The crew chief stuck his head into the plane. “Where’s Lieutenant Pike and his men?”
“They got the heebie jeebies and are now guests of Der Führer, dining on sauerkraut tonight if they’re dining at all.” Dan bowed. “And we’re slap happy.”
“You don’t say.” Steve Coolidge frowned at his men. “I’m thinking either oxygen deprivation or smuggled whiskey.”
“Oh, no, sir.” Dan stood ramrod straight and saluted. “We survived our first mission. We brought back the plane, and these guys,” he waved a hand at the mechanics, “will have it flight-ready in no time. We’re alive and free and over the moon. Isn’t that what the Brits like to say? Say, do you have anything to drink? I sure am thirsty.”
“You’re wanted in interrogation and they’ll have something for you. Pile into the jeep and we’ll take you there.”
Steve appeared unsure if he should be concerned or amused. He grabbed Rafe’s arm when he swayed on his feet. Dan was right. They were alive and free. Free of the Führer and his goons. The adrenaline drained away and Rafe might have collapsed into a boneless heap if Steve wasn’t marching him to the jeep. Given half a chance, he’d sleep around the clock.
The debriefing officer had trouble understanding why the veteran airmen bailed out and not the rookies.
“The Jumping Jitteries,” Rafe mumbled.
“Yeah, and we’re the Reckless Rookies.” Dan planted his palms flat on the table, fingers splayed. “We didn’t know any better. Except for one minute there when the tail jerked up and down like a yo-yo, everything seemed normal. I saw a couple parachutes but didn’t think they should be from us.”
Cal slouched in his seat, looking ready to fall asleep, mirroring Rafe’s exhaustion. Cal looked at him as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?” Rafe grinned. Dan seemed to relish doing all the talking.
Finally, the debriefing officer stood but Rafe stayed seated. The man told Steve to take care of them. The words didn’t register until someone grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. Next thing he knew, Alan steered him to his cot in their hut. His eyelids crashed down and refused to rise again. Before sleep descended, he needed to make one thing clear. “Nothing reckless about it. I will not set foot in Germany until those Nazi goons are defeated. I’ll die first.”
“Sure you will. Want me to wake you for chow?”
#
Barely an hour had passed when Rafe woke. Cal still slept, but no one else was in the hut. He wandered outside. To find a bit of normalcy, he grabbed the bicycle he’d bought from an airman heading home and pedaled to the nearby village of Ridgewell.
He’d flown a combat mission against his homeland. Of course, he’d been little more than a passenger since they hadn’t left the formation and the navigator in the lead plane had done all the work. But still, he had done it. He was at war with Germany. And he had no remorse, no guilt, no urge for revenge. He was only doing a job that needed to be done.
Cottages with thatched roofs nestled around an ancient church with blackened walls. He coasted past three young children playing in a yard with several kittens. When they spotted him, a boy called out an English child’s standard greeting to Americans, “Got some gum, chum?”
Rafe shook his head and paused. “Sorry.”
He hadn’t acquired the American habit of chewing a wad of gum.
“Would you like to hold a kitten, mister?” A girl with unkempt dull brown hair, about seven years old, approached with two kittens clinging to her.
He pried loose one of them, holding it in the palm of his hand and stroking the soft calico fur. The tiny creature mewed.
“My name’s Brenda Jane Prescott. What’s yours?”
He had to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m Rafe.”
“Would you like that kitten? We have to find homes for them.”
“I live on the air base. That isn’t a safe place for this little furball.”
Brenda nodded seriously. “You can come back and play with ours. We get to keep one.”
Instead of seeing Brenda, Rafe saw Marta Goldman’s frightened face. Was she able to enjoy carefree play with a litter of kittens? Had the Goldmans escaped? If she still lived, she must be twelve years old now. He handed back the kitten to Brenda Jane Prescott before tears welled in his eyes.
He rode back to base, concentrating on the seven men whose lives had suddenly lost all normalcy when they bailed out of Jumping Jiminy. Instead, they were experiencing their grim new world as prisoners of war, if they survived their jumps. And their bailing out had been a huge mistake. Such was the fickleness of war.
