On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  Alpharetta listened, but the noise in the office stopped. Perhaps it had been Reggie or Freddie, unable to sleep. When she glanced at her watch, she saw that it was one A.M., far too late to stay up any longer waiting for Dow. She stood and yawned just as the office door opened and Dow Pomeroy came into view.

  Seeing her, Dow said, “Alpharetta, what are you doing up so late?”

  “I was waiting to see you. But I must have gone to sleep by the fire,” she confessed.

  His eyes softened at her admission. “If it’s the transfer. . .”

  “No, I wanted to show you the aerial maps. I think I’ve found something really important. Could you take a quick look? Now?”

  “If you’re not too exhausted to show me. You really should take better care of yourself.”

  A puzzled look passed over her face. He was the one who had just returned from a long, tiring trip.

  They went back into the office. At first Dow was not impressed with Alpharetta’s theory or her pinpointing the merest suggestion of a wheel. And yet her argument held logic. The more he thought about it, the more logical it became. Certainly, it could be the reason for the stalemate even if it did make the resolution of the problem more complex.

  Looking from the map to Alpharetta, Dow said, “If it’s true, you realize the headache it brings.”

  “Yes. The launching sites can’t be overrun as Montgomery had hoped.”

  Tightening his jaw, Dow vowed, “We’ll have to step up the bombing of all supply trains. It’s the only way to make certain the rockets don’t reach Holland from Germany. If they have no rockets to fire. . .”

  “Then their launchers will remain idle,” she finished for him.

  “You’ve done a valuable service, Alpharetta. Now go on upstairs to bed. You and I are going to have a long day tomorrow with Mittie at Fighter Command.”

  Alpharetta, pleased to be included, said, “Do you want me to put the maps back?”

  “No, I’ll do that.”

  “Then, good night, sir.”

  His frown turned into a smile at her formality. “Good night, Alpharetta. Sleep well.”

  For a long time, he remained in his office. At 1:45 in the morning, Dow locked the maps into his cabinet, cut out the lights, and walked up the stairs to his own bedroom at the opposite end of the hall from where Birdie and Alpharetta were sleeping.

  By ten o’clock the next morning, Dow and Alpharetta sat in conference with Sir Nelson Mitford, his aide, and two other aerial target spotters. They pored over the three maps and discussed Alpharetta’s theory, substantiated by a recent intelligence report sent from a young Dutch boy through a friend in Switzerland.

  Despite the doubt of one of the experts, Sir Nelson was convinced. “The prime minister will be pleased,” he announced. And the man, nicknamed the Pelican because of his awkwardness, took special pride in the fact that it was Alpharetta who had evidently come up with the answer.

  As they were leaving, Mittie took the air vice-marshal aside and chided, “I remember the day, Pom, when you weren’t at all pleased that I assigned that young woman to your personal staff. How do you feel about her now?”

  Keeping his face sober, Dow said, “She still hasn’t learned how to salute, Mittie.”

  Alpharetta lifted her chin in defiance as they stared at her from across the room. Mittie chuckled at Dow’s reply and teased, “But she has other attributes far more important. By the way, how is Lady Margaret?”

  “Very well, thank you. I presume you know that we’re no longer engaged to be married.”

  “No, I was not aware.” Mittie cleared his throat. At a loss for appropriate words, Mittie said aloud what he was thinking at the moment.

  “I suppose no one can forget she was Gerald’s girl, first. Well, bear up, old boy,” he said patting him on the shoulder. “And be careful. First love is full of innocence. But second love is fraught with danger. And it comes jolly soon.”

  Mittie’s platitude did not make Dow feel any better, for Alpharetta’s first love had evidently not been so innocent. But Dow had no right to judge. The war had done strange things to them all, making them live for the moment, since the tomorrows were so few. That was why he mustn’t waste any more time before speaking to Alpharetta.

  They left Fighter Command and rode in silence until they had almost reached home. Alpharetta, unable to keep silent any longer, said, “You’ll sign my transfer now?”

