Bomber

by Paul Dowswell

  Harry watched her cycle away into the dark with the young man who had accompanied them. Having wondered how Natalie would be if she survived the war, he had been moved by her sudden display of tenderness and knew she would be all right. Seeing her gentler side made him realise she had a kind of bravery he could only begin to imagine.

  They moved as quickly and silently as they could. At any moment they might hear a challenge or the sound of a rifle being cocked, or even fired. It was awful living like this, thought Harry. He felt permanently tense. It was even worse than flying. At least with a Fortress you could see your enemy coming and you knew when you needed to be frightened and when it was OK to relax.

  Miquel led them into a pine forest and kept a few feet ahead. The moonlight was a mixed blessing. Their little group would be easily spotted, but at least they could make out the guide’s silhouette and the way ahead.

  Harry could feel his legs beginning to tire, and no wonder – the path through the forest was on an increasingly steep slope. Walter walked ahead with their guide, and then hung back to wait for Harry to catch up.

  ‘He says we’re taking the long way round here,’ he told him. ‘Miquel knows where the guard posts are but it’s the patrols we have to be especially careful about.’

  The forest came to an abrupt end and all at once they were climbing a vertiginous slope of slippery scree and Harry found himself gasping for air, his breath glowing in the moonlight.

  The path narrowed and Harry could see they were going through a pass with a steep rock face on either side.

  ‘We have to hurry through here,’ said Miquel. ‘If we’re spotted by a patrol, we’ll be picked off with ease. There’s nowhere to hide.’

  It was the longest twenty minutes of Harry’s life. As they scrambled up the great boulders that filled the steep gully, all he could hear was the scraping of boots on rock and the sound of his own breathing. He was drenched in cold sweat and felt chilled to the bone in spite of the exertion. At once he had a flashback to his turret in the Macey May.

  Eventually the steep rock sides curved out and they appeared to have reached a plateau. Harry was beginning to wonder how much longer he could carry on. Walter patted him on the back – ‘Well done, Sergeant!’

  He beamed. ‘Jesus, I’m shattered.’

  Miquel picked this moment to tell them they were going to stop in a small cave for some rest. It was only another few minutes away.

  The cave was dank and had a horrible smell about it. Harry wondered if something had died in there. Miquel led them on into the gloom, and when they were so far inside they could barely see, he took out a small flashlight and shone it ahead.

  ‘Quick, to build a fire,’ said Miquel.

  He indicated they would light the fire at the very end and said they should all look for twigs and small branches. Harry thought that was a great idea. If he didn’t warm up soon, he might just curl up in a ball and die of exposure.

  They went off to find wood, no one venturing too far from the others. As Harry bent to pick up a twig, he heard a guttural growl and found himself staring straight into the eyes of a bear. He was close enough to smell its stinking breath and see the saliva glisten in its jaws. It might not have been that large, but it looked ferocious and ready to attack.

  Harry froze, and suddenly Walter charged towards the animal, snarling angrily and brandishing a hefty branch. The bear turned and fled.

  As Harry sat flabbergasted on the ground, Walter let out a laugh. ‘Got to show these creatures who’s boss,’ he chuckled, and offered a hand to help Harry stand.

  Ten minutes later Miquel had built a fire in the deepest part of the cave. Harry felt his strength returning as the flames warmed him and he ate the bread and cheese they had been given for the journey. ‘Two hours we rest,’ declared Miquel. ‘Then we walk more.’

  It was difficult to sleep – the ground was too lumpy and it was too cold – but Harry was glad of the rest. Miquel managed to sleep though; Harry could hear him snoring.

  They carried on before first light the next morning, listening in the silence beyond their footfalls for anything that would suggest anyone was stalking them.

  After an eternity, a pale rim of light appeared on the horizon and darkness receded.

  Harry was freezing to death and could no longer feel his toes in his boots. His eyes were streaming with the cold and he wondered if he was going to get frostbite. But the view was breathtaking.

  ‘Look at the sunrise,’ said Walter. It was magical. They were above the clouds and the rising sun was lighting them from below. Harry thought sadly of his brother and the hiking weekends they had spent in the Catskill Mountains, north of New York. This was the sort of view David would have talked about for weeks. Harry wondered how there could be such beauty in such a frightening world.

