The Bomber Boys

by Travis L. Ayres

  His second night in Germany was much like his first. Peter walked all night. At least his clothes were mostly dry now. The weather was chilly again. During the night he came upon another small village, similar to the first. Taking to the fields, he walked around the village, rejoining the road on the other side.

  Early the next morning Peter began to scout the fields for another haystack. None was to be found, but he did spot a small clump of trees in the middle of a field. Peter guessed he could sleep the day away there without being discovered. He was mistaken.

  That afternoon two men walked into the woods. Peter got to his feet and sized up the strangers. They looked to be farmers. Neither of them spoke or made an aggressive movement even though they saw him. Peter used his right arm to shield his hunting knife from their view and with his left hand he made a circular movement over his stomach.

  “Glodny,” he said, using the Polish word for hungry. Peter remembered a little of the language he had learned at his Ukrainian grandmother’s knee.

  There was no response. The men looked at one another, then walked away without ever saying a word. Peter watched them leave and resigned himself to capture. German farmers would certainly report such a discovery to the military. He was too exhausted to run, and he would not get far in the daytime wearing his uniform. He sat down and waited.

  Half an hour later, Peter spotted two men approaching his clump of trees. It was the same two villagers. They walked up to him, handed him a small flask and walked away, again without speaking. Peter unscrewed the flask’s cap and smelled the contents. It was a sweet alcohol aroma. A short sip revealed it was a rich, smooth whiskey. He wondered about the two men and finally came to the conclusion that they were Polish forced-labor workers. He nursed the whiskey through the rest of the day, napping between drinks.

  By his third night in Germany, Peter was having severe hunger pains. He consumed the rest of the chocolate bar as he walked, but when it was gone he felt no relief. Foraging in a farmer’s field, he dug up what appeared to be some kind of turnip. As hungry as he was, Peter could not stand its bitter taste and had to spit it out. Back on the road, he continued west.

  On night number four the young airman’s pace slowed as both hunger and thirst began to take their toll. When he came upon a creek, Peter decided to risk getting sick. He just could not go on without water. Filling a rubber pouch from the escape kit, he dropped in a purification tablet and took a deep drink. The water’s taste was awful and he could not keep it down. Several minutes of heaving left him even weaker. Vowing not to try that again, he made up his mind to find some fresh water, even if he had to risk being seen. His opportunity came later that evening.

  Railroad tracks crossed the road, their twin ribbons glowing beneath a bright moon. Peter checked his compass. The tracks ran to the southwest. Up ahead, beyond the tracks, was a crossroads with a single house. A little light was coming from downstairs. He could follow the railroad tracks and avoid the house, but that would not satisfy his thirst. So he kept walking toward the crossroads.

  In front of the house there was a hand-cranked water pump. Peter could not resist it. As carefully as he could, he brought the pump handle up and then down. A rusty squeal broke the quietness of the night. He knew it would take two or three pumps of the handle before any water would flow, so he tried again. Again the pump refused to be quiet but a small trickle of water appeared.

  Peter was just getting set to give the handle a third try, the one he was sure would send water gushing out of the pipe, when the front door of the house swung open. Light silhouetted a figure in the doorway. It was a woman. She was wearing a military overseas cap. Peter could see its German eagle emblem clearly in the moonlight. She said something to him in German.

  “Woda,” Peter replied in Polish.

  She did not answer.

  “Français?” Peter tried.

  Again the woman spoke words in German; then she retreated inside the house, closing the door behind her. Peter abandoned the pump and hurried down the road. The woman was either a member of some kind of military unit or the cap belonged to her husband, brother or some other family member. Peter had no way of knowing if anyone else was in the house. Even if the woman was alone, he had to assume she would be spreading the alarm.

  About a mile away from the house, he abandoned the road and cut across a field. He walked until he came to the railroad tracks and followed them southwest. Near daybreak he slipped inside a railroad culvert and was soon asleep.

  He was awakened later by the sound of children’s voices. It was a pleasant sound. German or American, the sound of children at play is a sweet thing, he thought. Peter smiled and began to drift back into sleep. When the children’s voices grew closer, he sat up and began to listen intently. These kids were having fun at some sort of game, but there was something else going on. They were searching for something. Teenage male voices shouted above the younger ones. It struck Peter with a chill.

  They’re looking for me!

  For more than an hour, the children searched the surrounding fields and woods, but none of them ever approached the culvert. The young Germans left as they had come, their happy voices trailing into the distance. Peter surmised the woman at the crossroads house had reported their encounter. Luckily there apparently had been no soldiers in the area to search for him. Peter fell back to sleep, grateful he had not seen any enemy soldiers since his narrow escape on the first day. The downed aviator’s luck was about to change.

  As darkness fell, Peter crawled out of the railroad culvert and resumed his journey west. His hunger and thirst stalked along the tracks with him, and he tried to put them both out of his mind. Focusing on keeping a slow but steady pace helped a little. Keep moving. Get out of Germany. Get to France. Still, the question kept intruding on his resolve—Can I do any of these things if I can’t find something to eat?

