No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)

by Terri Wangard

  Alan turned around and mouthed, “Wise guy.”

  Rafe grinned.

  Dan’s cheerful voice chimed in. “Forget Darwin. Think Noah’s ark.”

  “The ark dug the channel?”

  Alan looked back again, his brows bunched together. Was there any hope for George?

  “Not the ark. It wasn’t big enough to scoop out such a wide channel. The flood did it.”

  “You believe that fairy tale?” Mickey was gathering steam to argue. “Are you religious or something?”

  Steve put a stop to it. “Shelve the debate, boys. We’re over France. Occupied France. Watch for fighters and keep the intercom free of chatter.”

  The bomb run proceeded in model fashion to please the brass back in England. Rafe joined Alan in the nose, surveying ahead with binoculars. The Spanish border was not too far away. Surely he was seeing Spain. It didn’t look any different than France.

  Pulling away his oxygen mask, Rafe yelled in Alan’s ear. “Spain.”

  Alan looked up from the bombsight. “Ever been there?”

  Rafe shook his head. He hadn’t been anywhere in southern Europe.

  When they arrived over the target, Rafe leaned over the edge of the Plexiglas nose to watch the bombs tumble down.

  “Woo whee. Our employers ought to be pleased with the results. That’s ninety percent or better of bombs on target.” Alan’s eyes gleamed above his oxygen mask.

  Fighters and flak had been minimal. Rafe sat at his desk and recorded all the data on his log. He referred to the map where he’d traced their return flight. “Think the fog will have disappeared by the time we get back to England?”

  “Put in an order for sunshine and clear skies.” Cal yawned as he spoke.

  “With France hogging all the sun, I’ll bet England’s still foggy.” Count on Rusty to be negative.

  Sure enough. As they flew over the English Channel, there it was. The first tendrils of wispy fog reached out to the planes. Then they were socked in, visibility dropping to nearly zero.

  As they approached Ridgewell, a yell deafened Rafe. The airplane lurched to the side and the engines roared as more power was demanded of them. Looking out the window, Rafe spotted another B-17 right where they would have been if not for the evasive maneuver. They’d nearly had a midair collision. His pounding heart hadn’t settled down by the time Sweet Patootie settled on the runway.

  Parked on their hardstand, a weary crew tumbled out of Sweet Patootie after a long, ten-hour flight. Dan walked stiff-legged and stretched. “Apparently the Germans aren’t putting enough fear of God into us.”

  Rafe frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Fog is an act of God, right? He must be trying to get our attention, which means the Germans aren’t doing a good enough job of it.” Dan ambled to the jeep waiting to take them to interrogation, leaving Rafe to ponder his words.

  Carlo stood beside him. When Rafe glanced his way, he asked, “Do you think God would do that to us?”

  Rafe shrugged. How would he know?

  His lackadaisical response didn’t satisfy Carlo. “Maybe I’ll go to chapel Sunday. The chaplain isn’t Catholic, but it’s supposed to be an economical service.”

  Not until that evening did Rafe ask about the chapel service in his hut. “Do you have to pay to go to chapel here?”

  Paul Braedel looked up with wide eyes. “No. Why would you think so?”

  “One of my crew said it’s economical.”

  Paul grinned. “He probably meant ecumenical. Something for everyone.”

  Rafe stretched out on his cot and laced his fingers beneath his head. His eyes strayed back to Paul. An open Bible lay before him as he sat cross-legged, his chin propped on his folded hands. Mickey would call him religious.

  “Do you think God caused that fog to get our attention?”

  Paul’s eyes rose from the Bible, but a slow moment passed before he turned to Rafe. “Nope. Fog is normal along the coast. If the fog drove home the realization that death is still a heartbeat away even when we’re not in combat, and created a deeper longing for God, that’s good. Faith flourishes when God is our only hope.”

  “So He does want our attention?”

  “He always wants us to seek Him and spend time with Him.” Conviction radiated from Paul’s eyes.

