by Alan Hlad
Boar took a seat on the ground and wiped rain from his face.
Ollie sat and looked down to the valley. They’d traveled for hours, winding up the slopes, but they’d made it only halfway up the mountain. He squeezed his swollen ankle, attempting to dispel his trepidation. I’ll tolerate the pain. Or I’ll crawl if I have to. Either way, I’m gonna make it home.
Lucien unpacked his sack, opened a canteen, and handed it to Ollie.
Ollie took a gulp of water and gave the canteen to Boar.
Lucien removed a wrapped hunk of meat from his sack. He placed it on a rock and cut it in thirds with a small flip knife. He handed chunks to Ollie and Boar.
Ollie looked at what appeared to be a piece of boiled mutton, the wool still attached. He assumed that the clergy in Ascain, or perhaps in Dax, given the deteriorated, gray, fleshy color, had abruptly prepared it. Despite the repulsiveness of the food, he needed to eat it if he were to have the energy to hike the next dozen hours. As he prepared to bite into his woolly mutton, he noticed Lucien had slipped away, as he always did, to eat in solace.
Boar sighed, put down his food, and stepped into the rain. He approached Lucien, sitting on a rock with his hood pulled over his head. “Join us.”
Lucien looked up.
“You going to make me eat alone again with the Yank?” Rain pelted Boar’s face. “You’re much better company.”
Water dripped from Lucien’s copper mask.
“It doesn’t bother me.” Boar rubbed his broken eye.
Lucien hesitated, then stood and followed Boar.
Ollie looked up to see Boar and Lucien return to the shelter.
“I’ve asked Lucien to join us,” Boar said.
Ollie nodded. Two weeks ago, Boar’s gesture would have surprised him. The travel with Lucien had softened Boar, Ollie believed, making the lieutenant aware that a blind eye, although career ending for a pilot, paled in comparison to a missing jaw. More importantly, Lucien had shown Boar—and Ollie, for that matter—that one could join the fight despite one’s physical limitations.
Boar plucked a hair from his mutton and took a bite.
Lucien, his back to the others, removed his mask. With his knife, he cut his mutton into tiny bits, then placed a piece into what remained of his mouth and washed it down with water. Long after Ollie and Boar had eaten, Lucien labored to ingest his meal in small increments, like a patient swallowing a platter of pills.
Finishing his mutton, Lucien retrieved his mask.
“You don’t need to wear that,” Ollie said. “Unless it’s keeping you warm.”
Lucien glanced over his shoulder.
“There’s no need,” Boar said.
Lucien paused, then slipped his mask into his pack.
They collected the remains of the meal, including the chewed mutton hide, and tossed it into Lucien’s sack. It was clear, at least to Ollie, that Lucien had no plans of leaving any trace of their travel.
They climbed for an hour. To Ollie, the incline seemed to grow steeper with each step. His thigh muscles burned. His foot throbbed. Despite the pain, he pushed on. Step by step, he forced himself upward. As the rain slowed and the fog began to dissipate, Ollie was relieved to see Lucien stop to rest prior to scaling a steep trek.
Boar, ahead of Ollie, stopped to catch his breath.
Lucien looked down at Ollie, then raised a hand.
Ollie rubbed his legs and looked up. He noticed what he thought was a sense of peace in Lucien, free from the burden of hiding his war wounds. The squint of the man’s eyes gave the illusion of a victory smile, despite the fact that he had no jaw. Ollie inhaled. He nodded and raised his arm to Lucien.
A loud crack exploded.
Ollie flinched.
Lucien clasped his chest. Blood spurted through his fingers.
Ollie climbed toward Lucien, but another gunshot forced him to the ground. The discharge echoed through the valley.
Boar, already on his back, ripped open his coat and pulled out his pistol.
Lucien collapsed.
A bullet ricocheted near Ollie’s face, sending limestone shrapnel into his cheek. He scrambled to Lucien.
Boar fired two shots into the valley.
Ollie dragged Lucien, his body limp, down the embankment. As he placed him behind a large boulder, he saw a Wehrmacht patrol, perhaps six or seven soldiers, less than a hundred yards below. He pulled the Nazi’s pistol from his pocket, stood, and pulled the trigger, only to find the safety was on. A bullet whizzed by his ear. His pulse pounded. He flipped the safety, fired, and missed.
