Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  “Yes,” Brother Stoltz said.

  “French?”

  “Un peu.”

  “A little is enough,” he said in French. “I am Philippe Allemann. Come with me. We’ll get you warm.” Anna knew that much French herself.

  The Stoltzes followed the man to a little car that was waiting on the side of a country road. Anna was trying to tell herself that they were safe now, that Peter would be all right, but she was sick at the thought of his being up there alone. And she couldn’t help wondering whether he had been caught. Sister Stoltz was exhausted, wide-eyed and pale with worry. Anna kept holding on to her.

  The drive was longer than Anna had expected. Allemann drove through a village named Sochaux and then entered a larger town called Montbeliard, where a section of town had been bombed. Some sort of factory lay in rubble. Beyond the town Allemann stopped his car at a farmhouse with a neat garden out front. He led the Stoltzes around the house and in through the kitchen.

  The kitchen was warm and full of wonderful smells. A white-haired woman turned from her stove to greet them. She spoke in French and said something about having German relatives. Anna didn’t understand it all, but she knew the woman was accepting the Stoltzes even though she normally considered Germans her enemy.

  Madame Allemann motioned for everyone to sit down, and then she served a wonderful stew, with home-baked bread. In a few minutes a young man came in through the back door, just as the Stoltzes had done. “I am Marcel Allemann,” he said in German. “It’s good to see you. We feared the worst.”

  “Why?” Brother Stoltz asked.

  “The Germans, for some reason, put on a special alert this morning. They doubled the guard. By the time we found out, it was too late to warn Paul.”

  “Paul?”

  “The Crow. You were very fortunate to make it across. Twice as many guards were moving back and forth along the border, and Paul had no way of knowing it.”

  “My son didn’t make it,” Brother Stoltz said. “He got caught on the other side.”

  Marcel suddenly looked more serious. “Is Paul going back?”

  “Yes. When he can.”

  “Paul won’t give up. He’ll find him—if anyone can.” But Marcel didn’t sound nearly so confident as Crow had.

  Chapter 27

  The C-47 was bucking and rolling, and Alex was struggling not to give in to his airsickness. An enormous fleet of aircraft was approaching the Cotentin peninsula from the west, heading for designated drop zones. The 101st Airborne troopers were to land in an area southeast of St. Mere Eglise and then move east toward the beaches. They would take and hold four parallel causeways. These causeways were the exit routes from Utah beach. The Germans had flooded the fields in order to make an invasion more difficult, and these four roads were the only gateways inland for the troops of the Fourth Infantry Division, who would be landing on the beach at dawn.

  The storm had abated, and the invasion had received the go-ahead from Eisenhower on Monday, June 5. Alex and his men had repeated their preparations, and all day they had worried that the delay would be extended. But this time the armada had gathered in the air over England and then crossed the channel. Under a three-quarter moon, Alex and his squad had looked down at the water and seen thousands of wakes from all the ships carrying troops to the beaches of Normandy. It was an overwhelming sight, the most massive military invasion in the history of the world. Alex was filled with a sense of the greatness of the moment, but it didn’t take away his personal fears—or his airsickness.

  As the airplane approached the peninsula, passing between the islands of Guernsey and Jersey, the jumpmaster opened the door and removed it. That way, if they were hit by antiaircraft guns, the men still stood a chance of getting out. The rush of cold air was bracing—and took away some of Alex’s nausea. It seemed to arouse the men a little, too. All of them had taken airsickness pills—something new this time—and maybe the pills were helping some, but they also seemed to make the men drowsy.

  Then everyone was suddenly jarred wide awake. As the C-47s reached the peninsula, they slipped into a bank of low clouds and were engulfed in darkness. The pilot of Alex’s airplane, obviously concerned about colliding with others in the tight formation, suddenly dove and veered to the left. By the time the fleet broke from the clouds a few minutes later, the formation was gone and airplanes were scattered.