  Rafe studied the curved, corrugated roof arcing over him. Spend time with God. Exactly how did one go about doing that? Pray, of course. Prayer was supposed to be like talking to God, but unfortunately, God never talked back to him. His gaze shifted back to Paul, who watched him patiently.

  “It’d be nice if praying wasn’t a one-sided conversation.”

  Paul had the gall to laugh. “If you listen right, you’ll hear him.” He pressed his lips together and dragged a hand through his hair. His gaze roamed around the hut before returning his attention to Rafe. “Not that I’ve been the best example since my wife died while I was in training.”

  Paul shrugged. “I suggest you read the Bible, starting with the gospels and the psalms. And not a swift scanning. Get familiar with it. I often find a verse comes to mind that is exactly what I need. It’s like God’s talking to me. The Bible is, after all, the word of God. The words may not be audible, but they still speak.” He patted his Bible. “And if you need assurance of God’s presence, go out some night and look at the stars. ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows his handiwork.’ That’s from Psalm Nineteen.”

  Rafe nodded. “My grandmother told me to think of God as my father after my dad rejected us. I wanted Dad’s approval so badly, it hurt. But when I pictured God putting his hand on me in place of Dad, I felt assurance.”

  From his other side, Alan chimed in. “A father of the fatherless is God. That’s in the Psalms, too. After my dad died, God became more real to me. Before that, God was someone we heard about at church, but no one I really related to.”

  Rafe tried not to let his surprise show. They’d been together for several months and this was the first Alan said anything about his dad. Whenever he’d spoken of family, it was Ruby this and Ruby that. Maybe, if he was married, he’d have only spoken of his wife and not his father or life in Germany.

  He dug in his footlocker. Where was that Bible Oma had given him? He hadn’t wanted to fill up space with it, but couldn’t tell her that. Now it would be good to read the familiar, ancient words.

  There, at the very bottom, under his spare slacks, with two books he’d never gotten around to reading. He pulled out the leather-bound book and blinked. Heilige Bibel. Why in the world had Oma given him a German Bible to read in the American air force?

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Tuesday, March 28, 1944

  Jennie tilted the magnifier for a closer look. This forgery had to be absolutely iron clad, air tight, and irrefutable to any German who demanded to see the spy’s papers. The German stamp helped, but it was out of date. She touched her ink point to the identity card. The fours had to be exactly the same.

  There. Perfect, if she could say so herself. She exhaled, and wilted. She cocked her head. For the third time, she’d been holding her breath. Asphyxiating herself didn’t help the creating process. She pushed back from the desk and rubbed her eyes.

  “You’ll have a chance to do more exciting stuff once you meet with Ed. Being cooped up in here can get boring real fast.” JB, the chief forger, leaned over her work. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  Jennie smiled. If Phyllis’ story was true, this man had been arrested for forgery. Instead of jail time, here he was, putting his talent to use in a meaningful way. JB stood for jail bird and, in a way, the legation was his jail. Could the story be true? He seemed like a nice guy, but white-collar criminals must need to be charming to get away with their nefarious deeds. Asking him was out of the question. What if he said yes?

  She fingered the space where the photo would go. “The photo with the genuine card is stapled with smaller than usual staples. Do we have that si
ze?”

  “But of course.” JB retrieved a smaller than usual stapler from the desk drawer. “We got it from our embassy in Berlin before everyone pulled out when Hitler declared war on us. Most of our supplies came from German office suppliers. Helpful of them, wasn’t it?”

  Jennie laughed at his smug smile. “All of this stuff has lasted nearly three years?”

  “Well, no.” JB tapped a finger on his lips. Then he leaned down. “Some of it came from down the street.”

  The German legation stood down the street.

  “What? Instead of going over and asking to borrow a cup of sugar, you ask for a pad of paper and some staples?”

  “Nooo.” JB sat on the corner of the desk and wiggled his eyebrows. “But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  He winked and sauntered to the door. “Be right back. I need to go borrow a red marker.”

  Smiling at his behavior, Jennie practiced signing the German inspector’s signature on scrap paper.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s here.” Stanley appeared beside her. He pulled up a chair, sat too close, and ran a finger along her arm. “How about coming to dinner with me, gorgeous, and you can tell me all about yourself.”