The war was no longer somewhere over there. He stood in the midst of it.
Stockholm, Sweden
Monday, March 27, 1944
The Lindquists resided in an apartment in Södermalm, an island comprising the southern part of Stockholm. Narrow brick walkways flanked narrow cobble-stone streets. Buildings in golden hues rose immediately on the opposite side of the street. No yards were in sight.
Leaving the apartment with Dad for her first day at the legation, Jennie walked in the street empty of motor vehicles but filled with bicyclists. Ground floor windows offered inquisitive passersby full disclosure of the inhabitants’ lives. Thank goodness, their apartment occupied the third floor of their building. Only the neighbors twenty feet across the street could observe them.
“We’ll take the train into the heart of the city, and walk the rest of the way. That way you can get a general feel for where things are. Stockholm consists of lots of islands and lots of bridges.” Dad set a brisk pace and Jennie scurried to keep up. His words kept time with his stride.
“When you’re out in public, be cautious. Sweden’s neutrality makes it a magnet for all kinds of unscrupulous characters from all over. The Allies spy on the Germans and the Germans spy on us. In restaurants or department stores, someone may try to engage you in conversation or get close enough to eavesdrop if you’re talking with someone else. He, or she, could be a German spy, even if you know the person to be Swedish. Swedish waitresses especially are suspect. When we get to the legation, you’ll see the penetration reports you’ll need to fill out on anyone with whom you come in contact.”
Jennie’s eyes widened and she glanced around. The tight-spaced buildings and narrow streets hemmed her in. A man walked toward them, hands in pockets, eyeing them. “Anyone?”
“If you exchange pleasantries with someone you pass in the park, no, you needn’t report them. But if they get chatty and want to know what you do at the legation or who you know, then yes. They could be pumping you for useful information they can pass along.”
Again, Jennie’s eyes swept everyone in their vicinity. “How do you know who you can trust? Can we be friends with anyone?”
“You’ll meet the folks at the legation. I think you’ll like Phyllis, one of the secretaries. She’s attending a get-together tomorrow evening, and she’ll no doubt invite you to join her. You’ll meet a few Swedes there. While they’ve been vetted, it’s still a good idea to avoid political topics.”
“So we should stick to recipes, hair-dos, and how to remove shoe polish stains from blouses.”
Dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Try that with any young fellows and you’ll scare them away.” He continued in a quiet tone after they boarded the train. “Get them to talk about Sweden. Favorite places to go, recreation ― the Swedes are big on outdoor activities. Ask if they have family who emigrated to the U.S. Maybe you’ll find someone interested in art.”
He pointed out places of interest as the train carried them into central Stockholm. They crossed one channel to skirt the western edge of the small island containing Staden, the old town, before crossing another channel to the modern city center. Nearby passengers eyed them curiously, drawn by their English conversation, no doubt. Still, someone could be following them, hoping for a juicy tidbit of American strategy. Maybe the lady with the new green hat. She was probably a secretary, but for wh
om? If she wasn’t careful, Jennie would be seeing spies behind every door and tree. Could she lead a spy on a wild goose chase? She might end up practicing some Morale Operations tactics after all.
Dad disabused her of that idea as they exited the train and walked along the waterfront. “The Swedish Secret Police can be as much a problem as the German spies.”
“The Swedish Secret police? Is that like the FBI or… or the Gestapo?”
“The FBI would be a better comparison. The British naval attaché’s had quite a time with them. Last year he caught them in the attic of his apartment building with a microphone they’d lowered down his chimney to eavesdrop.”
They passed the mammoth Royal Theater. Jennie’s eyes lingered on the three arches in the front façade. Maybe she’d have the opportunity to attend a ballet. The view across the Norrbro Bridge of the Royal Palace in the Staden stroked Jennie’s artistic soul. No wonder Stockholm had gained the moniker “Venice of the North.” She’d come back to the small island to explore the old town at her first opportunity.