  Before answering, Dow looked toward Eckerd in the front seat, then back to Alpharetta at his side. “I need to talk with you about that. Are you up to walking the rest of the way?”

  Alpharetta laughed. “You sound as if I’ve suddenly developed an infirmity. I confess I had a birthday last week, but I’m not quite over the hill. Of course I’m up to walking, if that’s what you want to do.”

  Dow tapped on the window that divided the front seat from the rear. He motioned for Eckerd to stop, and the two climbed out the back seat to walk the remainder of the way.

  They had not gone more than a few steps when Dow said, “There’s no need for the transfer, Alpharetta. For you the war is over.”

  She bristled at his words. “I can still fly, Dow. And I plan to do so, as long as I can.”

  “I know how you feel,” he said with sympathy in his eyes. “But you’ve done your share, Alpharetta. More than your share. You need someone to take care of you, now. And I plan to be that someone.”

  “I don’t think I understand yuo.”

  Impatiently, Dow looked around, at the lack of privacy. “Let’s walk on the downs toward the channel—and I’ll explain.”

  Still puzzled, Alpharetta accompanied him until they were out of sight of the house. With the wind whipping in from the channel and the crash of waves in the background, Dow stopped in a sheltered band of small shrubs where an outcropping of rock provided a seat.

  “Do you remember the time, Alpharetta, when we were on the beach at Lochendall and I kissed you?”

  “The spy was watching us from above.”

  Dow shook his head. “That wasn’t the reason. I merely used him as an excuse. I fell in love with you that day, Alpharetta. And that love has grown stronger every day.”

  “Dow, you mustn’t tell me these things. Lady Margaret. . .”

  “Meg and I are no longer engaged, so I have every right. I was planning to ask you to marry me when you had recovered from your shrapnel wound, but then your fiancé suddenly appeared.”

  “Ben Mark. Yes, I remember that afternoon in the garden at the dower house.”

  “But he’s dead, Alpharetta. And the living have to go on living—to salvage what’s left. I made arrangements this morning with the authorities for our marriage. The red tape will take another week.”

  “But I—”

  “No excuses, Alpharetta. I love you and that’s all that matters. And one day, I hope you will grow to love me, too.”

  It was happening too fast. But she had no time to come to terms with his words. His arms, his lips claimed her, dredging up memories of the time when she had posed as his wife at Lochendall. And the same love that had been a newly wrought thing, lying dormant beneath the surface of their lives, now blossomed into fullness.

  She ached with love lost—her father, Conyer, Duluth, Ben Mark—her strength gradually eroding with each new loss. Dow was offering her a haven of love from which she would never have to venture alone, and Alpharetta, not understanding her vulnerability until that moment, had yet to fathom the full proportion of his gift.

  She was in his arms, her head against his shoulder, and her heart was at peace.

  In a secrecy that Alpharetta did not feel necessary, Dow arranged the wedding ceremony for the following Saturday.

  “Birdie will be hurt,” Alpharetta commented, “when she discovers we didn’t even let her know.”

  “It’s much better this way. Safer for you.”

  “If you’re thinking of that weekend when we were alone in the house. . .”

  �
��Among other things. No, it’s much better to announce the fait accompli than go through the fanfare preceding it.”

  “If that’s what you want. But how are you going to explain this suddenness to your own father?”

  “You may leave that up to me,” he said, ending the conversation.

  When Saturday arrived, Alpharetta, at Dow’s request, dressed in her uniform and casually left the premises in a taxi, as if she were to be gone for the day. She would have preferred wearing something more bridal, as Belline had done. But there had been no time for shopping, not even for a new nightgown. The one concession she had made was replacing her usual pink wool thermal underwear with the white silk camisole she had brought with her from Atlanta. Because of the cold and dampness of the English weather, it had received little wear.

  Carrying her shoulder bag, Alpharetta left the house on the downs and rode into London, to wait for Dow in the lobby of the Ritz Hotel, a place filled with bittersweet dreams of innocence shattered by war like the windows that faced the Thames. Overshadowing the journey was the ever-present threat of the Vengeance rockets.

