Right into fog.
Steve put everyone on alert. “We’re breaking formation to avoid collisions. Everyone keep your eyes peeled for Forts or fighters, and call them out.”
They popped out of the fog over the North Sea.
“We’re too far east,” said Mickey, the know-it-all. “Everybody else is over there.”
“We’re fine.” Rafe loved his Gee Box. “Heading two-eight-four.”
Cal’s acknowledgement overlapped Dan’s yell.
“Bogie, six o’clock high.”
Cal didn’t give Dan a chance to use his guns. Sweet Patootie dropped into a violent left turn. No sooner had they banked than they wrenched into a tight right turn. Sweet Patootie shuddered and groaned. Rafe and Alan landed on the floor. Yells filled their ears. Halfway through the right turn, they pulled up, back to the left. Rafe slid into Alan.
“Cal,” Steve protested, “this isn’t a fighter plane.”
They dropped six thousand feet in Cal’s unorthodox maneuver. Rafe pulled himself up to his desk. His instruments had gone haywire.
“Dan,” Cal called, “is the bogie still on our tail?”
“Holy Toledo!”
“Dan, is the Kraut still back there?”
“Holy Toledo!”
“Whatsa matter, Quigley? Ya got a bee up your drawers?” Snug in the ball, Rusty had missed being tossed around.
“Dan.”
“No, there’s no one back here. I’m not sure I’m still back here. My mask is busted and I got a bloody nose.”
Rafe’s jaw was sore, come to think of it. He ran his tongue around his teeth. All present and accounted for.
“Boy howdy, my heart’s pounding like a jack hammer. That was like playing Crack the Whip.” Harold’s voice sounded like a girl’s.
Alan remained sprawled on the floor like he’d been smacked with a giant flyswatter. Rafe reached out a hand. “You’re bleeding too, do you know that?”
Alan touched his split lip and grimaced. “Congratulations, Cal. What were you trying to do, qualify us all for Purple Hearts?”
“You only get Purple Hearts for being wounded by the enemy.”
“Keep that up and you will be the enemy.”
Rafe took a Gee fix, but decided to give Harold a task. “Can you get me a QDM?”
“The radio’s jammed. Everybody’s either lost or low on fuel.” Less than a minute later, Harold called Rafe with the radio fix on their position.
“How’d you get that if the airwaves are jammed?”
“Easy. I screwed down my key and blocked everyone else. When I unscrewed, everybody had given up and I was first in line to get through.”
No need to worry about Harold.
Ridgewell hove into sight at long last. Rafe made a final log note and packed everything into his briefcase. He paused at Steve’s order.
“Fire a flare.”
Rafe watched the flare arc red through the sky. A bloody nose and split lip didn’t warrant an ambulance standing by. Come to think of it, Mickey had been strangely quiet.
An ambulance waited at their hardstand and loaded Mickey with a probable sprained wrist, Carlo, who held an arm tight against painful ribs, Dan, who sported a blackening eye in addition to his bloody nose, and Alan, who protested vigorously.
Steve wouldn’t listen. He waved at the ambulance driver. “Take them away.”
“Boy.” Rusty slid his gaze past Cal. “You really did hurt half the crew. And all because Dan said he saw a fighter. I didn’t see a fighter.” He turned to Harold. “Did you see it?”
“No, I didn’t see it.” Harold looked at Rafe. “Did you see it?”
Shaking his head, Rafe grabbed the two enlisted men by their arms and spun them in the direction of a waiting jeep. “At six o’clock high, neither of you could spot a swarm of fighters.”
Behind him, he heard Steve question Cal. “Where’d you learn a stunt like that?”
“An RAF pilot I met at a pub described it to me. If you get a fighter on your tail, he’ll follow you in a turn, but you’ll lose him when you skid out of your turn.”
“An RAF pilot. Who flies at night. Of course you’d lose a tail in the dark. And what did this pilot fly?”
Rafe looked back to see Cal twist his mouth to one side. “Spitfires.”
Steve shook his head and strode to the jeep. He spun back. “No more fighter jockey stunts.”