“How do the Swedes feel about Americans?”
“Since we joined the war effort and the tide turned our way, Sweden is more openly in favor of the Allies. In the early years of the war, when Britain didn’t seem likely to hold out and fight alone, the threats of Germany’s foreign minister were difficult to ignore. He isn’t known for his subtlety. The Swedes even muzzled their press when Berlin complained about anti-Nazi articles. As long as Sweden granted the concessions they wanted, the Germans had no need to occupy the country.” Dad kept his voice low.
The man in front of them leaned closer. To listen?
Apparently, Dad noticed as well. He held a hand in front of his mouth as he warmed to his topic. “The Germans demanded, and got, rail transport for their troops traveling between Norway and Germany, tankers to fuel their submarines, and shipments of Swedish iron ore and ball bearings, which the Allies also need. Now the Allies are taking a tougher stance, pressuring Sweden to stop benefitting Germany and prolonging the war.”
They crossed a small peninsula, heading further north. Beyond the Nybroviken inlet resided an elegant row of buildings, mostly six or seven stories high, on Strandvägen. Beach Road. “This building on the left end here,” Dad pointed, “houses the American legation. Some staff members live in apartments along the street, but they’re a little too pricey for a lowly military attaché like myself.”
Once inside, Jennie met more people than she’d remember names for. One, she would not forget.
“Oh, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Jennie turned to the speaker. Curly red hair cascaded down a young woman’s shoulders, clashing frightfully with the pink blouse she wore. Her tan skirt resembled a burlap sack. Despite her eyesore apparel, a merry twinkle lit up hazel green eyes. She advanced on Jennie. A quick glance around showed no one else likely to be the recipient of her greeting.
“Your dad promised me your help. Oh, we’ll have a ball. Collating reports can be so boring for one, but two can have fun. You’ll work with me this week, but next week you’ll spend time with Ed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s with our local OSS.” Without missing a beat, she continued, “Have you seen much of Stockholm? Maybe we’ll have time to go to Blanche’s Café for lunch. It’s not all that far from here, and you never know who you might find there. Oh, I’m Phyllis, by the way. Did your dad tell you you’d be working with me?” Linking arms with Jennie, she pulled her down a hallway.
Jennie snuck a backward glance. His shoulders shaking with silent laughter, Dad wiggled his fingers in a farewell wave before striding off in the opposite direction. She was on her own. No wonder Dad’s eyes had gleamed when he said there’d be plenty of opportunities to help out at the legation. He knew she’d be collared by the garrulous Phyllis. Since he’d never steer her into an insufferable situation, he must anticipate that Jennie would enjoy her new colleague’s friendship.
“I must tell you that speaking of our duties outside of the office is forbidden.” Phyllis waited until they’d passed two men conversing in an open doorway. “Here, loose lips might not sink ships, but could still aid the enemy.”
“Dad mentioned that. I understand we need to stick to recipes and fashion.” Jennie cringed as soon as she uttered ‘fashion.’ If Phyllis’ present outfit was any indication, fashion didn’t concern her.
But her new friend laughed and clapped her hands. “Excellent. We’ll come up with one hundred and one ways to prepare fish, which, as you’ll soon discover, is the mainstay of the Swedish diet. Here we are.”
Before they could enter the office ahead, an ingratiating voice behind them sent shivers up Jennie’s spine. “Well, well, well, who do we have here?”
Phyllis stiffened. Without looking back, she replied in a bored tone. “Someone from a military attaché’s family. No one you’ll be working with, Stanley.”
Before Phyllis could whisk her into the office and close the door, Jennie caught a glimpse of a man who must be at least forty and in dire need of a haircut. “Who is he?”
“He used to be a reporter in Berlin. That makes him think he’s an expert on Germany. And speaking of fashion, your dress is beautiful, but you might want to dress down when you’re here on Mondays. It’s a surefire way to avoid his advances. He fancies himself highly attractive to women, if you can believe that. I’d rather be an old maid than take up with him.”