  Miquel spoke to them both. ‘Down there, we reach the big river. Then border post. Come.’

  He pressed on. Now they were walking downhill and nearing the final part of their journey.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Pyrenees, November 19th, 1943

  When it got fully light, Harry expected them to hide and rest but Miquel had no such plan. He explained that they needed to press on as quickly as they could. The sky was heavy with dark clouds that promised snow. They needed to get down past the border post before it started to fall.

  They trudged on, stopping briefly when Miquel told them it was noon. For a few moments, a watery sun emerged from behind low dark cloud. Even this momentary glimpse was enough to warm their spirits. Walter smiled, and as they ate the last of their rations he shared his cheese with Harry.

  ‘We will soon reach the river near the border,’ said Miquel. The plan was to keep hidden in the tall trees along the bank and walk north towards a rope bridge. The river would be too dangerous to cross in any other way.

  ‘Now, very important,’ Miquel continued. ‘In Spain, they don’t like les américains. The border guard sees us, maybe he shoot to kill.’ Natalie had briefed them earlier on the dangers they would face in Spain. If they were caught, the Spanish authorities would send Miquel back to France to face the Gestapo. Harry and Walter could be interned in a camp. They would not be safe until they reached the British consulate in Bilbao.

  An hour later, Harry heard the sound of roaring water and knew at once why they would have to cross by bridge. His feet hurt and his hands were freezing, but he kept quiet.

  The river was every bit as frightening as Harry expected. It was not as wide as he had feared, narrow enough in fact to throw a stone from one bank to the other, but water poured down from the mountains feeding a great torrent that would sweep away anyone foolish enough to try to ford it.

  As the afternoon wore on, flakes of snow occasionally fell from the sky, but never settled to a steady flow. Shortly before dark Miquel turned to them both and put a finger to his pursed lips. ‘Ten minute,’ he said. ‘Border post.’

  They crept forward, conscious of each snapped twig and brushed leaf. As the twilight settled, a fog rose and shrouded the landscape. It settled on the little group, adding an extra layer of damp misery to their exhausted bodies.

  After half an hour Harry could see a pinprick of light on the far side. He tapped Miquel on the shoulder and pointed to it. Miquel slapped him on the back and whispered that they should all be extra quiet.

  Soon after, they saw the bridge emerge from the mist – a spindly rope construction with wooden slats. Harry couldn’t believe it. It was the sort of thing explorers crossed in Saturday morning B-movies. They were usually clutching Inca treasure and pursued by angry, spear-waving natives. In the movies, bridges like this were always rickety and crumbled when you stepped on them, but this bridge had been recently creosoted, and the wood was polished and sturdy. He allowed himself a little chuckle. They had been lucky so far in their border crossing. All they had had to put up with was a brief altercation with a bear.

  Miquel called them together and they huddled close so as to hear
him over the roar of the river. He pointed to a small wooden shed on the far side. ‘We wait. They sleep, we go. OK?’

  It seemed a simple enough plan. But the wait was interminable. And while they lay there on the frozen ground the snow began to fall in earnest. Within minutes it lay over every surface.

  The light in the guards’ hut eventually flickered out. Walter kept getting up to go to the bridge, but Miquel held him back. ‘We wait … until they sleep for sure,’ he had to keep saying.

  Eventually, when Harry was so cold he thought he would never be able to move his fingers again, Miquel stood up. ‘Very quietly. You have to go under the window, yes?’ He modelled crouching down to walk – at all costs they must not disturb the men inside.

  ‘Walter first, then Harry, then me. OK!’

  Walter crossed the snow-covered bridge in a bare minute. If it creaked, then the roar of the river drowned out the noise. They saw his silhouette crouch down and crawl past the hut, exactly as instructed.

