Of mortal ills prevailing…

  He couldn’t sing that without thinking of his aircraft, the Mata Maria. He wondered where she was now and if she was still flying. She had probably been assigned to some other crew, and her name had been changed. There had been a lot of changes brought on by this war.

  Maria’s service was in English, and afterwards Mata told him that the church had switched to English in 1940 except for some funeral services for the older folks like Hans when it became clear that anything in German was suspect. Even the German-language papers that Hans read when he was alive had changed over.

  Otto thought it ironic that he had fought for a freedom that his friends and family at home did not have. Well, that’s how it went sometimes.

  Otto remembered how they had followed the wooden casket carried out the church door to the graveyard where his father’s grave was. A freshly dug hole lay in wait, and the minister said a few words of commitment and that was it. They all turned to go back into the church basement where the women had prepared a funeral meal. The old people who were left came by, murmuring their sympathies, trying hard not to be obvious about staring at Otto’s appearance, telling him they were glad he was home. They probably were, but Otto felt like he was just getting through a decent interval of time until he could leave. Mata kept looking at him anxiously. Finally people started leaving and he and Mata did as well, to go home to the quiet and empty house.

  So it had been the two of them for the past month or so. Days they did what was necessary to manage a rather large dairy farm. In the evenings, Mata worked on the finances and sewing while Otto listened to the radio, war news mostly, or read the newspaper from Minneapolis that came by mail. They went to bed early since they had to get up early, “with the chickens,” as Mata said. Otto just grunted. Getting up at 5 AM was easy compared to rolling out in the cold not knowing if it would be his last morning.

  The war seemed to be distant, although there was news of the progress on both fronts, along with rumors and speculation. Otto was most interested in the progress of Allied troops through Europe. The bombers continued to pound strategic targets. Otto knew they were inflicting incredible damage on the German war machine.

  They went into town on Saturdays. Otto kept a scarf around his face up to his eyes, which was easy enough in the winter. He thought idly what he would do in the spring and decided he would think more about that when the time came. Maybe people would just have to get used to it. They said he was a war hero, after all, so wasn’t he something special? Deformed and grotesque, but special.

  Otto had noticed after a couple of days at home that there weren’t any aircraft going into the field next door. He supposed that limitations on fuel and pleasure flying made the difference, and so did not get by the field to see for himself for a couple of weeks. When he pulled up to the office building and hangar, he was in for a shock. Clearly no one had used them for quite a while. Some of the windows in the office were broken, and the door hung from one hinge. He got out and went into the of
fice. A layer of dust covered everything. He went into the hangar. The Fleet stood in one corner. It was not damaged, but Otto could hear mice scurrying along the walls. What had happened to Wilson? To Sparky? He didn’t know who to ask since those two kept to themselves at the airport. Maybe Mata would know.

  He found her in the kitchen, working on lunch. She smiled when she saw him come in. “Everything all right at the airport?” she asked brightly.

  Otto shook his head. “It looks like it has been abandoned.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know what happened to Mr. Wilson and Mr. Duncan?”

  “Wilson I haven’t heard anything about. I think I heard somewhere that Mr. Duncan died. Apparently he had quite a drinking problem and they found him in the hangar one day. I didn’t think to tell you.”

  Well, that was too bad about Sparky. He was a good pilot. Wilson, he didn’t know about. What could have happened to him? Otto began to have an inkling of an idea, but there was work to be done so he turned to it.

  ***

  Two weeks later, Otto was coming in from the barn when he saw a large black car making its way down the drive. He didn’t recognize the make or the occupants. The limo stopped outside the farmhouse and a liveried chauffeur jumped from the driver’s side and opened the back door. A distinguished looking man climbed out of the back seat. He spotted Otto and said, “Captain Kerchner?”

  Otto stepped toward him. “I’m Otto Kerchner.”

  The man plucked a business card from an inside pocket. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am James Potter of Potter and Jensen, attorneys-at-law in Minneapolis. Is there some place we can talk?”

  Otto shook hands with the man. He had a firm grasp. Otto didn’t know what to think. Maybe they were being sued. But why come all the way from Milwaukee to do that? He motioned toward the door. “We can talk in the kitchen. Come on in.’

  They filed into the kitchen where Mata was washing dishes. “Mr. Potter, this is my sister Mata.”

  Potter tipped his hat and then removed it. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss…Kerchner?”

  Mata quickly dried her hands and took Potter’s outstretched palm. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter.” She looked at Otto quizzically.

  “Mr. Potter is an attorney from Minneapolis,” Otto explained.

  “Our taxes are paid up, Mr. Potter,” Mata began.

  Potter smiled. “Oh, I’m not here about taxes. May I have a seat?”

  “Certainly,” Otto said, and indicated a seat at the table. Ross sat and opened his briefcase. Otto took one of the other seats and Mata the third. It was Potter’s turn to look quizzically at Otto.

  “Mata and I are partners in the farm,” Otto indicated. “We make all the decisions together. She takes care of our finances.”

  “This does not have anything to do with the farm, Captain,” said Potter, drawing a thick sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “It has to do with the airport.”

  “The airport? It’s in ruins.”

  “Well, it’s yours now, Captain.”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s yours. Our client, Mr. Wilson, passed away suddenly last November. It took a while to straighten out his affairs. That’s why I’m only now getting to you. Mr. Wilson left you the airport property and everything on it in his will.”

