On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  Ben Mark, forced to accede to a superior officer, clamped his jaw shut, but his eyes revealed his anger at the air vice-marshal’s decision.

  “Dow, aren’t you being a little hard on them?” Meg inquired. “Couldn’t you get someone else?”

  “Meg, this is a military matter. I would appreciate your not becoming involved.”

  A strangeness pervaded the drawing room, as if the occupants were caught between two worlds. It destroyed all camaraderie, all attempts at casual conversation, despite Lord Cranston, despite Sir Edward. And Alpharetta, under stress, began to feel the throbbing in her head.

  “Dow, do you think I might leave now?” she inquired, being careful not to be overheard.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he replied. “The green room is yours for the night.”

  “But I don’t have—”

  “I’ve sent Betty to the dower house to pack your overnight bag. She should be back in a few minutes.”

  “You didn’t have to do that—”

  “And we’ll move the rest of your things into the hall tomorrow. It’s no longer imperative for you to hide out. The spies have been shot.”

  The lateness of the hour had taken its toll on everyone in the drawing room. Lord Cranston rose from his chair in a lumbering manner, then steadied himself and called to his daughter in a bellowing voice.

  “Margaret, my dear, it’s time for us to be on our way.”

  Sir Edward also rose from his chair, the stiffness in his joints apparent in his slow, measured movements. Like two magnificent old stags far beyond their prime, they stood surveying the room with no fight left in them, merely a longing for peace and a comfortable bed.

  Yet the room, an unspoken challenge remained between the younger men. On their arms were two women, one sensuously beautiful, the other pleasing to the eye until compared to the first. And the primitive display of warring antlers was but thinly disguised by the veneer of civilized society, as the two men in military uniform, with medals on their chests attesting to their prowess, silently braced for the primeval struggle for male supremacy, with one woman as the prize.

  Once the good-byes had been said and Dow had walked to the door with Meg, Ben Mark, leaning toward Alpharetta, said, “If you’re ready, too, I’ll ride back to the dower house with you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Captain,” Dow commented, returning to stand bedside them. “Alpharetta is being moved into the hall.”

  Once again, Ben Mark felt thwarted. He looked at Alpharetta and again toward Dow. Alpharetta, seeing the transformation on his face, tensed.

  “Let’s go for a walk, Ben Mark. I feel the need of a little fresh air. Just let me say goodbye to Sir Edward.”

  “While you’re at it, you can give him his keys, too,” Ben Mark suggested.

  In the garden, with its formal parterrers bathed by the silver of the moon, Ben Mark made no pretense at hiding his anger. He dragged Alpharetta to a bench sheltered by vines, sat down, and fumed.

  “You’re not his property, Alpharetta. If you told him you were going, there’s nothing he could do about it.”

  Stubbornly she replied, “I still have a job to do, Ben Mark.”

  “Horse manure! You’re dazzled by the man, his title, and this manor house. If you stay around, you’re going to be hurt. He’s going to marry Lady Margaret, and you’re going to wind up like Anna Clare. If you think someone like him is going to hitch himself for life to a moonshiners daughter. . .”

  “Is that how you see me, Ben Mark?” Alpharetta inquired, her voice warning that Ben Mark had gone too far.

  He quickly backed down. “I don’t hold that against you, Alpharetta. After all, it was my father who loaned your father the money for the still.”

  “And became his partner,” Alpharetta added.

  Ignoring her comment, Ben Mark continued. “It’s just that we understand each other. And I don’t think you would fare well with all the British snobbishness around you.”

  Alpharetta smiled as she remembered the snobbishness of Atlanta, and the unhappiness of so many people when an anxiously awaited invitation was never received, when people left town to avoid having to admit that they had not been considered important enough to attend the annual azalea party given by one of society’s leading matrons. But she would gladly have given her place to another. Alpharetta had learned long ago that human worth was measured in inner qualities, not in whose garden one sat for a brief moment in history.