  And then the flak began to fly. Antiaircraft fire began to burst around the airplane at a furious pace. The plan was to fly in low, at slow speeds, and to spot drop zones that would be marked by pathfinders who had made their jumps earlier. But none of the pilots had flown in combat before, and against orders they were taking evasive action. Alex’s airplane was lurching and bouncing, and Alex wondered whether the pilot was even looking for the drop zone. Outside, tracer bullets—blue, red, green—were streaking through the sky. They were like fireworks, beautiful in a way, but terrifying.

  “Stand up and hook up,” the jumpmaster yelled over the tremendous noise: the rush of air through the open door, the roar of the airplane engines, the booming explosions outside.

  Just as the men were struggling to their feet, the craft took a hit. Alex was thrown on the floor with everyone else as the airplane started into a roll. But then it held, righted itself, leveled out. The men, hanging onto each other for balance, clambered to their feet, and they helped each other hook up to the static line.

  “We’ve lost an engine,” someone was shouting.

  Other voices were pleading, “Let’s get out of here!”

  Alex was to be the last man out, and he found himself doubting whether he would ever make it, but he screamed at the men, “Calm down! Move to the door.”

  During all the confusion, the green jump light had come on, but Alex doubted that they were over their drop zone. The pilot was probably as anxious as anyone to get the men out before the airplane got into bigger trouble. The line of men moved quickly to the door, and troopers began tumbling into the night. With only three of them left to go, however, Alex heard a rattling sound like rocks in a tin can, and he realized that machine-gun fire was crashing through the fuselage. He saw Tom McCoy, in front of him, hunch and then stumble forward.

  “Are you hit?” Alex screamed.

  “I’m okay,” McCoy said, but Alex saw blood oozing through McCoy’s pantleg in the back of his thigh.

  “Unhook,” Alex shouted.

  But McCoy stepped to the door. “I’m going,” he said. And he leaped out the door.

  Alex tossed his leg bag out and jumped after it. The slip stream hit him with violent power, and then his body jolted as his parachute opened. But something was wrong. He had felt a tremendous jerk on his leg strap—and then nothing. Now he knew that his leg bag had broken loose and was gone. The pilot had been flying too fast, and Alex had jumped with too much weight.

  He was only just realizing what had happened when he saw trees coming up fast in the darkness. The wind was bringing him in at a steep angle. He picked up his legs and barely missed the top of a tree but then hit the ground hard. His feet touched first, but his chute jerked him forward and slammed him onto his chest. For a moment everything spun, but his training took over. He worked his way onto his knees, collapsed the parachute, and then managed to release his harness.

  For a few seconds he couldn’t get his breath. But he couldn’t waste time. He had no idea what was out there in the dark. He saw the silhouette of a line of low trees and realized he must be looking at the famous “hedgerows” of Normandy, but he saw nothing else, heard no one. Where had his squad come down? How in the world was he supposed to find his leg bag? Most of his ammunition was in it.

  Alex unstrapped his M-1 and loaded a clip. He was about to make a run across the field to where he thought his leg bag might be when he heard something crash through the nearby hedge and hit the ground. It took him a second to realize that another trooper had landed maybe thirty or forty yards in front of him. He heard a great gasp and then a stream of
profanity as the man fought with the lines of his parachute.

  Alex jumped up and ran to the man. “Flash,” he whispered, and got no answer. He grabbed the lines and cut them with his knife. “Thanks, man. Thanks,” the man gasped. “What is it I say? Lightning?”

  “Be quiet!” Alex whispered. “Move back—”

  Suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire cracked from across the field, and bullets whizzed past Alex. He dropped on his chest, and so did the other soldier. Alex had never been shot at before—not for real—and the sound of those bullets was paralyzing. For several seconds he didn’t move, and his impulse was never to move again.

  Alex could hear the other trooper, breathing hard. “Are you hit?” Alex whispered.

  “No. Are you?”

