On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  “I wish you would wait another day,” Maurice said, bringing him the fresh uniform that Jeannette had washed and ironed.

  “I can’t, Maurice. I’m a soldier.”

  “But one with a big headache,” Maurice replied.

  “The headache and dizziness are almost gone,” he assured him. “No, I must go. Each day I stay puts you in graver danger.”

  At panzer headquarter, Heinrich received the word. The Americans had broken through and von Runstedt had ordered him to pull out immediately to avoid being caught in the pocket. An ill-tempered Heinrich called Freitag into his presence.

  “We’re pulling out, Freitag. In one hour. The Americans are sweeping around our flank. We cannot wait for the French at Le Bois Rouge to show their hand. They must be dealt with at once. You understand, Freitag?”

  The German hesitated.

  “Kill them, Freitag. I don’t want a single one left living. That’s an order.”

  “The boy, too, mein Sturmbanführer?”

  “Everyone—the old man, the women, the child, the animals. Set fire to the haystacks, the house itself. Take a squad with you and leave immediately.”

  As the haystacks caught the warm glow of the setting sun, the smell of potato soup permeated the kitchen, the aroma causing Ibert to drop his ball and begin to walk toward the farmhouse.

  Suddenly, one of the haystacks in the field became a torch, lighting up the countryside. Maurice, coming out of the barn, looked toward the setting sun and saw the fire.

  “Run, Ibert, into the house,” he shouted.

  Cecile, standing in the doorway with her small dog in her arms, was powerless to stop the nightmare. She saw the explosion as the jeep, hidden in the haystack, disintegrated. German soldiers appeared with their machine guns spraying the farmyard as they ran, bringing down Maurice. And Jeanette, pulling the rifle from behind its hiding place behind the flour cupboard in the kitchen, gave a cry as she saw Cecile slump to the ground beyond the open doorway.

  Marsh, pulling on his combat boots upstairs, heard the sudden fire of machine guns, and knew that what he feared might happen had come true.

  He rushed down the stairs with his pistol in his hand. Too late. Jeanette, the indomitable old white-haired Frenchwoman, lay just inside the door, red blood rushing to meet her pale brown hands, still powdered with the flour of freshly kneaded dough.

  Marsh kicked the kitchen door closed and barricaded it. Then, taking the rifle, he broke the windowpane and crouched below the wooden sash. The barn began to burn and the russet-colored chickens squawked in terror, as if a fox had suddenly invaded the farmyard. Marsh’s rifle shot brought down one German soldier as he hurled a light torch toward the house.

  One weapon, one man defended the farmhouse from the enemy, until the sound of vehicles arriving and the noise of other guns drove the Germans from the conflagration they had started on the farm called Le Bois Rouge. But they were quickly apprehended and taken prisoner—the six who still remained alive.

  “Allo!” a voice called from the yard. And Marsh, inside, responded in English, for the uniforms of the soldiers were American issue.

  As some of the soldiers struggled to put out the fire in the barn, Marsh removed the barricade from the kitchen door. In the glow of burning haystacks, he walked slowly, cautiously, into the yard toward the Americans.

  Maurice, the bellringer, a member of the French Underground for four years, lay where he had been hit. Marsh, realizing the old man was dead, could no longer see clearly for the tears in his eyes.

  “The bastards! The damned bastards!” he said. For a moment he knelt beside the Frenchman. Then he rose and walked slowly toward Cecile and her toy poodle, both caught in the machine-gun crossfire of the enemy.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear as one of the officers said, “Come, Lieutenant, and climb into the truck. There’s nothing more you can do for them.”

  But Marsh, realizing Ibert was nowhere in sight, began calling, “Ibert! Where are you, Ibert?”

  There was no sign of him in the yard. Shouting the little boy’s name, Marsh rushed back into the home.

  A slight whimper behind the flour cupboard was the only sound. Marsh followed the droplets of blood upon the floor until he came to the small boy crouching behind the cupboard, while the aroma of potato soup floated through the kitchen with its faded gingham curtains and its crockery moving slightly from the vibration of the guns.