Stockholm, Sweden
Same Day
Ed summoned Jennie to his office. She stopped short at the door. Dad conferred with Ed over his desk. Both men looked up. “Come on in, Jennie.” Dad smiled, but his eyes held a hint of apprehension. “We’re planning a little trip to Rättvik for you. I’ll give you paperwork to pass on to the internees housed there, but Ed has another purpose in mind for you.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder briefly before leaving them alone.
From beneath his desk blotter, Ed pulled out a map of Rättvik. “Study this. Memorize it. You won’t be able to take it along. The town is on the eastern point of Lake Siljan. Head for the wooded hills overlooking the town and lake from the south.” His finger stabbed the location. “Take your art stuff and draw a picture of the view. That’ll be your reason for being there. You’ll also have this.”
He hefted a backpack onto his desk.
Ed freed a rough sketch pinned to the pack and handed it to her. It looked like a treasure map, complete with an X to mark the spot. “This shows the path up the hill with various places for you to draw. Make sure no one is observing you, and leave the pack here.” He tapped the X. “You should find a pile of evergreen branches. Toss them on the pack to cover it from view.”
Jennie’s heart rate sped up. She reached for the pack and tested its weight. Nearly ten pounds. “What’s in here?”
“You don’t need to be concerned about the contents. You need only to deliver it.”
“I’m supposed to unobtrusively carry a heavy pack one way along with my art stuff, and hope no one notices I’ve left it behind?” She bit back the question of where she’d find a pack mule.
“Drape your coat over it. Hiking is a common pursuit. No one should pay you any attention. You’ll leave on the train tomorrow.”
The temperature hovered below fifty degrees and she was supposed to offer her coat to the backpack? She’d have to hike uphill burdened with the pack and her art stuff. That would make her sweat up a storm. Take your art stuff, he said, to draw a picture. The man had no artistic appreciation beyond how he could use her talent to further his own ends. Draw a picture indeed.
She shook the pack. It didn’t rattle. Nothing shifted. Likely it held a box wrapped in a blanket. She’d be lucky if she wasn’t arrested for supplying sabotage gear.
Rättvik, Sweden
Tuesday, April 25, 1944
Ed had failed to reckon with one very important aspect of sending Jennie to an internee camp. She’d barely stepped off the train when she was surrounded by dozens of young American men starved for the company of American women. How in the world was she to slip away from the gang without raising questions?
Finding the senior officer in charge proved easy with so many eager guides. Dispensing with the paperwork took only minutes. The internees waited outside for her. Jennie smiled. She had found her pack mules.
“Someone at the legation told me to head up those hills for a great vantage spot to paint the view. I’m working on a Chicago exhibit for the Order of Svithiod, which promotes Swedish heritage and culture. Anyone care to help carry my gear and tell me your stories about being in Sweden?”
It didn’t take long to find the drop site. She’d worry later how she’d leave the pack without her seven companions noticing. “Tell me how you spend your days.”
“We eat and sleep,” replied a young man who stared at her instead of the view.
An earnest airman in need of a haircut elaborated. “Summer comes late this far north. Then we’ll be able to bike and play baseball…”
“If we had a bat and ball,” interrupted the man giving her the willies with his staring.
“…or tennis, go canoeing or sailing. There’s not much to do in winter when it’s dark most of the day.”
“We did try cross-country skiing. That’s big here.” A short fellow pawed through Jennie’s art supplies. Without asking, he opened her smaller sketchpad, selected a piece of chalk, and tried to imitate her strokes.
Watching him, she frowned. They were bored. They needed to keep busy. There must be something they could do. “Would you be interested in woodworking or art classes, or Swedish classes?”
A hungry look entered the staring eyes. “Are you going to teach art?”
Jennie resisted gritting her teeth. Like refusing to show fear to a snarling dog, she couldn’t show her exasperation. “No, I’m based in Stockholm.” Jennie reigned in her smile so it didn’t betray her relief. “But there must be Swedish teachers here in Rättvik who’d be interested in getting involved. You could carve Dala horses. You’ve seen those little wooden horses, haven’t you?”
The budding artist chose another color of chalk. “We have a small band.”