  Approximately fifteen minutes after Alpharetta had arrived at the hotel, Dow came, not in the staff car with Eckerd but in a black taxi, just as Alpharetta had done.

  She rose to greet him as his eyes sought her out. “The taxi is waiting. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He helped her into the back seat, gave directions to the cabbie, and then reached over to hold her hand, as if she needed to be comforted, which indeed she did. The entire affair had been too hurried, clandestine, and Alpharetta, withdrawing her hand, said, “Dow, I’m not sure we should be doing this . . .”

  “It’s too late for second thoughts, Alpharetta.””

  His tone was that of her commanding officer, brooking no disobedience on her part. She sighed and folded her hands in her lap to keep them still. The actuality of her wedding day was so foreign to her romantic dreams, and yet she was certain of her love for the man seated beside her. And that was all that mattered.

  The wedding took place in a consulate room, with strangers witnessing the signing of papers, the legal documents declaring that she and Dow were man and wife. With wedding congratulations ringing in her ears, they hurried down the steps; one brief kiss, one ceremony binding them together for a lifetime, neither one certain of its allotment.

  Alpharetta stared down at the plain gold band, the large emerald on her finger—the same rings she had worn when she had posed as his wife. At the moment, she felt no more married to the man beside her than she had previously.

  “We’ll have a quiet lunch at the Ritz,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “It’s already arranged.”

  She had no thought for what she ate. The mirrors, the palms, the garlands of gold, and the pink tablecloths dipping to the floor recalled an earlier day when she had sought out Ben Mark, and danced with Marsh instead. The scene was the same but her emotions were vastly different, happiness replacing the tragedy of love long vanished. Dow was right. The sorrow was Belline’s. Gazing at her husband, so serious, Alpharetta smiled at him and reached her hand toward him, taking him by surprise. And in that gesture, she sealed her allegiance to Dow Pomeroy.

  At the end of the meal, Alpharetta went to the powder room. She stared in the mirror, as she had done earlier, but a special radiance now replaced the tears of yesterday.

  “Thank you, Sir Nelson,” she whispered, “for stepping on my foot that day.” She added color to her lips, dropped a coin into the plate for the maid, and then returned to the table.

  As soon as she was seated again, Dow put into words what he had been avoiding for the entire meal. His headquarters had been transferred to the Continent.

  “Alpharetta, my plane is leaving for France—in one hour.”

  Stunned at his words, she stared at the man she had married.

  “Did you hear me, darling?”

  “I—I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. I should have told you earlier, I suppose.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “But I didn’t want to spoil the short time we had together.”

  Alpharetta stood abruptly, her hurt undisguised. A feeling of betrayal swept over her.

  “Sit down, darling. People are staring.”

  She wanted to disobey, to run from the room, but her anger made her weak and she sat down again.

  Calmly, smoothly, Dow commanded, “Eckerd has orders to take you to Harrington Hall on Monday.”

  “It seems you’ve thought of everything, Dow, except my own wishes.”

  “Where else would you go, Alpharetta? Birdie will be closing up the house on the downs, and it’s far too dangerous for you to get a flat here in London.”

  “I could go with you.”

  “No, Alpharetta. You’re my wife now. Your place is at Harrington Hall.”

  Dow glanced down at his watch. “Eckerd should be waiting to take me to the airport. I’ll put you in a taxi first, for you to return to the downs.”

  “And I’m to say good-bye here—in public—as if nothing has happened today but a casual luncheon?”

  “It’s far better this way, Alpharetta. Believe me.”

  “I’ve made a mistake, Dow. I should never have let you talk me into marrying you.”

  Dow stood and, ignoring her comment, ushered her out of the Ritz. Eckerd, parked down the street, saw them as they walked onto the pavement. He pulled out, directly behind the taxi Dow signaled.

  “I’ll write you, darling.”