  JB’s admonition rang in her ears. “Tell no one what you do in here. Not your dad, not Phyllis, no one. They may suspect what we do, but don’t confirm anything.”

  Jennie scooted away from him and covered the ID cards with her scrap paper before rubbing his touch from her arm. “You don’t belong in here.”

  “Come on, doll. How can we get acquainted if you don’t warm up?”

  “Extending your skirt patrol to Tuesdays, Lofton?” JB loomed over Stanley. “The ladies don’t appreciate your harassment. And you can leave my colleague alone.”

  Balling his fists as he stood, Stanley snarled. “You think you’re good enough for her?”

  “Certainly not.” JB’s chin rose. “She’s got herself a man in uniform.”

  Jennie covered her face with her hands as Stanley stalked off. She looked up at JB. “Did you get your marker?”

  “I did indeed.” He pulled it out of a pocket and twirled it. “I didn’t have to visit the neighbors, after all. We have them here.”

  Jennie laughed half-heartedly. Finding Stanley beside her was akin to finding a spider in the room. “Why did you say I have a man in uniform?”

  “My dear.” JB pressed a hand to his chest. “We’re in the spy business here. We must always sharpen our skills. And that includes ferreting out all the dope on our colleagues.”

  Picking up her pen, Jennie forged the inspector’s signature. She examined her work and smiled. The inspector himself wouldn’t realize he hadn’t signed the card.

  A man in uniform. Did JB really know something or was he fishing? Rafe probably wouldn’t mind if she included him in a cover story to explain her reason for being in Sweden.

  Would he?

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Wednesday, March 29, 1944

  “Brunswick’s getting a reprieve,” Steve announced as the jeep that had stopped below his cockpit window continued on to the B-17 on the next hardstand. “There’s cloud cover over Germany, though it’s likely to clear up soon. We can get out of the plane, but stay close.”

  Rafe dropped through the nose hatch of Sweet Patootie, once again their plane for the mission. Maybe he could catch a few winks. He spread his flight jacket on the grass, and stretched out. Someone flopped down beside him. He opened one eye. Dan. So much for a nap.

  Dan picked a long blade of grass. “Brunswick’s reprieve might be to our disadvantage if we lose the clear sky we have now.”

  Rafe yawned. “Let’s worry about that when, or if, the mission gets a go.”

  “Yeah, Quigley, why don’t you put in a request for good weather with the Man upstairs?” Mickey stood over them, hands planted on his hips.

  “Lay off, Mickey.” Irritation stained Alan’s voice.

  Mickey might bully the other enlisted men of the crew, but showed the good sense not to argue with the officers. He stalked away.

  An argument erupted among the crewmen. Mickey had started a squabble with Rusty. Rafe sat up and whistled. “That’s it. Time out. Boxers to your respective corners.”

  The combatants drifted apart and silence reigned.

  Steve frowned at Rafe. “Why do they mind you, but complain with me?”

  “Lieutenant Martell’s our den mother.” Dan’s grin filled his face. If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging.

  “Den mother?” Like a bear in a cave? That’s how they saw him? Rafe shook his head. Jennie, you had it all wrong.

  “You know, like in Cub Scouts.” Dan’s smile slipped. He must have recognized Rafe’s horror. “Don’t they have Cub Scouts in Germany?”

  Cub Scouts. Like the Boy Scouts? Well, he was right with the bear analogy. The question remained, how could being called a den mother be complimentary? “No, we had the Jungvolk and the Hitler Youth.”

  The jeep was making the rounds again. It paused by the Sweet Patootie. “Take off should begin in half an hour.”

  Rafe leapt to his feet and headed for the nose hatch. Good thing their work stations were separated. A bear. All this time he’d thought Dan liked him, and yet he compared him to a bear.

  #

  A swarm of fighters pounced on the bombers as they neared the Initial Point for starting the bomb run on an aircraft assembly factory. The escorting Mustangs dove on the FW-190s, driving most of them away, but one German was determined. He flew through the formation of B-17s, attracting fire from a dozen gunners.