  “No. But we need to move away from that machine-gun emplacement. It’s up there at the corner, where the hedgerows come together. Let’s crawl to the hedge straight behind us.”

  “Just a sec. I’ve got to get my rifle unstrapped.” The soldier rolled onto his back and worked his rifle loose. Then he rolled back onto his chest. “Okay,” he whispered. Just then another burst of fire began pounding into the ground not far ahead of them. Both scrambled toward the hedge. It was not a long crawl, and Alex had no short supply of energy. He crossed the space quickly. Another burst sent bullets popping into the field, but Alex didn’t think the Germans could see much. They were firing toward the point where the trooper had landed.

  Alex and his new partner crawled close to the hedge, where the shadows were very dark, and then they sat and breathed. “What’s your name?” Alex whispered.

  “Private Milt Cooper. I’m just a rifleman. What are you?” The man had a heavy southern accent.

  “Buck sergeant. Thomas is my name.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What regiment are you with?”

  “Five-oh-six,” Alex said.

  “What’s that? Hundred and first?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cooper cursed. “We’re not even in the same division. I’m with the 82nd. What’s going on?”

  “I think my stick got scattered. And one of us—either you or I—has to be way off his drop zone. Maybe both of us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I used a leg bag and it tore loose. I’ve got a lot of ammo in it—and grenades and mines. I’d like to find it, but I think it’s across this field, back to the west.”

  “Forget that.”

  Alex was thinking the same thing, but he felt naked out there with only a couple of clips for his M-1. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Let’s move along this hedgerow, away from that MG emplacement, and get out to where we can see something. We have to figure out where we are.”

  “But you and me ain’t heading to the same place.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You can go east with me—if we’re anywhere near my drop zone. We’ll work our way toward the causeways. We’re bound to pick up more men along the way—and I can get more ammunition. Have you got your clicker?”

  “Clicker? What’s that?” In the dim light, Alex could see that this was a good-sized kid, but he seemed very young.

  “Didn’t they give you one? That’s how you’re supposed to identify yourself in the dark. It’s just one of those little cricket things, like you get with a box of Cracker Jack.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. That must only be for the 101st. They just told us to say ‘flash’ and ‘lightning.’”

  “Not lightning. Thunder.”

  “Oh. Okay.” But Cooper swore again. “This could be a mess out here, Sergeant. If we’re all mixed up with each other and some are clicking and some are giving passwords, we could start shooting each other.”

  “Our division knows either signal. We’ll manage.” He got up on his feet but stayed in a low crouch. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Wait a minute. Let me get ready.” Cooper finally undid his parachute harness and got rid of it. “All right,” he said.

  Alex ran along the edge of the hedgerow, under the cover of the shadows. He kept watching, but he could see nothing in the corner where the machine gun had fired. At the end of the hedge, he and Cooper found a road that was several feet lower than the field. As they walked along the road, the hedges on both sides created a cavernous darkness, as though they were walking through a tunnel. They were moving north, Alex believed, and if he was near his DZ, he should be able to find a crossing road that would take them east toward the landing beaches. On the other hand, if Cooper was near his drop zone, Alex might have to join up, at least for the present, with the 82nd Division.

  What Alex wanted, desperately, was to find his own men. He wondered what was happening to them. He could hear lots of noise from AA fire, and airplanes were still roaring overhead. He thought he heard some small arms fire, too, but nothing close by.

  Alex and Cooper had walked for maybe five minutes when they heard voices—whispers. Both dropped on their chests alongside the road. Someone was ahead, coming toward them. Alex could make out vague silhouettes, but he couldn’t tell whether the men were Germans or Americans. He listened closely and heard a muffled voice. He reached in his pocket, got out his cricket, then hesitated. If the men were Germans, maybe the click would only give his position away.

  But there was nowhere to go except to fall back, and the soldiers were getting close. So he clicked once and waited. All sound stopped. And then: Click, clack. Click, clack.