Boar rushed down the embankment, bringing with him chunks of rock. He fired a shot. Then another. A bullet shattered his kneecap. He howled as his right leg buckled.
A German soldier scaled the slope forty yards below. Ollie aimed and fired. The soldier’s back arched, then fell. German helmets turned as their comrade tumbled down the embankment.
Ollie raced to Boar. As he dragged him by the coat, a bullet pierced the lieutenant’s thigh.
Boar yowled.
They fell behind the boulder. Ollie fired shots, sending the patrol for cover. He rolled Lucien over, already knowing there was nothing he could do. His pupils were dilated. A hole, the size of a plum, had opened his sternum.
“Bastards,” Boar grunted. He gripped Lucien’s cloak.
Ollie noticed blood spilling from Boar’s knee.
“How many?” Boar gasped.
Ollie peeked around the boulder. Shots skipped over stone. He snapped back. “Six or seven.”
Boar, his fingers covered in blood, checked the bullets in his weapon. He pulled another clip from his belt.
Ollie ripped a piece of cloth from the lining of Lucien’s cloak. As he wrapped it around Boar’s leg, he noticed bloodied bits of bone on the lieutenant’s trousers.
Boar grabbed the cloth. He winced as he tightened the tourniquet.
Ollie crawled to the side of the boulder, and as he did, he heard German commands. He scanned below, finding another patrol making their way up the mountain. His adrenaline surged. “There’s more.”
“How many?” Boar pulled himself toward the edge of their rock.
“Ten.” Ollie looked at his pistol, regretting he hadn’t searched Dietrich’s vehicle for ammunition.
Boar looked below. “Bloody hell.”
Ollie glanced to the snowcapped summit. “The only way out of here is up and over.”
Boar struggled to stand on one leg and fired two shots.
Ollie heard a yelp. Machine-gun fire battered their rock.
Boar flopped down. He gasped for air and pointed at Ollie with a bloodied finger. “Give me your weapon.”
“No,” Ollie said. “I only have a few bullets. And I plan to use them.” He scanned around the boulder to see Wehrmacht flanking them. Closer. Thirty yards at most.
“I don’t think you understand, Yank.” Boar took in short breaths, like a panting dog.
Ollie prepared for another shot.
“Ollie.”
The sound of the lieutenant using his name caused him to hesitate. He looked at Boar, his trousers soaked with blood.
“I’m offering you a chance to get out of here.” Boar tightened the tourniquet.
“I’ll fight.” Ollie turned, preparing to target the enemy, and heard a metallic click.
“Give me your weapon,” Boar said, pressing his pistol to Ollie’s temple.
Ollie froze. Machine-gun fire sprayed the boulder, sending bits of rock into his hair.
“You and I both know that I’m not getting out of here,” Boar said. “If you choose to stay, I’ll pull the trigger. You’ll be dead anyway when the ammunition is gone.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Boar leaned forward and ripped the weapon from Ollie’s hand. He checked the clip and slammed it back into the pistol. “I need to set something straight.”
Ollie heard rocks falling as the Wehrmacht climbed the slope. “What are you talking about?”
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Boar grimaced as he propped himself against the boulder. “You’ll understand, if you make it out of here.”
“This isn’t right.”
The lieutenant removed his identification discs, strung on a cord around his neck, and tossed them to Ollie. “Go, before I change my mind.”
Stunned, Ollie watched Boar lean over the boulder and fire. A soldier let out an agonizing scream. Realizing this was his only opportunity, Ollie shook away his indecisiveness and scrambled up the embankment. Pain shot through his ankle. His boots slipped on rubble. Bullets ripped over limestone. He climbed, tearing skin from his palms.
Boar fired another shot. Then there was a spattering of gunfire as the Wehrmacht closed in.
Ollie dove behind a large slab, sucked in air, then sprang upward. Each time Boar fired a shot, he was given a few seconds to ascend. He did this four times until he reached a steep trail, turning out of view from the Wehrmacht. Continuing his climb, he stumbled and fell. He fought to catch his breath in the thinning air. His lungs heaved. The temperature began to plummet. Unwavering, he continued his ascent until the rain turned to sleet, then, eventually, snow.