  Rafe stood behind Alan in the nose, alternately watching for landmarks and watching for fighters that came within range of his gun. They passed over the Ems River when the daredevil Focke Wulf turned straight toward them, and exploded.

  Shrapnel raked the Sweet Patootie. The Plexiglas nose was no match for the missiles of steel. One chunk slammed into Rafe’s chest like a hammer blow and threw him to the floor. He tried to breathe, and couldn’t. Stars danced before his eyes. After skipping a few beats, his heart pounded. A trickle of air reached his lungs. Inhale, slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  His peripheral vision cleared and he glimpsed something that shouldn’t be there. His gaze trailed down. A five-inch piece of metal lay snagged in the overlapping plates of steel in his flak suit, the canvas covering torn.

  All was not well with the plane either. Rusty’s excited voice sounded in his earphones. “Flames are shooting out of engine three. Feather it.”

  “Not possible.” Cal sounded annoyed, either with the engine trouble, Rusty’s demand, or both. “Prop’s gone.”

  “Shut down engine two.”

  Steve’s words chilled Rafe as much as the wind blowing through the perforated nose. Two engines lost?

  “We have to turn back. We’ll never keep up. Harold, call for a fighter escort.”

  “Yeah, or we’ll be a sitting duck.” Mickey rushed his words. “I got the fuel pumped from number three to four and number two to one. The fire’s out on three but, Rusty, watch if it starts up again.”

  “Rafe, what’s the heading for base?” Steve grew angry. “Martell!”

  Rafe tried to rise, but the chunk of shrapnel had to weigh at least fifty pounds.

  Alan turned around. “Man, Rafe, what happened?” He tugged out the shrapnel with little effort, and pulled Rafe to a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

  “Y, yeah… Must be… like getting kicked… by a horse.”

  “What’s going on down there?” Patience wasn’t one of Steve’s virtues today.

  “Our room with a view became a room to avoid. We’ve got hurricane winds blowing in all the holes, and Rafe took some flak in the chest.” Alan pulled Rafe’s log in front of him. “Do you know where we are?”

  Breathing came easier in an upright position. Rafe checked the time and his last position fix. Only four minutes had passed. Amazing. Felt more like four hours. “Hea
ding two—eight—one, for now.”

  Speaking was an effort, like he’d just run a mile.

  He turned to his Gee Box to get a fix on their position when Harold made a strange announcement.

  “That fighter off our right wing wants to know if we’re happy.”

  “What channel’s he on? Ask him to confirm our position.” Steve still sounded irritated.

  Steve didn’t trust Rafe’s navigating. So it took him a minute longer this time to get off the floor and calculate their position before giving a direction. That was hardly cause to lose faith in him.

  They were on the far end of the Gee Box’s reach, but it provided a solid fix. He pinpointed their location and figured a precise compass heading. “Navigator to pilot. Make our QDM two—seven—nine.”

  Harold chimed in. “The fighter agrees. Are we happy?”

  “We’re happy. Thank him, will you?” Cal answered, not Steve.

  The fighter left when they were unlikely to encounter any more enemy planes, and they were on their own. With no lead plane to follow, Rafe had sole responsibility for getting them back to base. He spent the flight over the North Sea taking continuous Gee fixes.

  By the time Sweet Patootie powered down on its hardstand, a nap sounded good. He watched Alan stand and stretch.

  “Boy, it’s been a long day, and it’s not even noon.” He paused when he noticed Rafe hadn’t budged from his desk. “How ya doing?”

  “Sore. Stiff. Tired.”

  “I’ll tell the crew chief to bring a ladder so you don’t have to swing down.” Alan dropped to his knees and disappeared through the nose hatch. He directed the set-up of the ladder before Rafe managed to crawl the few feet to the hatch.

  The gunners gathered around the ladder as he descended. Hands reached up to guide him. Their voices overlapped like buzzing mosquitoes as they queried his health.

  Dan’s assertion snagged his attention. “We should flag down a meat wagon.”

  “You go ahead. I’m not hungry.” Just get the interrogation over and done with so he could hit the sack.