  Alex got up and moved forward, and he clicked again. Two clicks came back again. He didn’t want to make any more noise than that until he got closer. But as he neared, he heard a voice whisper, “Thomas, is that you?”

  “Cox?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who else is there?”

  “These guys are from the 82nd Division.”

  “What about our squad?”

  “I don’t know. Everything is a mess. These men are about ten kilometers off their drop zone, and I think we’re three or four off ours.”

  “How do you know?”

  One of the men from the 82nd said, “See that light?”

  Alex had noticed it before—a glow in the distant sky, as though something were on fire. “Yeah.”

  “That’s St. Mere Eglise. We saw a road sign. There’s a barn—or something—on fire, and a lot of Krauts around. We decided to get away from all that. But we’re supposed to be way to the west of here, on the other side of town. We thought we’d head south and work our way around to where we should be.”

  “There’s no use traveling ten kilometers by foot,” Alex said. “You might as well stay in this zone. Now that I know where St. Mere Eglise is, I know where to go.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “East. To the causeways. We assemble at a point just outside Ste. Marie-du-Mont.”

  The men stood in the dark for a moment. Alex could see little more than the relative size of each of the men. He knew that the four men from the 82nd wanted to get back to their own people, but it didn’t make sense to break up. The men needed to create a big enough unit to handle a firefight if they ran into a German patrol.

  “Okay,” one of the men finally said. “You seem to know where you’re going. What rank are you anyway?”

  “Sergeant. But I’m just a squad leader. If anyone—”

  “Hey, you got us outranked. Colby is a corporal, but the rest of us are just privates.”

  “Okay. I’ll take over for now—until we find an officer. Tell me your names.”

  The names came out of the dark: Colby, Healy, Eschler, Wilson. “All right. How are you men fixed for ammunition? My leg bag broke off, and I lost my ammo, grenades—everything.”

  Lester Cox swore. “I lost mine, too,” he said.

  But one of the men said, “We’ve got enough M-1 ammo for now. Do you want some clips?”

  “Yeah. Give me a couple until I can get some more somewhere.” One of the men fished in a pocket
and then handed him over two of his clips. Alex wished he could see the men better and get a clearer picture of who was who. He knew he needed to show some leadership and pull these strangers together into something of a squad. “Let’s head north until we find a road going east. Who’s Colby?”

  “Me.”

  “Okay. You walk the point. Let’s walk in a file along the side of the road. If we hear anything, get down next to the hedge. Colby, take my clicker, and use it if you need to.”

  Actually, Alex was not nearly so confident as he sounded, and as the men set out, it was unnerving to look into the dark and have no idea what might be out there. By now German patrols had to be moving about, and he knew machine-gun emplacements had to be scattered about the area. He did, however, take solace in the knowledge that thousands of Americans were being dropped into the peninsula. Somehow, he was bound to start finding some of them. But he found a crossing road and then marched the men at least a mile to the east before he heard a click.

  Everyone got down, automatically. Colby gave a double click and then waited. Two dark forms, a hundred feet or so ahead, got up from the grass by the side of the road.

  “We’re glad to find you guys,” one of the men whispered as they walked forward. He sounded scared.

  “What unit are you guys from?”

  “D Company. Five-oh-two.”

  At least they were 101st people. “What rank?” he asked.

  “Just a couple of dog faces,” the same man said, hardly loud enough to be heard.

  “What are your names.”

  “Nunez.”

  “Lloyd.”

  “Do you have plenty of ammunition?”

  “Hey, we got more weapons and ammo than we know what to do with,” Nunez said. “A bunch of our boys, up here in this field, dropped right in front of a machine-gun nest. They all got wiped out before they could get their harnesses off.”

  “What happened to the Germans? Are they still up there?”

  “No. We got ‘em,” Lloyd said. “Six of us went in after them—and you see who’s left.”

  Alex nodded. He wasn’t sure what to tell them, and so he only said, “Show me where those weapons are.”