Reaching the summit, Ollie collapsed. Ice scraped his face. As he rolled over, he heard a pistol shot, followed by a long blast of machine-gun fire, and then silence.
CHAPTER 52
THE PYRENEES
The descent was far more difficult than the climb. Believing the Wehrmacht patrol would continue their pursuit, Ollie disregarded caution as he clambered down the mountain. Stepping onto a limestone shelf, he slipped on ice and fell. His wet clothes, like a lubricant, plunged him down the sleet-covered slope. Kicking his legs, he rolled onto his stomach and frantically clawed for a handhold. But the slide accelerated. Loose scree gouged his hands. He dug in his toes, feeling his bootlaces snap. His body skidded to a stop. He gasped for air and stood on shaky legs inches from the edge of a cliff. His pulse hammered in his eardrums. As he peered down the ridge, he noticed that two of his fingers were crooked. With numb hands, he snapped them back into place, sending a sharp twinge through his arm.
Unable to find a trail, Ollie traversed through rock fields and steep grades. With the lower altitude, he gained oxygen, allowing him to breathe better. But his body was a wreck. His muscles, atrophied from weeks of confinement, flared with pain. Forced to rest, he leaned his back against a boulder. As he took in air, he glanced at the summit and noticed movement. He strained to focus and saw two Wehrmacht soldiers scaling down the ridge. They were several hundred yards away, well out range for an accurate shot. But their pace was fast, nearly twice the speed of his own descent. He crouched, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. Seconds later, a gunshot echoed through the valley, sending him to his feet.
For the next two hours, Ollie struggled to stay out of range of the enemy. As the Wehrmacht narrowed their gap, gunfire turned from distant echoes to crisp cracks. Bullets ricocheted over rocks. Dashing over gravel, he twisted his bum ankle and toppled to the ground. Pain flared through his foot. He stood and tried again to run, but his body could only produce a hobbled jaunt. And he realized that it was only a matter of time before the soldiers would overtake him.
The stony terrain turned to scraggly trees, then eventually a thick forest, temporarily placing him out of sight of the soldiers. The warming temperature returned feeling to his hands, causing his fingers to throb. Exhausted, he hid in the cavity of a rotted log and hoped the soldiers would pass him by. He struggled to control his breathing, expecting at any moment the thud of German boots. Instead, he heard rippling water. Bidasoa River, he thought, recalling Lucien’s map. Sensing the divide between France and Spain was within reach, a decision ravaged his gut. His head told him to stay hidden. But a deep-seated desire to return home caused him to crawl from his hiding spot.
A shot rang out. The branch near his head splintered. His heart rate soared. He turned. Fifty yards away were the Wehrmacht soldiers, one kneeling with his pointed rifle, the other with a machine gun propped on his hip. Ollie dove behind a tree. Bullets sprayed the forest.
He struggled to run. His ankle throbbed. As he staggered through the pines, more shots rang out. A sharp pain stung his arm, his sleeve turning warm and sticky. He barreled through thornbushes. Needles scratched his face. He pressed on, drawn by the crescendo of gushing water. The soldiers closed in. He reached the river and stopped.
The water raged, brown and thick with debris. The heavy rains had caused the river to overflow its banks. He scanned the area. No bridge. No place to hide. He stared into the muddy abyss. Blood dripped from his fingers.
A branch snapped. “Dort!”
Ollie saw the soldiers emerge from the pines. Brows lowered. Faces scowled. They raised their weapons. With no other choice, he jumped.
The icy water shocked him. He surfaced and sucked in air, taking in a mouthful of silty muck. He choked. Shots rang out. Bullets split the air near his head. He dove under and kicked his legs. The force of the current twisted his limbs. He struggled to swim, his soaked coat like a lead blanket. His chest heaved, recycling used air in his lungs. As he was forced to surface, more shots exploded. He gulped air and went under.
As he came up again, he saw a soldier running along the shoreline with his machine gun raised. Ollie sank. The German squeezed off his ammunition. Bullets rippled the water.
He kicked harder, attempting to propel himself farther into the river. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he surfaced and saw the soldier shove another clip into his weapon. Too exhausted to dive under again, he watched the riverbank rush by, a blur of mud and brush. The soldier sprinted and pointed his weapon, and the current swept Ollie around a bend.