  “I think we should go in now, Ben Mark. Alpharetta stood and the dark-haired man beside her suddenly took her in his arms and began a slow, lingering kiss.

  From the window above, Dow Pomeroy looked down into the garden at the merging figures and felt an unquenchable sadness.

  Chapter 26

  A troubled Alpharetta removed the lace dress, hung it in the armoire of the green room, and sat down before the ancient mirror. Her thoughts went far beyond her own reflection to a longing for something that had no visible face or form. It was a dream, binding her, like the satin cord around her waist earlier, to some unfathomed element in the English soil. And sensing this, she knew that her engagement to Ben Mark was a mistake. Yet she was powerless to do anything about it.

  The day had turned out far differently than she had expected, and the headache that had threatened all evening blossomed as she knew it would. With no hope of resting peacefully, she climbed into the tester bed and stared at the ceiling, while praying for sleep to ease the stress of the day.

  Marsh Wexford also stared at the ceiling, his massive headache undiminished by the cold, wet cloth upon his brow.

  He was surprised to be alive, to be in a bed with a roof over his head, and to be wearing a white nightshirt instead of his uniform. The last thing that he remembered was the explosion of the tank, the disintegration of the bridge.

  At the sound of the footsteps, Marsh cautiously listened. The old man, coming to replace the cloth on his forehead, was relieved to find Marsh awake. “You are feeling better, non?”

  “I have a grandfather of a headache,” he admitted.

  “That is to be expected, landing as you did on the ground beyond the tanks. Lucky for you that the Germans thought you were dead.”

  “Where am I?” Marsh asked, feeling foolish at the mundane question.

  “On the farm belonging to my sisters,” he replied. “Le Bois Rouge.”

  “And your name?”

  The old Frenchman was the one who hesitated this time. “I am called Maurice Duvalier, bellringer. That is sufficient.”

  “The others. What about the others with me?” Marsh asked, trying to prop himself up on one elbow.

  “Two are safe elsewhere. The sergeant was taken prisoner. He awoke at an inopportune moment. There was nothing we could do.”

  Marsh groaned as he thought of Giraldo and lay his head to the pillow again.

  The sound of a motorized vehicle pulling into the yard invoked a quick response from Maurice.

  “Not a word, monsieur,” he whispered. “It might be the German SS officer looking for you. Unfortunately, we were seen spiriting you away.”

  Marsh lay still, his breathing noticeably loud in the silence of the small attic room, with its sharp-edged half-ceiling. If he were discovered, Marsh knew the old man and his family would be shot for harboring him from the enemy.

  A woman’s voice from below carried upward through the small shaft, her indignant tones matching the harsh voice of the interrogator.

  “Watch your words, old woman, or I’ll set fire to you on top of the nearest haystack.”

  “I am too old to be another Joan of Arc,” she protested, looking him straight in the eye. And in a sudden, coaxing voice, she added, “All I want you to do is stop scaring my poor little chou-chou.” She picked up her dog and murmured comfortingly to him while the soldier laughed.

  Then, catching himself, he scowled and warned in a stern voice. “If you see him, you are to report him to me at once. You know the penalty fo
r not reporting.”

  “Of course, monsieur. We shall both be on the lookout for the American, won’t we, chou-chou?”

  The little dog yelped as if in answer. And the SS officer, without bothering to investigate further in the house of the two elderly sisters, climbed into the staff car and drove out of the farmyard. While Cecile held on to her dog and watched him disappear, her older sister, Jeanette, just inside the door, lowered the loaded gun and put it back in its proper place behind the flour cupboard.

  Hearing the car leave, Marsh struggled to get up, but Maurice held out his hand to stop him. In a low whisper the old Frenchman said,” You must remain quiet for a little longer. The Germans always come back a second time, hoping o catch us unawares.”

  Freitag, true to Maurice’s words, hid the staff car behind the haystack and stealthily approached the yard on foot.

