by Anna Schmidt
© 2014 by Anna Schmidt
Print ISBN 978-1-62029-141-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62836-978-6
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62836-979-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part 3
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special gratitude and appreciation to those who lived through events similar to those described in this novel and to the historians who tell those stories so that they may never be forgotten.
Thanks once again—as with book 1, All God’s Children—go to Denise Heap and Jessica Slavin, who read the manuscript in progress, keeping me on track as they reviewed historical facts and made suggestions to enrich the story.
Thanks also to my editors—Rebecca Germany, Annie Tipton, and Becky Durost Fish—for the opportunity to tell Anja and Peter’s story and for the love with which they brought those stories to publication.
Thanks always to Natasha Kern—my friend, mentor, and agent—who believes in me when I sometimes fail to believe in myself.
And finally, every book I have ever written owes its inspiration to come to light to my beloved husband. As he held me in the Light throughout the life we shared together, so I hold him in the Light as I travel on without him.
Dear Reader,
In book 1 of the Peacemakers series, All God’s Children, the story evolved against a backdrop of true historical facts that included the remarkable story of a small group of German medical students who banded together in what came to be known as the White Rose to speak out against Hitler and the Nazis. In time the hero and heroine of that novel—Josef and Beth—along with their friend Anja were imprisoned in the Nazi death camp Sobibor in eastern Poland. The events of their escape from that horrid place are also based on fact.
The journey that our characters—including Anja and Josef and Beth—take in the following pages is also set against a background of historical fact. Amazingly, during World War II there were several so-called escape lines managed by the brave local citizens of countries occupied by the Nazis. Like those who worked on the American Underground Railroad, these individuals—at considerable risk to their own lives and safety—provided false papers, safe houses, food, shelter, and clothing to move Allied airmen from the site of their downed planes behind enemy lines across much of Europe until they could reach Gibraltar—a British territory—and move from there back to England. They traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles by train, bicycle, or on foot, and perhaps the most amazing piece of this story is that the best known of these escape lines—the Comet Line—was created and managed by a young woman.
I have long been fascinated with the courage of ordinary people in extraordinary times, and I hope that Anja’s story will inspire you as well. I do hope you will write to me via my website (www.booksbyanna.com) or to PO Box 161, Thiensville, WI 53092—I so enjoy hearing from my readers.
All the best,
Anna
PART 1
BELGIUM
NOVEMBER 1943
Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully,
Lest you forget the things your eyes saw,
And lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life,
And you shall make them known to your children,
And to your children’s children.
—DEUTERONOMY 4:9,
INSCRIBED IN THE HALL OF REMEMBRANCE
AT THE US HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM
CHAPTER 1
If you land at night and are not badly injured, count your blessings.”
Second Lieutenant Peter Trent could not fathom why he was muttering the opening lines of the guide for avoiding capture provided to British flight crews. He was American after all and had certainly received similar training. But he had spent the better part of the previous evening in a pub with Tommy Johnstone, a gunner with the Royal Air Force. He and Tommy had a lot in common. They were the same rank. They were the same age—twenty-seven—older than most of the rest of the guys on their crews. They were both facing their first mission over enemy territory. Tommy’s flight was scheduled to go out at night, but generally Americans did not bomb by night. When Tommy heard this, he began quoting the guidebook.
Pay attention to what I say, Petey, because you are going to have to be one lucky bloke not to get shot down flying in broad daylight, he had warned. Peter had laughed off Tommy’s dire prediction and wished him well as they both headed off to get some sleep. On the other hand, maybe he should have paid closer attention, for at the moment he was free-falling through the air on a collision course with a fallow field below and wishing he could remember more details of Tommy’s refresher course in survival tactics. He was all too aware that the force of his landing even after he activated his chute would be a little like jumping out a second-story window. Add to that the fact that he was pretty sure one of the Nazi bullets had hit his leg, and there was little doubt that this was going to be painful.
When the pilot, Captain Jack Walker, had ordered the crew to abandon the plane after it filled with smoke, Peter had waited his turn and then leaped out just as he had practiced the move dozens of times. But, the force of the leap flipped him onto his back. Now he was straining to look over his shoulder in order to judge how fast he was falling and when to pull the parachute’s rip cord. He and the rest of the crew had successfully dropped their load over Frankfurt and were on their way back to base when they’d been hit from below by antiaircraft artillery. Unfortunately, a photoflash bomb used so that planes engaged in night photography reconnaissance need not be limited to low altitude was still on board. Why they had had the thing on a daylight mission was a mystery to Peter. But the photoflash bomb had been the source of the fire that they’d used every available extinguisher on board to try and control.