  Late that evening, the American airman followed the railroad tracks into a darkened train yard. Any hope of finding a boxcar full of rations was quickly dispelled. Peter had walked into the middle of an impressive display of German military hardware. Flatbed cars on each side of him were loaded with deadly cargo—artillery, tanks and other armored vehicles.

  Peter’s first thought was how he could destroy at least some of the enemy’s war materials. What Kauffman and the boys would have given to get this juicy target beneath their aircraft—but what could he do? His only weapon was his hunting knife and he had absolutely no training in espionage. In fact, Eighth Air Force briefings had instructed airmen who found themselves behind enemy lines not to do anything but try to escape. “Do not try any espionage. Do not do anything you are not supposed to do. Avoid capture—that is your job.” The instructions had been firm.

  Hearing the conversation of guards nearby, Peter realized if he stayed in the train yard too long, he would surely be captured. Such a stockpile of military equipment would require a substantial number of soldiers close by. Reluctantly, he walked quietly out of the train yard. He was far away before the first hints of sunrise.

  Before it grew dangerously light, Peter spotted a haystack that he hoped might provide a bed for the day. Once he had climbed to the top, he was happy to discover it was pleasantly soft and dry. He covered himself with loose straw in preparation for much-needed sleep.

  Forcing himself to stay awake for a few extra minutes, Peter opened the small black prayer book that he always carried. With a stub of a pencil he made a mark on one of the pages. Altogether there were now six marks, one for each day he had been on the ground in Germany. Six days, he thought. How far have I gone? How much farther to France? He could not know.

  Day six provided Peter the best sleep he had gotten since leaving England. He woke in the late afternoon, still hungry and thirsty but noticeably more rested. His mood was improving. If he was not close to France, he was getting closer each day. Maybe this night he would finally find food. He took out his map and compass to plan the evening’s journey.

 
Perhaps it was the effects of his ordeal—a man could get jittery from not eating for days—or perhaps he just got careless, but Peter let the little compass slip out of his fingers. He grabbed to save it, but the little compass tumbled down into the hay and disappeared. Peter had been scared when he had parachuted into the farmer’s field, and as he hid behind the tree, eluding the man with the shotgun and the German soldiers, and during his encounter at the water pump, but the thought of losing the compass brought him to near panic. Without the compass, he could wander the German countryside for days on end. His empty stomach was a reminder that he did not have days to spare.

  Praying the compass had not fallen too deeply into the straw, Peter gently began digging. He forced himself to remain calm and go slowly. As he concentrated on retrieving the compass he heard someone speaking German. Looking up, he spotted two German soldiers walking across the field and heading right for his haystack. Peter flattened himself on top of the straw. He thought of pushing himself backward to the opposite side of the haystack but he remembered the compass. Any additional movement could send it farther down into oblivion. Peter lay as still and quiet as he could.

  The soldiers continued toward the haystack, but Peter could tell from the manner they carried their rifles, slung casually on their shoulders, that they had not spotted him. Soon they were close enough that he could see their faces. They were young, about his age, he guessed. One took a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket and offered one to his friend, who produced a book of matches. As they walked the last few feet to the base of the haystack, the two soldiers disappeared from Peter’s line of sight. However, he could still hear their conversation, their friendly laughter and he could smell the aroma of their cigarettes.

  Many thoughts raced through Peter’s head—none of them good. What if I sneeze? What if the soldiers accidentally set the haystack on fire? What if they hang around until after dark? How will I ever find the compass then? And in fact, the soldiers were in no hurry to leave. They enjoyed their break for more than an hour. By the time they picked up their rifles and wandered across the field, it was dusk.

  Peter watched the two Germans until they were out of sight, and only then did he begin to look for the compass again. It was hopeless. There was just not enough light. Peter decided to wait until nightfall, another half hour or so, before moving on. The moon rose slowly above the horizon, and its soft blue hue fell across the German countryside.

  Thinking a short prayer might help a lost soul without a compass find his way, Peter took a few moments before beginning his night’s journey. As he finished the prayer, something beneath the straw caught his eye. A soft spot of greenish light beckoned Peter to the place where the compass was resting. A random ray of moonlight had connected with the tiny dot that indicated south on the compass dial.

  His heart pounding, the young airman carefully retrieved his most important possession and placed it safely inside his pants pocket. Once on the ground, Peter took the compass out again, gave it a glance and once again he headed west.

  Peter stuck to his established routine and walked all night. Just before sunrise, he began to scout around for a potential hiding place. An old barn near the road seemed to be a good choice. It crossed his mind that he might even find a potato or an ear of feed corn inside, but a search of the barn produced nothing edible. He settled for a soft bed of hay in the loft. He fell asleep, thinking the barn was the best shelter he had yet found, but his rest was interrupted in the early afternoon.

  Peter was awakened by the sound of someone climbing up the ladder to the loft. The man who ultimately appeared was the biggest human he had ever seen. The giant held a horse collar in his right hand like it was a weapon.

  “American!” Peter blurted out. When the man did not strike him, Peter continued, “Glodny. Glodny.”

  The stranger smiled and spoke to him in Polish. Neither man was a master of the Polish tongue, but they communicated well enough for one to express his situation and for the other to indicate his willingness to help. After a short time, the man left, but he soon returned with an armload of apples. It was the closest thing to a real meal Peter had had in a week. He ate until he was past full.