  Maurice’s grandson, Ibert, aged six years, was playing with his ball as the SS officer came into view. The German motioned for the child and Ibert, leaving his ball on the ground, walked toward him.

  “Little boy, what is your name?” he inquired.

  “Ibert,” the dark-haired child replied, looking curiously at the officer and waiting.

  “I have a son about your age,” the officer confessed. “And he loves chocolates. Do you like chocolates, too, Ibert?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Would you like one now?”

  The child glanced cautiously toward the house where his great-aunt, Cecile, stood in the doorway, and then back to the officer, who now knelt by the boy and reached into his pocket.

  He pulled out a chocolate wrapped in gold foil, similar to the Swiss ones Monsieur Simon had once sold in his store. Ibert’s eyes grew wide as the German slowly unwrapped it, revealing the luscious milk chocolate in the shape of a wreath.

  “This is yours if you promise to tell me the truth, Ibert. Will you?”

  The little boy solemnly nodded.

  “Have you seen a wounded American paratrooper?”

  “Oui.”

  Ibert reached out for the chocolate and the SS officer laughed at the greediness of the child. He broke off half the chocolate and gave to the boy, while he kept the other half.

  Ibert, popping the small piece of candy into his mouth rolled his eyes like a connoisseur and announced,” C’est merveilleux!” Then he reached out for the other half.

  “No so fast, Ibert. First, you must tell me where you saw the paratrooper.”

  “Why, hanging from the church steeple, monsieur. Everyone saw him, the night of the invasion. . . “

  Freitag growled and snatched back the other half of the chocolate. He stood up and, looking down into the solemn face, he had a feeling that he had just been outmaneuvered by one small French boy.

  Ibert shrugged as the man stalked to his car. The boy nonchalantly turned his back, retrieved his ball, and, childlike, began bouncing it as he counted, “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq …”

  Upstairs, his grandfather, Maurice, listened for the sound of the engine the second time as the German drove out of the hay field, onto the road.

  Finally, Marsh sat up on the side of the bed. His head swam and the room leaned out of perspective as if it had been designed by Van Gogh.

  “You have the head-swimming?” Maurice inquired, watching him.

  “Yes.”

  “It will go away in the next few days,” the Frenchman assured him.

  “I can’t wait that long. I have to get back to my division immediately. Would you please bring me my uniform?”

  “That would be suicide, Lieutenant. Remember, there is no bridge. You must wait for the armies to cross the river and reach you.”

  “But you’re in danger. Your entire family. You could be shot for hiding me.”

  “You are not the first. I could have been shot anytime these past four years for my activities. A few more days won’t make the difference.”

  Unable to sit up any longer, Marsh put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  “I will have Cecile bring you some soup and a little wine to settle your stomach.”

  Maurice left the hidden room, walked carefully down the steps, and listened every few treads. Then he proceeded cautiously to the cupboard in the kitchen. He tapped once, his signal was returned, and he stepped into the kitchen. Faded blue gingham lined the shuttered window, and ancient blue crockery hung from hooks to the ceiling beams.

  “A little soup for our guest, Jeanette,” he announced. “He is awake now.”

  Ibert, seated on the small stool next to the window, had just been peeling potatoes. He looked up and inquired, “May I take it to him, Grandpapa? I wish to see the big American for myself.”

  Maurice smiled. “If you promise not to talk him to death, little one.”

  Jeanette also smiled and nodded in the boy’s direction. “He deserves a special treat. He didn’t tell the German officer anything at all.”

  Unusually philosophical for one so small, Ibert shrugged his shoulders. “The chocolate was not worth being shot, Grandpapa. Perhaps if he had offered me a bicycle. . .”

  Maurice’s eyes twinkled as he reached out to tousle the child’s hair. “You shall have your bicycle, Ibert. After the war. I promise you.”

  “A red one, Grandpapa?”

  “Oui, Ibert. A red one.”

