On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

Chapter 44

  The next morning, as Gretchen slept, Marsh put on dry socks and his brogans and tramped back to the village. He had debated waking her, but decided at the last minute to let her rest.

  Taking a branch to erase his footprints outside the hut, he had also erected a barrier inside the door to awaken Gretchen in case someone else should attempt to seek shelter under the same roof.

  By the time he reached the village, Marsh knew what he wanted. And he found it in the window of a small shop off the main street. He stood outside and gazed at the boots and coat. But their price was exorbitant, far too expensive for his pocketbook, although the items were not new.

  As he started to walk on, the proprietor opened his door, “Guten morgen,” the man greeted the dejected Marsh. “You like the coat—the boots?”

  Marsh nodded. He was surprised that the man was friendly, for strangers were usually looked upon with suspicion. Perhaps the possibility of a sale had made the man react in an uncharacteristic manner. “But I don’t have enough money,” Marsh informed him.

  “The coat is very fine—and warm,” the proprietor remarked, as if he had not heard Marsh. “Come in to examine the coat, and see that I have told you the truth.”

  Marsh politely declined. There was no need to waste time. But a German soldier coming down the street made him change his mind.

  “I will do so,” Marsh said, for he did not want to show his identification card, if he were challenged.

  He followed the man inside. After he had examined the coat and agreed that it was a fine one, he took an interest in the boots. He measured them with his hands while he recalled the size of Gretchen’s feet as he had rubbed them warm the previous evening.

  As soon as the soldier had passed by, Marsh turned to the proprietor. “Danke. I will think about them.”

  “You have something of value you would like to swap, perhaps?”

  Only by hiding it had Marsh been able to keep his watch. For the guards at the stalag regularly relieved new prisoners of thier possessions. But Marsh had put it on his wrist again when he and Gretchen had set out. Now, he saw what the proprietor was proposing—the watch in return for the coat and red boots.

  “I have no shoe stamp,” Marsh countered.

  “The boots are not new.”

  “You would take the watch in exchange for the coat and boots?” Marsh knew the answer before it was spoken.

  “It could be arranged.”

  Not wanting to appear too anxious, the tall blond man slowly removed the watch from his wrist for the proprietor to examine. After a moment or two of checking it, the owner of the shop, pleased at its excellence, said, “The coat and boots are yours, mein Herr.”

  “Could you wrap them? I wish them to be a surprise.”

  The proprietor nodded. He went behind the counter, and took out some ancient newspaper and string. Within a few more minutes, Marsh left the village with the parcels under his arm, while the German soldier continued his rounds on his black bicycle.

  At the sight of the bicycle, Marsh’s memory stirred. “Grandpapa promised me a red bicycle—but he is dead.” Marsh still remembered little Ibert Duvalier’s words on that tragic day in Normandy.

  Later, when Marsh returned to the shepherd’s hut high in the hills, an incredulous Gretchen stared at the warm coat, at the boots, and then back toward Marsh.

  “And they are for me?”

  “Well, they’re hardly my size,” he teased.

  A disconcerted Marsh watched as Gretchen burst into tears. “You don’t like them?” he asked.

  “I haven’t had a new coat in four years.”

  “It isn’t new.”

  A look of fear came over Gretchen’s features. “How did you get them? I thought you didn’t have much money.”

  “I had enough,” he answered, not anxious to let her know he had exchanged his watch for the boots and coat. “Do they fit?”

  Gretchen tried on the black coat with its fur-lined hood and stood back for Marsh to judge.

  “A little large,” he announced.

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s warm. It’s beautiful. Thank you, Marsh.” Her eyes sparkled as he had never seen them. Happiness, however brief, had made a dramatic change in her, even in the way she held her head.

  “Now for the boots,” Marsh prompted.

  Gretchen sat on the old wooden stool and Marsh helped her with each boot. She stood up, walked proudly back and forth.

  “We will get over the frontier much faster now. I promise not to lag behind.”