Jennie sat at the table Phyllis indicated and accepted a bundle of forms. “Is that why you’re dressed…?”
She waved a hand.
Phyllis responded with a burst of laughter. “This ugly outfit? You bet. Stanley quit bothering me after my first, uh, fashion show. Fortunately, he’s not always in Stockholm and when he is, usually comes here only on Mondays. So I’m able to dress like a modern forties woman most of the time. And I’m wearing a respectable skirt underneath so I can whip off the burlap for a quick change if I need to meet with respectable people. How about you? Your dad said you used to work at a museum back home?”
“I did. I’m hoping to have time to paint lots of Swedish scenes. Have you heard of the Independent Order of Svithiod?” She smiled when Phyllis gave a wide-eyed shake of her head. She was as good at listening as she was at talking. “Its goal is to promote Swedish heritage and culture. I’ve been invited to provide an art exhibit when I return. I’d like to come up with a theme, something more than just pretty pictures.”
Phyllis drummed her fingers on the desk. “We’ll have to brainstorm. Maybe you’ll be inspired as you familiarize yourself with Stockholm.”
With another swerve in direction, Phyllis grabbed a stack of papers. “We need to sort and match these reports. Have you been told about Penetration Reports? You have? Good. We look for patterns. If a particular person asks the same questions of several people, it’s a sure bet he’s working for the Germans. And remember, don’t say anything about this.” She waved a handful of reports before dealing them out across the table. “If anyone asks, we’ve spent the morning playing cards. Oh, it will be so much fun having you here.”
Ridgewell Air Base, England
Monday, March 27, 1944
A flashlight shone in his face and a hand jiggled his shoulder. “Time to get up, sir.”
Rafe groaned. Would they always have to rise so early? Hadn’t he just gotten to sleep? “It’s too early.”
“Time to rise and shine.” The flashlight moved on to Steve’s cot.
Mouth wide open in a yawn, Rafe rolled into a sitting position and came face-to-face with Alan.
The bombardier stared at him through bleary eyes. “We gotta find us another line of work.”
“Three o’clock.” Cal swayed on his feet. “That’s too early for a short hop to France, but not so early that we’ll be going as far as Berlin, right? Must be Germany, though. Maybe Kiel or Hamburg.”
Rafe required three efforts to get his top button matched with the correct buttonhole. He stifled another
yawn, and stubbed his toe on his cot frame. That provided a jarring wake-up. He stumbled out of the hut after his crewmates.
A low overcast of cigarette smoke hung in the briefing room. The cheery yellow sunny-side up eggs at breakfast had started the day off right, but now Rafe couldn’t relax. What was wrong with him today? Was this a premonition of disaster? Cal had guessed Kiel or Hamburg, but Cologne was in that general vicinity.
Not Cologne. Please, not Cologne. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready. He slumped in his seat, only to leap to his feet at the call of “Ten-hut!”
The colonel mounted the stage. His aide pulled back the curtain. The red yarn dropped straight down, deep into southern France, to Montbartier. Rafe was spared from Cologne.
He glanced at Cal. They weren’t going to Germany, but this was no short hop. Today’s mission promised to be another all-day affair.
The crew found their assigned airplane, Sweet Patootie, and soon the B-17s thundered down the runway at thirty second intervals and began circling up through the fog. Colored flares fired from lead planes guided them as each plane found its slot in the group formation. Above the fog and cloud cover, the sun burst over the horizon, turning night into day. All too soon, they coasted out over the channel.
“Hey, are we going the wrong way?”
Rafe looked up from his log to check his compass.
Another gunner answered the first. “If we are, so’s everybody else.”
“But I see the white cliffs of Dover ahead of us. Did we turn back?”
Rafe squeezed in between Alan and a fifty caliber machine gun. “Sorry, George. Those are the white cliffs of France.”
“They got them too?”
“Sure, the land went straight across until the water dug it out and left England by its lonesome.”
Alan’s shoulders shook in laughter at Harold’s explanation as Rafe retreated to his desk.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Darwin?” Mickey’s voice dripped with condescension.
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 8