He heard the soldier shout, then fire his weapon into the air. The water gushed. As the river took him out of range of the Wehrmacht, he labored to swim. His body, overrun with fatigue and cold, weakened with each stroke. He made it to the middle of the Bidasoa and wrapped an arm around a floating log.
His teeth chattered uncontrollably; his frigid joints were like seized pistons. He strained to keep his head afloat. The chances of crossing the Bidasoa, let alone making it home, dwindled with each breath. Before hyperthermia stole what remained of his body’s warmth, he managed to slip his hand inside his coat. With numb and broken fingers, he found the pocket. Amid his pain and regret, one vision held steady. Susan. His eyelids grew heavy. And the river swept him away.
CHAPTER 53
EPPING, ENGLAND
Grit blurred Susan’s vision; her tear ducts were clogged with soot. The weight of bricks pressed on her torso. She labored to inhale, taking in thick dust mixed with the sour scent of cordite.
“Grandfather,” she said, coughing, her voice muted from the high-pitched ringing in her ears.
She struggled to push debris from her body, then rolled onto her knees. Her ribs ached, as if she had been struck with a club. Large bumps protruded from her scalp. From the strong copper taste in her mouth, she sensed that her tongue was bleeding or that her nose had been broken. Using the lining of her coat, she wiped dirt from her eyes. Her vision slowly returned. As her head began to clear, she realized that the force of the explosion had hurled her into the bomb shelter. The ceiling, partially collapsed, exposed billows of smoke rising toward evening stars. Beyond the shelter door, which was hanging askew on twisted hinges, she saw an amber flicker.
She crawled to the doorway. The first thing she noticed was the festering crater. A huge hole, the size of a pond, had replaced what used to be a dense thicket.
“No!” Using the doorknob as a brace, she struggled to stand, then stepped outside, dreading what she was about to see.
Where the cottage once stood was now a smoldering pit. Bestrewed flames, a mixture of explosive residue and shredded timbers, surrounded the hole. The chimney was toppled, like stones of a broken cairn.
“Grandfather!” She limped, her left foot missing its shoe. A nail from a broken board punctured her heel, and she fell. Ignoring the pain
shooting up her calf, she kicked away the board, wrenching the nail from her foot, then crawled over scorched grass. She prayed, her hands pressed against the hot soil, that he had been blown clear of the blast.
She reached the hole, a deep cone in the earth. Below, mounds of charred wood. A broken chair leg. And what used to be the stove, its door ripped from the hinges.
“No!” Susan screamed, her vocal cords about to rupture. She dropped into the hole and dug through rubble. Jagged splinters ripped skin from her hands. Dirt clung to her bloodied heel. She dredged debris, crying his name, again and again.
She found him under what used to be a dresser. Prying off the broken furniture, she fell to her knees and caressed his cheeks. Carefully, she wiped dirt from the crevices of his eyelids.
“Wake up,” she sobbed. She dug out his limp legs, buried in a mixture of stone, plaster, and broken wood. “Wake!”
The distinct sound of a fire-engine bell approached but was turned away by the roar of another air-raid siren. She lowered her head to Bertie’s still chest and wailed.
CHAPTER 54
EPPING, ENGLAND—MARCH 21, 1941
Spring rain dripped onto the earthen floor. Susan looked up at the tarp covering a large hole in the roof of the bomb shelter and noticed a corner was loose. She retrieved a spool of string from under her cot and cut off a strip, using a rusted paring knife that had been salvaged from the rubble. She stepped outside. The string wriggled in the wet wind. As she began to secure the tarp, she glanced at the spot that was once her lovely cottage.
The debris had been removed, and the hole filled in, now distinctly marked by newly sprouted grass—thin, wispy, and two shades lighter than the rest of the yard. Although the flower beds had been either destroyed in the blast or trampled by village volunteers during a hasty demolition, sparse patches of resurrected crocuses and daffodils now decorated the lawn. Scarring the grounds was a pile of stone and lumber that had been placed next to the loo.
It had been some months since Bertie’s funeral and over six months since the Luftwaffe began their aerial raids, which continued almost nightly. The passing of time had done little to ease her pain. And solitude, she believed, only exacerbated her regret, the horror of that dreadful night seared deep within her soul.