  Maurice’s eyes misted as he looked at the little boy, so frail and yet so spirited. Ibert was the only one of his son’s family to escape the massacre by the Germans. François, his wife Danielle, and their two older children, Siméon and Vachel, were lined up against the wall and shot with the rest of the village after the German soldier was killed. Only Ibert survived, because he had been asleep in the trundle bed beneath the larger bed.

  Freitag drove back to the panzer division headquarters to report to Heinrich von Freiker. The road was clear of all fighting, for the Americans had disappeared three days earlier and the tanks were on hold. The fierce fighting along the beaches would spread inland soon, and once the American armies returned, Heinrich and his men would be ready for them.

  Losing the Tiger tank was a blemish on Heinrich’s record and he was determined to erase this blot at the earliest possible moment, before the news got back to Berlin. He had even given up his nightly allotment of spirits, which put Heinrich in a terrible mood. But his head was clear. He needed that to plan his retribution.

  “In my opinion, the wounded Americans are clearly in the vicinity,” Freitag announced. “And I have no doubt that the Duvalier sisters are involved, although I do not think they are hiding anyone in their house.”

  “I am not interested in your opinions, Freitag. I want proof. And I want the American caught.”

  Freitag’s face turned a beet hue. He was a professional soldier, not used to the verbal abuse he had been forced to take ever since joining Heinrich’s staff. “The American jeep is hidden under a haystack in their field.”

  At this information, Heinrich’s bad temper abated. He smiled, not widely enough to show his teeth but enough for Freitag to feel some small measure of vindication.

  “Do you want me to confiscate it?”

  “Nein. We will wait and see who comes for it. Put a guard detail around the farm, Freitag. At once.”

  “Ja, mein Sturmbanführer.”

  The small boy sat quietly in the attic room as Marsh ate the soup. Ibert had promised not to bother the man with questions, although the American spoke French.

  Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, Ibert said, “I polished your boots, monsieur, while you were asleep. Grandpapa let me.”

  “Thank you, Ibert,” Marsh replied, taking a bite of the freshly baked bread.

  “Do all Americans have such big feet?”

  Marsh put down the soup bowl for a moment. “Not all.”

  Coming into the room to check on the man, Maurice admonished his grandson, “Ibert, you must not bother our guest with your questions.”

  “That’s all right
. Back home, I have a little sister, Maya, who’s only a year or so older than Ibert. I’m used to questions.”

  He reached toward the bedside table to retrieve his good luck charm—the Stone Mountain commemorative coin—to show Ibert.

  “See? This is the coin she gave me for good luck.”

  He allowed the curious Ibert to examine it. “Is it like my St. Christopher’s medal?” the boy inquired. “Are these the American saints?”

  “Not exactly. There were the brave men of the South.”

  “On their horses,” Ibert added.

  “Yes. And my little sister, like the other schoolchildren, bought a coin to help raise money to finish the carving on the mountain of rock. She gave hers to me to carry on each parachute jump.”

  “I should like to see this mountain of stone,” Ibert said solemnly, returning the coin to Marsh.

  “Perhaps someday you will.”

  “Come, Ibert. It’s time to go downstairs again.”

  “Do I have to, Grandpapa?”

  “Yes, little one. The lieutenant must rest to get his strength back.”

  Maurice turned to Marsh. “If you need anything during the night, tap twice on the floor. My room is directly below.”

  For two days, Marsh remained in the attic room. The combination of rest and food provided a healing balm for his bruised body. But his mind was troubled over the three men who had been with him—Giraldo, now a prisoner of war, if they hadn’t shot him, and Gig and Laroche, hidden in another farmhouse somewhere.

  The guard detail stationed to watch the farm had little to do, for there were no comings and goings, except for the two elderly women, one old man walking to the barn each evening to attend to chores, and the small boy who played in the yard and fed the few remaining chickens.

  On the third day, Marsh, impatient to leave, counted the hours until nightfall, for he had decided to take the jeep and ride toward the sound of guns as soon as it got dark. His pistol was his only weapon, and he had little ammunition for it.