“What about a choir? We could probably arrange for you to sing at different churches.” At their looks of interest, she said, “I’ll talk to my dad about it. Most Swedes don’t have personal contact with Americans. More involvement would promote good will.”
“Hands across the water.” The earnest internee shoved his hair out of his eyes. “It’d be nice to have something more to do than build model airplanes all day.”
“Okay, brainstorm with me. Think of any activities you’d like to do or what you did back home that you could do here.”
“I helped my pa on our farm.”
“Here.” Jennie shoved a scratchpad and pencil into the hands of the starer. This would get his eyes off her. “Take notes of all the possibilities. When I get back to Stockholm, I’ll see what we can do.”
Ridgewell Air Base
Monday, May 8, 1944
The wake-up call came at three. Rafe squinted open one eye and watched the operations officer nudge Paul Braedel. With a grin, Rafe stretched and turned over. The Coolidge crew was on stand-down, a delicious day off. He planned to sleep in.
The roused crews may have tried to be quiet, but they made a racket anyway.
“Where’s my other shoe? Come on, give me a light. I need to find my shoe.” One of the new guys, who replaced Paul’s old crew.
The overhead bulb blinked on. Rafe sighed, rolled back over, and propped his head on a hand. The new bombardier was on his hands and knees, head under his cot, rear end in the air.
“Found it.” Bonk. “Oow.”
Rafe caught Paul’s eye and raised a brow at the cursing coming from the bombardier who rose up, rubbing his head. Rookies.
Paul managed a sleepy shrug. He looked like he needed a day off.
Rafe waved good-bye and snuggled into his pillow. Whop! Paul’s pillow landed on his head. Silent laughter shook him as the hut darkened and the door closed behind the departing airmen. He aimed the pillow back at Paul’s cot. Now if he could just get back to sleep.
#
Midmorning found him under his tree. This time, he’d brought a tarp borrowed from the Sweet Patootie’s crew chief to avoid soaking his trousers on the damp, weedy grass. Brenda joined him in a lopsided skip and presented him with a fistful of wildflowers. Her solemn eyes studied him.
She plopped down beside him. “Where ya been?”
“Yesterday we flew to Berlin.”
“Where’s that?”
“Germany.”
Her brows bunched together and her lips twisted to the side. “Germans are bad. Why’d ya go there?”
What would her mother want him to tell her? Brenda already knew about the destruction of war. People like her daddy died, and she and her brother had to live far away from their mother.
“We stop the factories where the Germans build things to hurt us. If they can’t make their weapons, they won’t be able to fight anymore.”
She stared unblinkingly at him for the longest time before nodding. “You won’t be killt doing that, will ya?”
That promise he couldn’t make, again. “I hope not.”
Long after Brenda scampered home, Rafe tried to read. The book failed to rouse his interest, and he tossed it aside. The promise of summer whispered in the breeze fanning his face. A bee buzzed around Brenda’s wilting bouquet.
Mother must be spending lots of time in her gardens. Rita might complain about all the necessary weeding, but Albert ought to be taking a professional interest, not that a horticulturist would have to do his own weeding. What about Father? Living in a corner of a dingy basement, how safe was that with all the rubble of people’s shattered lives waiting to tumble in?
Christoph hadn’t said if Father lived in the basement of their apartment building. Maybe he’d had to claim some other place to bed down. As nice as their apartment had been, the cellar had been a fearsome place. One wall had been rough brick. Old Frau Schneer kept her dummy figures down there after retiring as a seamstress. The single weak bulb swayed on its cord, and cast shadows on the brick wall that looked like they were moving. Rafe’s ears still ached from Brigitte’s shrieks when she thought the shadowy people were about to grab her.
Those dummies must be gone now. Thrown out to make room for the living. A heavy odor of smoke and rubble dust must torment Grossmutter’s sinuses. The cement floor would be hard to sweep clean of splintered glass and broken masonry. How did they cook or refrigerate food? Their apartment had boasted its own toilet. Now what? An improvised chamber pot?
Christoph hadn’t mentioned the rail yard, but he wouldn’t have been back since Rafe’s bomb group had targeted it. That had to be a priority for the Germans to keep operating. Father’s job would be secure. He wouldn’t be drafted into the army.