  Now it was Harry’s turn. He screwed his eyes up so he could barely see the river below him and began to make his way across. The snow on the polished wood and the swaying of the bridge as it moved under his weight were a treacherous combination, and three-quarters of the way over he slipped on the icy slats. He frantically grabbed at the side of the bridge as he tried to regain his balance but he toppled over, almost falling through the gaps between the ropes, and for a moment he dangled over the void. In a flash Miquel was up on the bridge and helping him to his feet.

  He said nothing but his eyes spoke for him: What the hell are you doing?

  Once they were both back on the bridge, Miquel beckoned for Harry to continue. Harry’s feet touched Spanish soil. At once he was reminded of the moment his feet touched the ground when he’d parachuted out of the Macey May. He wanted to shout out loud in triumph. Now he no longer had to worry about the Gestapo. But he stayed silent. With a huge grin on his face he crept past the shed. Inside he could hear a man snoring so loud you could easily hear him despite the roaring river.

  Miquel arrived over at the trees a few moments later. ‘What next?’ said Harry. He felt he could walk another ten, twenty miles, no problem.

  Then he noticed Walter had stood to one side and was pointing a pistol at them.

  CHAPTER 31

  ‘Out, out in the open.’ He was shouting at them now. Harry looked at him in amazement, but Walter shook his head contemptuously. ‘You dumb louse. Now, all of you, put your bags down and your hands clear in the air. Anyone makes any trouble, I’ll shoot you without a second thought.’

  To make his point, he let off his pistol and the shot thudded into the ground just in front of Harry’s left foot.

  ‘¡Eh! amigos! ¡Venga y ayúdeme!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. Harry’s sense of impending catastrophe deepened. Who was this guy? Was he in league with the border guards? Who would have guessed he spoke Spanish?

  Nothing happened. Walter called out again. This time, after a pause, the light inside the shed came on.

  ‘Come on,’ Walter indicated with his pistol. ‘Get over there.’

  A door opened and a sleepy man, dressed in the uniform of the Spanish National Guard, stumbled out.

  He too was armed. Now Harry and Miquel had two guns pointing at them.

  Walter spoke to the guard in Spanish and then pushed his captives inside the border post. Harry heard Walter use the word teléfono several times, but the guard shrugged. They didn’t have one. Under the watchful eye of the guard, Harry and Miquel were each tied to a chair with twine.

  ‘Have a rest, boys,’ said Walter to his captives. He was enjoying mocking them. ‘We’re all going to be busy when the relief guards arrive in the morning.’

  They sat in the glow of a gas lamp, the captives down one end of the room, Walter and the guard at the other, guns raised. Harry’s heart was beating fast. This was the end of the road. Maybe he would spend the rest of the war in a Spanish concentration camp; he hoped Natalie had been right and they would not send him back to the Nazis in France. But he felt sick with anxiety for Miquel. It was difficult to tell in the low light, but his guide looked white with fear. The thought of Miquel being tortured and then executed filled Harry with horror. Anger boiled up inside him.

  ‘What’s your game, Walter?’ he shouted. ‘Are you some kind of nut?’

  Walter gave a smug smirk. ‘You suckers,’ he laughed. ‘You let me follow you all the way down the escape line from Amiens. Those Resistance bastards won’t know what hit them when I get to talk to the Gestapo. Paris, Bordeaux …’ He turned to Miquel. ‘And you creeps in your piss-ant border town.’ He looked at the Spanish guard. ‘At least Pedro here has been doing his job properly. We thought the border guards might be open to bribes.’

  Anger flashed in Walter’s eyes. ‘We’re on the wrong side,’ he said. ‘We should have listened to the German American Bund before we got involved with the Limeys. With our Jewish press, pumping out their hate for Hitler, America didn’t stand a chance. I knew I did the right thing when I came over here to fight with Franco in the Spanish Civil War. Then I went with the fascists to fight over in Russia as part of the Blue Division. Bolshevism has to be stopped before it takes over the world. And their pals, the lousy Jews. They’re just dupes for the Jews back home.’

  ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’ asked Harry.

  ‘They asked me to infiltrate the escape lines. Gave me an airman outfit, dog tags, the lot. You all bought that story about Chicago and the girl, didn’t you? I wouldn’t live in that mongrel nation again. Not now I know how a good fascist country can be run.’