  Gretchen reached out her hands to Marsh. Their eyes met as she moved toward him. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the chin. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will never forget your generosity. Perhaps someday I can repay you.”

  As the wind whistled down the old fireplace, Marsh’s eyes remained on the young girl’s face, angelic in the light filtering from the cracks around the door.

  “Gretchen, each day becomes more dangerous now, as we approach the frontier.”

  She stared at the man whose teasing manner had so rapidly vanished.

  “You must promise me that regardless of what happens, if we become separated before we reach Switzerland, you will write to me in care of the American Embassy in London, to let me know where you are.”

  “The war may last a long time, Marsh. So many things could happen in the meantime.”

  “Promise me, Gretchen.” His hands tightened on hers.

  “I promise.”

  They left the shepherd’s hut in silence and began the dangerous trek toward the frontier guarded by SS troops whose duty was to shoot anyone who attempted to escape over the mountains.

  For eight days, Marsh and Gretchen dodged border patrols, hid in deserted monasteries , found sanctuary in the isolated way stations that dotted the mountains. With little to eat, with nearly all their money gone, they traipsed over the mountains to the frontier and finally stood within view of the Bodensee, the two-hundred-square-mile lake that lay on the border between Germany and Switzerland and became Lake Constance once the waters were within Swiss jurisdiction.

  This was the destination they had striven for, driving themselves almost beyond human endurance as they traveled entirely by foot, for any other way would have subjected them to suspicion and possible arrest.

  After dark, they approached the lake town with caution. As usual, a cathedral spire provided a landmark for them.

  “Wait inside the cathedral, until I come for you, Gretchen.”

  “Where are you going, Marsh?”

  “To the alehouse, to try to find someone to take us across the lake.”

  Inside the cathedral, Gretchen remained on her knees for a long time. The candles flickered, burned low. Worshipers came and went, but Marsh did not return.

  Dwindling one by one, the worshipers stood, gave the sign of the cross and left, until Gretchen alone remained.

  Finally a robed priest walked down the aisle toward Gretchen. “The Lord be with you, my child.”

  She looked up at the tall, thin priest standing beside her. “Thank you, Father.” But she made no move to go. She couldn’t leave until Marsh came back for her.

  As she returned to her prayers, the priest walked on, making the rounds of the cathedral, checking each entrance. At last he walked back to where Gretchen knelt.

  “My child, you will have to save some of your prayers for tomorrow. It is past time for you to go home, “ he reminded her gently with a smile.

  “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “I. . .” Gretchen stopped. She was so tired, so afraid. But she couldn’t trust the priest with her fear. For he was German. And she was wanted by the Gestapo, as was Marsh. And he had not come back.

  “You are in trouble, my child?”

  “No That is—” She stood up. “Good night, Father.”

  Her clothes showed that she had traveled a great distance. And her face revealed a haunting desperation. Gretchen began to walk rapidly down
the aisle, but she didn’t get far before the priest caught up with her.

  “Would you like to have supper with me—and tell me what is troubling you?”

  Gretchen hesitated. “No, thank you, Father. I… have to meet someone.”

  “Here, in the cathedral? Is that why you have remained for such a long time?”

  She finally nodded.

  “I might be able to help you,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly seeking out the dark places to make certain no one overheard.

  A cautious Marsh left the alehouse to get Gretchen. He had left her far too long. And he was disappointed that he was not bringing good news with him. He had been unsuccessful in finding someone to take them across the lake, for the German soldiers had been everywhere. And each hour they stayed in the town increased the danger of their being caught.

  Marsh walked toward the cathedral and backed into a doorway whenever he heard someone on the street. Peering to the right and to the left, he hurried onto the south porch and attempted to enter the transept. But the cathedral was locked.

  “Marsh?” a voice called out from the other side of the door.

  “Gretchen?”

  He waited as he heard a key turn in the lock. A priest in black stood before him. “Come in quickly,” the priest urged. And Marsh obeyed.