  “Don’t bother.” Without looking back, Alpharetta climbed into the taxi, removed the gold band and emerald from her finger, dropped them into her shoulder bag, and stared straight ahead, seeing nothing for the tears that clouded her eyes.

  Chapter 39

  In the crowded boxcar filled with other prisoners of war, Captain Daniel “Marsh” Wexford breathed the stale and putrid air and listened in the darkness to the sound of the train slowing in its rush through the German countryside.

  He had been shuttled back and forth, changing trains, hiding in the tunnels when Allied planes had strafed and plowed up the tracks of steel.

  At times, he had been forced out of the car, to work on the rail bed, but the labor had been a welcome relief from the cattle car filled with men reduced to animal status, without food or water for long periods of time.

  Marsh’s chest still hurt when he coughed. In fact, he was almost certain he had a fractured rib from the tree trunk. But he was lucky to survive at all. It was not often that a gun fired point blank missed its target.

  The train stopped. The cattle car was uncoupled and pushed onto a side track. Marsh waited for the sound of the outside bars being released and the guttural order to disembark. Instead, even the small opening for air was locked shut.

  “You might as well settle down for the night, Captain,” a voice at his knee cautioned. “They won’t let us out until daylight. Scared, I guess, that some of us might escape in the dark.”

  An uneasy group of men shifted and shuffled, trying to ease themselves to the floor, but it was impossible because of their number.

  Suddenly, an hysterical voice erupted from the opposite end of the car. “I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay cooped up any longer.” He began to rattle the side of the car. And his voice, gaining volume, shouted, “Let me out of here, you bastards. I’m a man. Not an animal.”

  “Quiet, fella. You’ll only bring trouble.”

  He paid no attention. “You hear me, you damn bastards? I’m dying of thirst,” the man shouted at the top of his lungs, before his neighbor clapped his hand over his mouth to shut him up.

  Too late, Marsh heard the irate voices of the guards. The kicking against the boxcar was answered by a round of machine-gun fire that penetrated the wood, bringing disaster to the men crowded together inside.

  “Oh, Jesus—I’m hit. I’m hit,” a voice cried.

  “Oh, Lord, have mercy. Save us.�
��

  The moaning began, quiet, with no hope of relief. The outburst had been dealt with effectively—no one else was going to bang against the sides of the car for attention.

  A soft voice began singing, “Abide With Me.” It was taken up by Marsh and the others who could still sing, their voices forming a quodlibet to the moans of the wounded—two separate melodies entwined as one, raised to the God who seemed to have deserted them.

  When daylight came and the prisoners who had survived the machine guns were let out of the boxcar, none was in any condition to attempt escape. The irony was that without the air holes made by the machine guns, most would have suffocated during the night.

  As a weak and thirsty Marsh jumped to the ground, he was singled out by the guards, with three others, for a special detail.

  “You will have to earn your bread and water this morning,” the head guard advised. “You will start digging graves for the dead.”

  Ten men had been killed by machine-gun fire. Now, with shovels thrust into their hands, the work detail prepared a deep trench for burial. The others, seated by the tracks, watched and waited for the job to be completed. Only then would they receive water and a small allotment of black bread.

  Far too soon, without time to eat, they were brought to their feet. “We walk now,” the head guard announced.

  Marsh looked at the men, the majority unable to walk a long distance. “The men are weak,” he said to the guard. “How far are we to walk?”

  “No more than four kilometers,” the guard replied.

  They began, some able to go by themselves, others needing assistance. The stragglers were prompted with a rifle butt in their backs when they fell too far behind.

  One mile, and then two, they continued. As they came to a wooded area, the men were forced into a single file, with hands over their heads.

  Just beyond them, in a clearing, stood the prisoner-of-war camp, surrounded by barbed wire, a tall metal fence, and a tower overseeing the small huts, sprinkled throughout the compound. They had reached Stalag XIII-A, the unluckiest camp of all, judging from the faces of the SS troops who watched them file into the compound.