  That evening, the big man returned to guide the American to an undisclosed destination. The stranger led Peter along forest trails, avoiding the main roads. Finally, he indicated that Peter should get down on his hands and knees, and from there on the two continued in that fashion, sometimes dropping to their stomachs. Every once in a while, when voices could be heard nearby, a huge hand would grab the back of Peter’s neck and shove him facedown into the ground. After the two men had crawled underneath a barbed-wire fence, the man motioned for Peter to get to his feet.

  His guardian angel pointed to a road and gestured in the direction Peter should take. Then he shook Peter’s hand, smiled and turned to leave.

  “Nazwa?” Peter asked.

  “Walter,” was the answer.

  Peter started to ask him for his last name. If he made it back to the States alive, it would be nice to know the name of someone who had risked his life to help. For that very reason, Peter stopped himself. If I’m captured, it will be better for Walter if I don’t know who he is.

  “Thank you, Walter,” he said. The big man smiled again and said something in Polish. Peter did not understand, but he took it to mean, “Goodbye” or “Good luck.” Then Walter was gone.

  Peter walked to the road and started hiking in the direction Walter had advised. In less than a mile, he came upon a road sign. He could not read what it said, but the color and shape were different from the signs he had encountered during the past week. It was at that moment that Peter knew for certain he had reached France.

  As he walked deeper into France that night, Peter rethought his plans. He knew he was still in great danger of being captured. This was France, but it was the occupied part of the country. Running into German soldiers was a certainty. If he continued to travel only at night, he would also continue to go hungry, and there would be no opportunity to connect with anyone in the resistance movement. No, he would have to take some chances. Somehow he would get some civilian clothes and try to blend in. He would have to trust someone. It was risky, but it was the only way.

  On the following day, the airman had his first encounter with a French civilian. The man was a farmer who came out to work in his field near where Peter had once again found a haystack in which to sleep. Smaller than Peter, the farmer posed little physical threat to him. Still, Peter approached him cautiously.

  “Français?” Peter asked, trying to appear as nonmenacing as possible.

  At first, a frightened expression crossed the farmer’s face, but then he answered, “Oui. Oui.”

  “American aviator,” Peter said in English, pointing a finger to his chest.

  “Oh yes. Oui!” The farmer dropped his rake and threw his arms around Peter.

  “Faim. Faim,” Peter said, using the French word for hunger, one of the few he knew. His new friend motioned for him to follow, and soon the two men were walking through a small village. In his olive drab clothes, the young airman might as well have been carrying a large sign promoting his identity. He was just about to try to communicate his concern when the farmer began to shout enthusiastically, “Hey look, American! American!”

  Peter quickly clamped his hand over the farmer’s mouth. With no additional incidents, they made it to the man’s house, where he fed Peter well and gave him an old suit to wear. It was a faded shade of black and the pants were too short, but Peter accepted it gratefully.

  To cover up his army shirt and sweater, Peter ripped the colorful lining from the suit jacket and used it to form a make-shift ascot. The farmer donated a beret that fit nicely. When he resumed his journey, Peter Seniawsky looked very much like a poor French civilian. Now as he walked through the village no one seemed to give him a second look. Peter began to feel a little better about his chances. He reasoned that if a German soldier walked though Times S
quare in New York City while in civilian clothes, who would know? Nobody, as long as he did not speak.

  Back on the road, Peter soon fell in with a talkative Frenchman with a suitcase. Peter responded with nods and an occasional, “Oui,” when it seemed appropriate. The man did not seem to mind carrying the conversation once Peter offered to carry the suitcase. Before long, the man had hitched them a ride on a passing truck. It carried them all the way to the city of Nancy.

  Peter discovered Nancy was large and beautiful. Planned in the mid-eighteenth century to serve as the capital of the Lorraine region of France, Nancy had grown and prospered along the Meurthe River. As Peter walked through the magnificent Place Stanislas city square, he began to feel a little like a tourist. In fact, the square, with its surrounding ornate gates and fences, had been the destination of thousands of tourists before the war.

  Peter’s sightseeing was interrupted when the Frenchman pulled the suitcase from his hand. The man waved goodbye and began to walk away. Peter grabbed him and whispered, “American aviator.” The Frenchman’s eyes grew large with fear, and he broke loose and started to flee. Peter was able to grab him again, and this time he was more demanding: “American aviator . . . hungry!”

  Evidently, the man decided there might be more danger in ignoring the desperate American than in risking being caught aiding him. He motioned for Peter to follow. Peter did so without ever letting go of the man’s arm. Guiding him to a small café, the Frenchman said a few words to a young waiter and then left quickly. The waiter led his shabbily dressed customer to a table near the back of the restaurant.

  As the waiter walked away, a feeling of isolation swept over Peter. He had no way of knowing whom he could trust. The stranger with the suitcase had been very afraid of being around him. Would he contact the German authorities? Even the young waiter might be betraying his identity, because at that very moment, he was talking in hushed tones to three men in their thirties or forties seated at a nearby table.