They had failed. Under the best of circumstances, these flash bombs required extreme caution when handled. They were so sensitive that the change in temperature could set them off. In the case of antiaircraft fire pelting the plane, the bomb going off and starting the fire that swept through the bay was a sure thing. Matters were only made worse when the gunner Haversole—a wet-behind-the-ears kid determined to be a he
ro—decided to open the bomb doors in hopes of pushing the thing out. The rush of air served as fuel for the fire, and before they knew what was happening, acrid smoke had filled the cabin. More ground fire targeted the plane, and this time the bullets had found their mark—killing Haversole and at least grazing Peter’s leg. The crew had tried everything to contain the damage, but finally the pilot had given the order to bail out.
Because it was still light—the sun just setting beyond a line of trees—Peter knew that although his fingers were itching to pull the cord, he had to wait until the very last moment to do so or risk being spotted by German ground forces. Given what he knew of their flight plan, he judged he was somewhere over Belgium, but that country—like most of Western Europe—was occupied by the Nazis. Of course there were other dangers as well—power lines, trees where his chute might get entangled and leave him dangling like a sitting duck for a Kraut with a rifle. He forced himself to focus on the positive and mentally schooled himself in the actions he would need to take once he made it down safely. Get rid of the chute and start moving—fast.
His head felt as if it were on a swivel as he looked wildly around and below him. Off to his left and several yards below was Simpson, the plane’s navigator. He, too, was no more than a kid—a scared kid—and Peter could see that he’d panicked and opened his parachute too soon. He was headed for a cluster of trees.
An explosion to his right drew Peter’s attention to the west where he saw the plane already in flames hit the frozen ground hard and then erupt in a fireball. He knew there was no way Walker would have abandoned the plane even once the rest of the crew bailed out. He would have done everything possible to put distance between his crew and the wreckage, knowing the Germans would go first to the wreckage to search for survivors.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and sent up a prayer for mercy for Walker and the others then forced his attention back to the issue at hand—his own safe landing. Turning his head to the right, he strained to look over his shoulder and saw a road and some power lines. If he hit the power lines, he could be killed instantly. The hard earth was racing up to meet him. He twisted his face to one side, closed his eyes, and pulled the rip cord, feeling the power of the released parachute as the force of it rushed past his face and it ballooned above him, slowing his descent with a jolt of the harness and flipping him so that he was now facing the ground. Not thirty seconds later he landed—hard—with his wounded leg twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him. Grimacing against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him, he fumbled to unfasten the harness and shrug free of it, all the while pulling the still-billowing silk of the parachute to him and wadding it into a tight ball as quickly as possible. He also shrugged out of his flight suit and stowed it with his headgear in the wad of the parachute.
He performed these actions automatically as he studied his surroundings. The sun was low in the sky, partially obliterated by a line of gray clouds that threatened snow. He was grateful for the realization that in a matter of minutes what sun there was would slip below the horizon and dusk would cover his movements. He needed to wait for full darkness.
The field had been plowed, but the ground was frozen solid and rock hard. A haystack stood maybe ten yards from him. Clutching the balled-up chute in one arm and using the other as a kind of crutch, he dragged himself inch by painful inch toward the haystack. Along the way he paused often, taking time to check to be sure that the frozen ground showed no signs of his journey. By the time he reached his destination, he was sweating profusely in spite of the temperature that had to be below freezing. And he was pretty sure he had lost a good amount of blood.
The sun was gone, leaving him very little time to get his bearings before he was enveloped in total darkness. He opened his escape kit, or “evasion purse,” as it was called. It contained maps for the areas the crew would fly over as well as a little money, although given that he wasn’t sure where he was, it was difficult to know if the money would do him any good.
Of more importance were the photographs of him taken in civilian garb that could be used to create false identity papers. There were also cards printed in various languages that read, “I am an American, and misfortune forces me to seek your assistance.” These could be used to communicate with locals and offered a reward to anyone who provided such assistance. Finally, every kit was stocked with Benzedrine tablets to give the downed airman the energy he would need to focus on his escape. Peter popped a couple of these tablets into his mouth and then set to work. He figured he had as little as ten minutes or—if luck was with him—perhaps as much as twenty before the Germans would start heading his way. With both hands, he gouged out a section of the hay and stuffed the parachute inside. He also abandoned his helmet and goggles and considered continuing to hollow out the hay so that he, too, could hide inside but soon realized the effort was pointless. The haystack was frozen stiff, and his hands already felt raw and frozen in spite of his gloves. It was all he could manage to carve out a space deep enough to stuff the parachute and other items.