  “Ibert!”

  Marsh leaned over and picked up the child with the slightly injured leg, and held him close.

  “Grandpapa!” Ibert cried. “Grandpapa is dead.”

  “Yes, Ibert. Grandpapa is dead. They’re all dead.”

  “But he promised me a red bicycle. After the war,” he sobbed.

  Marsh cradled the child in his arms as he had cradled his little sister, Maya, when she had hurt her knee. “You shall have your bicycle, Ibert. “I’ll buy you one. That I swear.”

  The little boy looked up into Marsh’s face. “You won’t come back,” he said.

  “I promise, Ibert. I’ll find you and bring the bicycle to you.”

  “You swear—by your American saints?”

  Marsh reached into his pocket for his good luck piece. “By my American saints. And I want you to keep this as a pledge.”

  Marsh took the commemorative coin showing the images of Lee, Jackson, and Davis carved on the mountain, and placed it in the little boy’s hand.

  “I’ll find you, Ibert. Wherever you are. Now, let’s go and locate a medic to bandage your leg.”

  A sober Marsh Wexford walked slowly out of the farm kitchen with Ibert Duvalier, small victim of war, in his arms.

  Chapter 27

  By July, as Marsh returned to Leicester to begin training for another invasion, George S. Patton, Jr. the general most feared by the Germans, was allowed to cross the channel.

  As he set foot in Normandy with his Third Army, the first command given to him since the Mediterranean invasion, he stood upon the heights and sensed the destiny that friend and foe alike were determined to wrest from him.

  While Heinrich von Freiker threw his tanks into battle with a vengeance, Patton was not allowed the same privilege, for Bradley, in charge of the 12th U.S. Army Group, still took orders from Montgomery, in command of land armies.

  And so, for Patton, waiting for battle on the whim of his greatest rival, the man he had beaten to Messina on the island of Sicily, the month of July went slowly. It took him only a few steps closer to his destiny, while Montgomery remained bogged down at Falaise.

  July was not the best month for Adolph Hitler either, for a group of his own military men had conspired to murder him in his bunker fortress.

  In Berlin, Heinrich’s father, General Emil von Freiker, walked along the Strasse with his old friend, Wilhelm von Sydow. A bloodbath had begun, marking Hitler’s retribution against anyone who might have been remotely connected to the conspiracy, including thousands of innocent relatives.

  “The fools! They should never have tried to kill the Führer,” Emil said, his voice betrayed by emotions.

  “But the man is mad, Emil. You know that.”

  “The world is mad, Wilhelm. Why should he be any different?”

  “Von Kluge has chosen to take poison. The Führer gave him a choice of that—or being shot. One of the most decorated German generals—forced to end his life in such an ignoble way. That is the tragedy. And I hear that he suspects Rommel, as well.”

  Emil nodded. The two men, approaching the symphony hall, became silent. For one more evening, music, the gentle soother of savage thoughts, would again erase the horrors of war.

  Emil walked to his regular seat, followed by von Sydow. The general frowned as he read the program. The work of von Hammer, not his favorite, was to be performed that night. The Kindertotenlieder, sung by Frau Emma. For Emil, there was only one song cycle by that name—the one composed by Mahler. But Mahler was a Jew, his works banned by the Third
Reich.

  Von Sydow, also taking note of the program, pointed to Emma’s name and whispered to his friend, “She is on the list of five thousand, Emil. Her daughter, too. Her husband was a distant cousin of General Max Bucher.”

  Emil stared at Wilhelm in disbelief. “She had nothing to do with—”

  “I know. A pity. But if there’s any consolation, it will be several months before she is picked up. Her name is toward the end, and few people have access to the entire list.”

  Seeing the expression on Emil’s face, von Sydow apologized. “I’m sorry, Emil. I fear I have spoiled your evening with such news.”

  Emil sat, frozen to his seat, listening to von Hammer’s Songs on the Death of Children, sung by the great voice of Frau Emma von Erhard, unknowingly lamenting the death of her own daughter, Gretchen.