  As Marsh and Gretchen ate a simple meal and waited for a member of the Resistance to come and smuggle them aboard a boat to freedom, Heinrich von Freiker waited in more comfortable quarters in a resort hotel over-looking the Bodensee.

  “Enter,” Heinrich called out when he heard the tap on the door.

  A pleased Horst walked into the room. “They are both under surveillance, my Colonel.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In the care of Father Kristophe at the cathedral. He has arranged their escape in the early hours.”

  “The tunnel is being guarded? As well as the cathedral?”

  “Ja, my Colonel.”

  Heinrich smiled. “Good. This time, they won’t escape. And as for Father Kristophe, his evening prayers tonight will be his last this side of Hell.”

  Heinrich clasped his hands before the fire. He relished the hour when he would tell his father what had happened to Captain Daniel “Marsh” Wexford, after he had taken such pains to arrange his escape. But it hadn’t worked. Heinrich had been able to track him to the lake. And with Marsh, he would destroy the underground escape route for the enemies of the Third Reich. As for Gretchen, he had other plans for her.

  “Wake up, my child. It’s time to leave.”

  Fully clothed, Gretchen sat up. The lantern flickered against the stone wall. The sound of footsteps was muffled, while low-speaking voices exchanged last-minute briefings in the tunnel. Gretchen followed the priest with his lantern. In the tunnel she searched for Marsh. But all three men were priests. Marsh was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come, Gretchen,” a priest whispered.

  “No. I can’t go without Marsh.” She looked up into the priest’s face. His grin spread wide as she recognized him.

  “Just don’t ask me to say a Te Deum,” Marsh confessed.

  “Come,” Father Kristophe urged, holding the lantern high.

  They followed through the passageway, a torturous labyrinth winding toward the lake.

  “We stop here,” Father Kristophe said.

  The tunnel now divided into two forks, like a two-headed Medusa.

  “We will go separate ways,” Father Kristophe advised. “It’s safer.”

  He indicated for Gretchen to follow him, while Marsh walked with Ernst, the other man also dressed in priestly robes.

  For a moment, Gretchen felt separated from a part of herself when she was separated from Marsh. For ten days she had shared her life with him. She had become so accustomed to being with him that she had not slept well without his presence in the room under the cathedral. But of course, the priest would have not have condoned their sharing the same room while they were under his care. She stared in the direction that Marsh had gone, and then hurried to catch up with Father Kristophe. Soon she and Marsh would be together again.

  Because of his housekeeper, Father Kristophe had become increasingly uneasy about using the old tunnel. And that’s why he had decided to send the American soldier down the newly completed section that would bring him out fifty yards beyond the lake dock.

  At that point, shortly before sunrise, when the waters of the lake lapped softly against the docks, and the wind had not yet gathered force to seep down the streets, Father Kristophe blew out the light in his lantern. Silently, he turned a handle, and the opening in the tunnel became visible.

  He waited for the signal from Ernst. And when it came, Father Kristophe waited a minute longer, while the two dark shadows moved toward the dock and disappeared into the small boat. Then he and Gretchen left the safety of the older tunnel opening. They too had almost reached the dock when the klieg lights came on, catching Gretchen in their harsh glare.

  The sirens began pulsating their raucous screams into the air. SS troops began to converge from every direction, while Heinrich von Freiker limped to the parapet above and watched the drama taking place below.

  “Gretchen!”

  “Gretchen!”

  Two voices shouted to her at the same time, two voices from different directions.

  “You cannot get away. You are surrounded, Gretchen,” Heinrich called out.

  She stood in the glare of the lights. She and the priest, Father Kristophe. The lights had not found Marsh, already in the boat.

  For one brief moment she turned her head toward Marsh, and then slowly began to walk in the opposite direction, toward Heinrich.

  Marsh, realizing what she was doing, threw off Ernst’s restraining hand as he resolved to rescue her.