Gasping the way he had in basic training after running drills with a thirty-pound pack on his back, he leaned against the haystack and considered his next move. His head spun with the instructions he’d received in training—stick to low-lying areas; stay near the edge of a forest or wall or hedge because it’s harder to see movement when background is dark. Remove wristwatch—a dead giveaway that he was not European.
He unfastened the leather strap of the watch his dad had given him the day he shipped out—his grandfather’s watch. Unzipping his flight suit, he stuffed it in one of his shirt pockets and buttoned the flap. Behind him was the road he’d spotted during his fall. A car passed, then a row of trucks, military by the shape and size of them and definitely not friendly. The trees where Simpson had landed were to his right, the telltale white of the parachute flapping in the wind, which was beginning to pick up. No sign of Simpson, but at the moment Peter couldn’t worry about that. All he could do was hope the kid had the good sense to unhook his harness and separate himself from the chute even though that would mean free-falling several feet.
For Simpson and the rest—as well as for him—the race was on. Who would reach them first? Friendly locals or the Germans? Locals were less likely. The punishment for aiding the enemy—in this case, Peter—was death. He couldn’t take a chance that some farmer or villager was willing to risk that. He needed to find someplace to hide. Even with the moon fighting with clouds to shine its light, Peter knew that a parachute in the trees would be as good as a flare and bring the Nazis to investigate. If Simpson wasn’t already free of the contraption—or dead—the Germans would surely finish the job and then start looking for other survivors.
In the distance another convoy of trucks passed. They were moving fast and headed in the direction of the downed plane. Once they realized the crew had jumped, it wouldn’t be long until they fanned out in a search. Instinctively, Peter tried pulling his knees close to his body to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. But the action sent a shot of pain down his leg so powerful that he had to bite his dog tags to keep from crying out.
Dog tags—keep them safe. If he was captured wearing them, the Germans would supposedly deal with him according to international rules regarding the treatment of captured enemy personnel. Without them he could be labeled a spy or traitor and tortured or worse.
He wondered if on top of the gunshot wound he had broken his leg in the fall. If so, then what? Across the field he saw a ring of light and knew that the trucks had circled the downed wreckage and turned their headlights on to make it easier to assess the situation. Sooner or later …
Ice cracked close by. Too close. He recalled puddles that had formed in the ruts and furrows of the field—puddles covered with a thin coating of ice. Puddles he had deliberately avoided so that they didn’t break and form a trail right to him.
Peter cast about for something he might use as a weapon. His fingers closed around a rock the siz
e of a baseball. Back home he’d played first base, and he had a good arm.
“Mister?” The whisper came from his left. He hefted the rock and turned to face a boy of no more than eight or ten. “Can you walk?” The kid was down on all fours inching his way around the haystack. The fact that he spoke at least some English albeit with a heavy accent of some sort put Peter on guard. Could be a trick to gain his trust.
He wasn’t about to admit that he not only couldn’t walk but wasn’t sure if he could move at all. The leg was stiffening up, and he was in a lot of pain and starting to fear that he might actually black out. He clenched the rock a little tighter as the kid closed in on him, glancing over his shoulder toward the ring of trucks around the wreckage of the plane. The boy pointed toward a thicket of shrubs. “We’ll get you over there, and I’ll go for help,” he said more to himself than to Peter. “Mama will know what to do.” He pronounced Mama with the accent on the second syllable. “Come on,” he instructed as he started to crawl toward the shrubs. When he realized that Peter was not following him, he paused then stood up. “Okay, I’ll drag you.”
The idea would have made Peter smile under any other circumstances. The kid was skinny, almost frail-looking. There was no way he was going to drag Peter’s six-foot-two, 185-pound frame to safety.
“Go for help,” Peter said, his voice husky from both the smoke in the plane and now the cold. He fumbled with the first-aid kit that was standard issue as part of his gear. Inside was a syringe with morphine. This seemed as good a time as any to use it.
The kid stood up and came back to him, watching him as he gave himself the pain medication. “You can’t stay here, mister.” Without warning, he stepped behind Peter and thrust both his arms under Peter’s armpits. “Use your good leg to push,” he grunted as he tugged on Peter’s upper body.
“Let go,” Peter whispered. “I can do this.” He jammed the syringe into the haystack so it wouldn’t be discovered; then he used the roll of bandages to fashion a tourniquet. Next he braced his palms flat behind him. Pushing off with his good foot, he scooted along the frozen field as the boy hovered nearby to show the way and apparently play cheerleader.