  And the old general grieved for his lost son— the one he had abandoned at St. Mihiel in another war—the child that, feature for feature, was his own image. The regret washed over him in the tragic tones sung by Frau Emma and, as he sat, caught up in the sadness of the words, Emil began to question such fatalism. What if the woman were warned? Did she have any place to hide from the Gestapo? Was it possible that he might find some way to tell her, without becoming involved himself?

  That thought was his only consolation as he listened to the music. At the same time, Hitler, recuperating from the slight injuries sustained in his bunker fortress, was consoled by the knowledge that his Vengeance rockets, the A-4s, were nearly ready to begin their deadly journey from their launching sites in Holland to wipe out every inch of English soil, and were even aimed toward New York, the premier city of the Americas. Soon, all of his enemies would be annihilated.

  Belline Wexford, struggling with her old enemy, the jealousy that encompassed her whenever she thought of Alpharetta Beaumont, listened to music of a different type.

  Her USO unit had finally moved out of London, into country to the north, where Ben Mark’s bomber squadron was stationed. The USO was taking over an old storefront, furnishing it with chairs, tables, a fountain; and Belline, in her coveralls, with a kerchief to protect her head from the dust, finished cleaning the countertop, to the rhythm of the jitterbug tune coming from the record player in the corner.

  She had not minded coming ahead of the others to get the place in shape before its opening, for it would give her some time with Ben Mark.

  The news that Ben Mark had reconciled his differences with Alpharetta and was again engaged to her, had not sat well with Belline, just as the idea of Alpharetta’s visit that weekend was not something she looked forward to, even though Marsh was bringing her.

  Her stepbrother Marsh was lucky to be alive after Normandy. And for that Belline was grateful. She gave an extra hard swish of the cloth on the counter top as she thought of how near Alpharetta had come to disaster—and survived.

  But after tonight, she would once again have Ben Mark to herself, for Alpharetta wouldn’t want him after hearing the news.

  Alpharetta sat beside Marsh in the borrowed jeep and engaged in quiet conversation as Marsh drove on the left side of the road. As the navigator, she held the map that Dow had marked for her. Even then, she was unsure that they had made the correct turn, for the highway signs, taken down at the beginning of the war, were still nonexistent.

  The fighting in Normandy had left its mark on Marsh. Not just in his medal for bravery and his promotion to captain, but in a subtler way. He was reticent about that invasion and the upcoming one, and Alpharetta did not press him.

  “I’m surprised you two got back together so quickly, Alpharetta,” Marsh said.

  “So am I, Marsh. But Ben Mark had a letter from Rennie. I guess Anna Clare talked with her. It’s a little disconcerting, isn’t it, when the whole world knows your secrets?”

  Marsh laughed. “It’s difficult to keep things from one’s own family, Alpharetta.” He then reached out and touched her hand. “I’m sorry about Conyer and Duluth. I didn’t know until Steppie wrote me last week.”

  “It’s easier for me now, Marsh. At first, I was so angry with the sea, but somehow, I feel closer to them when I look at the water.”

  “Another Anglophile,” Marsh teased, shaking his head. “Just like General Eisenhower.” Then his face grew serious. “I guess you’ve heard what a lot of American units have called him.”

  “What?”

  “The best general the British ever had.”

  “He’s still giving priority to Montgomery?”

  “The 82nd has already been assigned to him, as well as the bulk of supplies. And the 101st has been given to him too, for the next invasion.”

  “Dow said the British don’t have any more troops, Marsh. Even in reserve. They lost so many before we got into the war.”

  “That’s true. Most of the Allied Army is made up of Americans.”

  Marsh stopped the jeep, parking it in the town square situated at the top of the hill. The two got out, stretched, and began walking down the narrow cobbled street in the direction of the wooden sign advertising the Wayside Pub and Tearoom.

  “It’s too bad that Ben Mark couldn’t have the entire weekend free,” Marsh said.

  “I’m grateful he could even have a day off, on short notice.”

  “Belline and I will make ourselves scarce tomorrow. . .”

  “There’s no need for that. It will be like old times—the four of us together.”

  “But Belline spoiled it for you the last time the four of us were together.”