  Now he’d started, Walter didn’t feel like stopping. He’d played a role these last few days and now he could be himself. He turned on Harry.

  ‘You just came over from England, didn’t you? I hear the Limeys let the Blacks over there run free – dating those English girls. They have the right idea in Germany. Girls who consort with subhumans get sent to concentration camps.’

  ‘The Germans are gonna lose this war,’ said Harry with conviction. ‘And when they do, you’re gonna be shot as a traitor.’

  Walter laughed cruelly, then came over to Harry and pulled his head back by yanking on his hair. ‘You look like a Yid. I knew you were a Jew boy the minute I saw you. Maybe I’ll shoot you. They’re not so intent on cleansing their Jews this side of the border. Don’t give me any excuses.’ Then he picked up a bayonet lying on the table and tapped his finger on the tip of the blade. ‘Or maybe I’ll just slit your throat …’

  Miquel spoke up. ‘You will never win after Stalingrad. Soon the Americans will come, and the British and the Canadians. They will come over the sea. They will take back la France. And their bombers will reduce your Third Reich to dust.’

  ‘Hey, mountain man, I’d shoot you with pleasure. But I’m sure our Gestapo friends will enjoy hearing what you have to say. Maybe you’ll tell them about your pretty little French girl. She’s clever. It’s a shame she’s on the wrong side too. The Germans will make a real mess out of her when they catch up with our Natalie.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Stalingrad was just a temporary setback. This is a turning point in world history. National Socialism will disinfect the diseases of Bolshevism and Capitalism. Yes, the invasion will come from the west and it’ll be destroyed on the beaches. I’ve fought side by side with German soldiers. And they’re the best in the world.

  ‘Now excuse me, gentlemen, but much as I’m enjoying our little conversation, I need to piss.’ He turned to the guard and said, ‘Tengo que mear,’ then walked outside.

  The guard looked at the two of them and, much to their surprise, winked. He got up, picked up his rifle and walked out too. A moment later a shot rang out.

  The guard returned. They looked on, astonishment etched across their faces. He picked up the bayonet and for a moment Harry wondered if he was going to kill them too. But he didn’t. He knelt down behind each of them and cut them free.

  ‘I live in
America for two years.’ He spoke in heavily accented English as he sawed at Harry’s bonds. ‘I like your “Mongrel” Nation.’ Then he said, ‘And my name is Luis, not Pedro.’

  He spoke to Miquel in French. ‘Vous êtes deux veinards …’ Miquel chuckled as Luis continued to speak, then explained to Harry. ‘We are two lucky bastards. The guard who is usually here with him tonight is a hundred per cent Franco fascist and he loves the Nazis.’

  They went outside to where Walter was lying face down on the ground, the back of his head a bloody pulp. It was a good thing that Walter had gone outside; it would have made a terrible mess in the guard hut. The guard gave his body a hefty kick. He was dead all right.

  Harry and Miquel picked him up by the legs, and the guard held on to his arms. They stood beside of the river and swung him back and forth three times before hurling him into the water.

  ‘Thank you for helping us,’ Harry said as they walked back to the hut.

  ‘Two of my brothers, they joined the Blue Division,’ said the guard, ‘The one that jerk talk about. Both killed in the siege of Leningrad. My poor mother. Died of a broken heart.’ He crossed himself.

  Harry was confused. ‘But Spain isn’t fighting in the war?’ he said.

  ‘Blue Division is volunteers – all Spanish soldiers, fighting Soviets.’ He sighed. ‘We back the wrong side of this war, my friends … Now, inside. I make coffee.’

  Miquel and the guard spoke for a while in French. Miquel told Harry, ‘Luis here will look after you.’ The next guard shift was due to arrive at six o’clock and they mustn’t know anything, so Harry would have to hide in the woods. ‘I’ll stay un moment, then I go back through the mountains.’

  They drank their sweet black coffee in a daze. Harry felt a huge debt of gratitude to Miquel. When he got up to go, he gave Harry a handshake and a hug that almost crushed the life out of him. ‘Bonne chance!’ he said. Then he vanished over the bridge.