  “It is too late, Captain. They have already caught her.”

  But Marsh would not be restrained. He stood up to climb back on the dock.

  With lightning speed, Ernst hit Marsh over the head, and the paratrooper, dressed as a priest, crumpled into the stern of the boat.

  Amid the noise farther down the dock, the small boat left the banks of the Bodensee. Later, Marsh Wexford woke up on the excursion boat that plied the waters of Lake Constance.

  “I’m glad to see that the damage was not permanent, Captain,” Ernst said, wringing the wet towel to place on his head. “I was afraid I had hit you too hard.”

  A heartsick Marsh climbed unsteadily from the cot, and despite Ernst’s objections, even though they were in safe waters, he went back on deck. With his priestly robes scarcely hiding the German-made brogans, Marsh Wexford braced himself against the wind and stared back at the snow-covered mountains in the distance.

  “Oh, Marsh. How beautiful. Perhaps someday I can repay you.”

  Gretchen’s voice haunted him as he remembered the morning he had given her the warm coat to wear. She had repaid him far beyond anything he deserved. For she had sacrificed herself in order to save him.

  “Gretchen,” he whispered, willing his very soul to reach her at that moment. And the paratrooper who had fought in Sicily, Italy, Normandy, and Holland, who had faced death time and again without flinching, now wept at the unhappy prospect of living.

  Chapter 45

  The hopes of the Allies—to win the war against Germany with a single thrust through Holland—had not materialized. Now they braced for a cold, bitter winter war on a broad front—with Montgomery in the north and Patton and Bradley in the south.

  Alpharetta also braced for a cold winter—in the dower house on the Pomeroy estate. She had vowed not to spend a night in Harrington Hall again until Dow returned.

  Sharing the dower house with her was Belline, who had come at Alpharetta’s invitation. It was the least she could do in Ben Mark’s memory, for it was too dangerous for Belline to stay in London while she waited for the birth of her child.

  Unaware of Dow’s mistaken idea about the baby, Alpharetta sat in the parlor with her coat on a
nd read the letter that the post had brought from him that morning.

  “I’m glad that Belline is with you until the birth of the baby, for the Germans are on the march again, and I’m not certain when I will be able to come back for a visit. I shall try to get home at Christmas, but if that is not possible, rest assured that I will be there in time for the birth of the child.”

  Alpharetta reread the paragraph. And it puzzled her just as much the second time. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders, folded the letter, and went to put the kettle on for tea.

  Even though she was not staying at the hall, Alpharetta saw Sir Edward every day. He had taken to calling at the dower house each afternoon, especially since Belline spent a large part of the day in bed on doctor’s orders, and Alpharetta did not like leaving her.

  Now she saw him walking briskly down the lane. She smiled and went to the door to open it as soon as he reached the steps.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Edward. Do come in.”

  “Good afternoon, ‘Retta,” he replied, removing his cap as he walked inside. “How is Belline today?”

  “She’s feeling better, thank you,” She looked toward the table where Dow’s letter lay. “I heard from Dow today.”

  “So did I,” Sir Edward acknowledged. In a teasing manner he added, “He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “You haven’t told him, have you, that I’m staying in the dower house with Belline?”

  “No. Not at all. Even though I don’t understand why you’re not at the hall.”

  “The house is easier to heat,” she defended, rising from the chair to place another log on the fire.

  “You’re right about that. Harrington Hall has always been impossible in winter.”

  “Then perhaps you should move in with us, Sir Edward.”

  He cleared his throat and reached for the pipe in his pocket. “Now that’s what I would like to discuss with you.”

  “You mean, you might consider it?”

  For a moment, the look on Sir Edward’s face was blank. Then understanding brought back his usual demeanor.

  “No, not that. What I want to discuss is your continuing to call me Sir Edward. That won’t do, ‘Retta. Won’t do at all. You’re Dow’s wife now.” He looked at her rather sheepishly. “Would it be too difficult for you to start calling me—Father?”