The bee buzzed around his head and he waved it away.
“Ahoy there.” The chaplain stood in the lane, perched on his bicycle. He pointed forward. “Is this the way back to base?”
Rafe chuckled. He’d ruminated enough for one day. “It is, although I can’t tell you where to turn.” He pointed to his left. “I cut through the field today.”
Chaplain Hogan gazed across the field and shook his head. “If you say so.” He parked his bike and ambled over. “You’re a navigator. Suppose you fly in over the Dover cliffs. Would you be able to find your way back to Ridgewell without using your instruments?”
The question gave Rafe pause. He smiled. “Now that you mention it, maybe not. Everything looks the same.”
“Exactly. No rhyme, no reason, anywhere. Like a patchwork quilt with hedges for seams. I’ve seen medieval walled cities with streets that meander every which way to confound invaders. I’ve wondered if the English laid out their fields and lanes to confuse an enemy.”
Rafe chuckled. “They’ve done a good job of confusing their friends. Each village looks alike. From the air, their churches look alike. Their thatched roof cottages have little variance. Nothing stands out as a landmark.”
The tarp had bunched up in the breeze. Rafe spread it back out in invitation, and the chaplain sat down. He turned his face into the breeze. “What do you hear?”
Rafe listened. “Birds, insects, the wind in the trees.”
The chaplain smiled. “What don’t you hear?”
A moment passed, and Rafe’s smile matched the chaplain’s. “I don’t hear a single engine revving up.”
“Precisely. The war is far away. Somewhere, people are dying violent deaths. They don’t have the opportunity to step away from the horror. I wonder, how would I cope? I’m a man of peace, and enough of a coward to admit I’m glad I needn’t experience the fighting.”
Rafe stared at the chaplain. He was a man of conviction. Just days ago, Paul had told Rafe how the chaplain had gone against the rules and flown on a mission. “A coward’s not going to finagle his way onto a Flying
Fortress headed for Germany.”
The chaplain’s head dropped back as he laughed. “No, but a lunatic might.” He sat up, suddenly intent. “How can I counsel you men of the combat crews when I have no idea what you’re up against? Some men come back so shocked and traumatized,” he wiped a hand over his mouth, “I can’t say, ‘Oh, it couldn’t have been so bad.’ In order to empathize, I had to go out on a mission.” He leaned back on his hands. “And, you know? I thought those first bursts of flak looked downright pretty.”
A snicker escaped Rafe. “Oh right. Pretty dangerous.”
Black puffs suddenly transforming into orange flashes had been mesmerizing the first time Rafe had seen them. Sometimes the flash appeared red or yellow. No matter the color, the fascination evaporated quickly when their rain of shrapnel punched through the paper-thin skin of the bombers.
Chaplain Hogan picked up the book Rafe had discarded. “Fallen Bastions.” He thumbed through it. “This is about the Anschluss, isn’t it? When Germany annexed Austria?”
Rafe nodded. The book was an odd choice for relaxation. He needed it, though, as a reminder why he was fighting Germany. The eyewitness report strengthened his resolve. The Viennese laughed as an ashen-faced Jewish surgeon on hands and knees before young hooligans wearing swastika armbands and brandishing dog whips forced him to scrub the sidewalk, pouring acid over the brush and his surgeon’s fingers. That could have been him. Had his ancestry become known, how would the residents of Cologne have reacted to his “deceit” of living like an Aryan?
Chaplain Hogan set aside the book. “Paul Braedel told me about your visit to your cousin.”
A simple observation. An invitation to talk. Rafe’s throat tightened. “My father is a coward. Christoph said he misses us, wishes life could be as it was. Father lives in a cellar now, in the ruins of Cologne. All because he refused to go to America with us. His job at the railroad was more important than we were. The way we keep bombing the marshalling yards, it must be quite challenging work now. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to find employment in Milwaukee. Maybe he would have been dependent on Opa, his father-in-law. Would that have been so bad, considering how he’s living now? Fact is, he didn’t care enough about us.”
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 17