  Otto was speechless for a moment. Then he spoke. “What am I going to do with an airport?”

  Potter chuckled. “Anything you wish, Captain. It’s all yours. Please sign at the X’s and that will take care of the paperwork.”

  Otto took the huge black fountain pen from Potter and signed his name where he indicated. Potter gave him a copy of the deed to the airport made out in his name, collected his papers, put them in his briefcase. He stood up and offered his hand first to Mata and then to Otto.

  “Thank you for your time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be on my way back to Minneapolis.”

  “Won’t you have some coffee,” Mata asked him. “I should have offered you some earlier. It’s just…”

  Potter waved one hand, on which a huge diamond sparkled. “No thank you, Miss Kerchner. That’s a kind offer, but one which I feel I must refuse. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  Otto opened the door and Potter strode toward the limo where the chauffeur stood by the car. He opened the rear door and Potter slid in the back seat. The chauffeur got in, started the car and drove off. Potter gave them a brief wave and then they were gone down the driveway.

  Otto and Mata were quiet for a moment. “Well,” Otto said after a while.

  “Yes?” Mata asked.

  “Well, I have work to do. We’ll talk about this over lunch.” He headed back to the barn.

  “As you wish, dear brother. As you wish.”

  ***

  A couple of hours later, at lunch, they sat in silence for a while. Finally Otto said, “So?”

  “So what?” Mata answered.

  “Is this a game?” Otto said.

  “What kind of game?”

  “A game where you answer my question with another question.”

  “Well,” Mata said, “if it is such a game, you started it by asking a question.”

  “And you continued it by answering with a question.”

  They were both smiling by this time, and then broke into waves of loud laughter. After a while they laughed themselves to silence. Otto broke that silence.

  “So, what do you want to do with the airport?”

  “It’s your airport, Otto, what do you want to do with it?”

  “Help me decide. We could turn it back into pastureland.”

  “We have about all the acreage we can manage right now without getting bigger than I want to.”

  “I could run it as an airport if you’ll help me with the finances.”

  “I can do that easily, brother.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “I want to see you happy. You have seemed so down and quiet ever since you’ve come back. I think flying would be good for you, and meeting people who come to fly.”

  “I’ll see,” Otto said. “When do we eat?”

  Mata laughed and shook her head.

  Chapter 39

  A Letter Arrives—February, 1945

  Otto came home for supper the week after Potter’s visit. Mata was in the kitchen, working on the meal. She smiled when she saw Otto and then assumed a serious expression. “A letter came for you today.”

  “Oh?” Otto rarely got mail.

  “Yes. It’s from England.” She handed the thin envelope to him.

  Otto studied the return address. “A. Franklin, 43 W. Eads, Wembley.” He didn’t know any “A. Franklin.” He tore the envelope open and took the single sheet of thin paper out. Mata went into the living room to leave him alone. He read:

  Dear Otto,

  I am writing to you to say how truly sorry I am that I could not stand by you. It was simply too much to bear and I feel awful about running away. I pray that some day you will forgive me.

  The second piece of news I have is that we have a son. He was born June 30, 1944. He looks like you and I hope that you may meet him some day.

  I married a RAF leftenant to give our son a father. Roger is good to me and to young Otto (that’s his name).

  Things are hard here, as they have been. I hope that you are recovering well and that you do not think too badly of me.

  I am,

  Your Alice

  Otto held the letter in his hand for a moment. Mata came back into the room. “Is it from—” she started.

  Otto handed her the letter and looked at the floor for a minute.

  Mata read the letter. “Are you going to answer her?”

  Otto took the piece of paper and crumpled it in his fist. “When do we eat?” he said.

  Chapter 40

  A Chance Encounter—early March, 1945

  Otto drove over to the airport to look at it with a closer eye. It wasn’t too far gone. He could have it repair
ed. They had money from his disability and Mata had accumulated a nice little nest egg with careful management of their finances. He nodded to himself. It was worth a try.

  He drove into town, stopping first at the lumber yard, wearing his hat pulled low over his face. He knew by this time how people would react to his appearance. They had taken “field trips” at the hospital in Boston to public places to become accustomed to the reactions they would receive. These ranged all the way from people who gasped or looked away quickly to children who asked “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?” There was one bright spot during these excursions. A well-dressed older man came up to him and studied his face for a long minute. He stuck out his hand. “Captain, I want to thank you for your service to our country. You’ve obviously sacrificed a great deal and I salute you for it.”

  Otto returned the handshake. “Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”

  This episode was the only one like it in his time at the hospital.

  People in the town were marginally better. They knew him, after all, or at least what he had been. Still, some of them looked at him a little too long. Otto came out of the lumber store with his order completed. They would deliver the next day.

  He turned to go down the street to where he had parked the truck when he saw her—he saw Betty making her way across the street, clad in a yellow dress the same color as the one she wore when they practiced dancing for the prom. She saw him standing there on the sidewalk and smiled broadly, quickening her step to come over to him. Otto waited. Uh oh, he thought. Here it comes.

  “Otto! How are you?” There was no sign of shock or aversion on her face. She embraced him and reached up and kissed him on his cheek, which was almost entirely covered by scar tissue. He realized that it was one of the few times a woman had kissed him since his accident.