  “That was in London, when I hadn’t seen Ben Mark for all those months. No, Marsh. We understand each other now. Everything will be all right.”

  They entered the wood and wattle shop where summer flowers bloomed in window boxes, where a plump young woman in white apron and cap showed them to a corner nook with an old love seat. The table was covered by a faded red cloth, and on top of that was a smaller cloth—a white square embroidered with lace on the corners, with matching napkins.

  “Tea? For both of you?” the young woman inquired, watching Marsh fold his tall frame into the space behind the table.

  “Yes, please,” Alpharetta answred, “and a little something to eat. Sandwiches? Scones?”

  “My mum is taking some shortbread out of the oven. And I can fix you some cucumber sandwiches.”

  Alpharetta smiled and nodded. As soon as the girl left, Marsh said with a teasing voice, “It’s a good thing I brought some additional food with me. I’d starve otherwise.”

  “But you wouldn’t dare open a can of Spam in front of the waitress, would you, Marsh?”

  “Who said anything about Spam? I brought some sockeye salmon, some cheese, crackers . . .”

  Marsh stopped suddenly, for D-Day loomed in his memory—with Gig, Laroche, and Giraldo. Giraldo, now a prisoner, perhaps hungry that very moment. And little Ibert, losing everyone he loved . . .

  Alpharetta, seeing the pain cloud Marsh’s eyes, said quietly, “It hurts—to remember too much, Marsh.”

  He looked in surprise at the perceptive Alpharetta. “Yes, it hurts,” he admitted, realizing that only another with the same pain could understand as well.

  The others in the tearoom were politely distant to the American paratrooper and the woman in uniform. All over England, the same scene was being re-enacted. Almost no village was exempt from the sight of American soldiers with their wives and sweethearts. For the Americans, if resentful of the favoritism Eisenhower showed the British, also showed their favoritism for skin as fair as the rose and the special patriotism that mobilized them all, even to the princesses in the palace, who could fix the motor in a car as easily as any mechanic in a garage. Yet to the close observer, there was a telltale sign indicating that the woman with Marsh, despite her uniform, was not British. For she held her silverware in the American way.

  Soon the two were back on the road again, the man at the petro station reaffirming that they were headed in the right direction. And Alpharetta was grateful for the
information, which was the only thing that the man could offer, having no fuel to sell. But it didn’t matter. Marsh had brought extra cans of gasoline as well as extra tins of food.

  Within the next hour, the movement of planes overhead indicated that they had almost reached their destination.

  “Belline said to look for a storefront with a small sign on the door,” Marsh announced as they crossed a small bridge on the outskirts of town. “The canteen is so new they haven’t put up the large sign on the building.”

  White, rolling clouds filled the sky and a distant rumble of thunder answered the roar of the planes, the sounds almost indistinguishable from one another.

  “I hope that’s not an omen of what the weather’s going to be like this weekend,” Alpharetta murmured, glancing toward the sky. “It seems it’s rained almost every day for the past week.”

  “You brought your mackintosh with you, didn’t you, just in case?”

  Alpharetta laughed. “I brought my raincoat, Marsh, if that’s what you mean. Sir Dow is the one with the mackintosh.”

  Marsh grinned. “Thought you might have become British through and through,” he teased. “I watched you back there, Alpharetta, in the tearoom. You could have been pouring tea all your life, it looked so natural.”

  “Stop teasing me, Marsh, and help me look for the USO sign. Did Belline say which side of the street it was on?”

  “The left.”

  “There it is,” Alpharetta said. “Or rather, there it was,” she added, for they were passing the building just as she spied the sign.

  Marsh swung the jeep around, making a U-turn in the middle of the street, causing a woman on a bicycle to glare at him.

  “Sorry,” he yelled. The woman smiled and started off again, as Marsh came to a stop at the curbing before the storefront.

  Alpharetta removed her hands from in front of her eyes. Breathing a sigh of relief, she laughed, “You’ve started driving exactly like Ben Mark,” she accused.

  “Just be glad you’re not riding in a Tiger tank.”