American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  Who knows where he’ll go down? The way that thing is burning, it could come apart any second – why doesn’t he get out?

  A trail of black smoke and sparks was following the stricken German. Von Schroeder was turning to the right, in a North-Westerly direction.

  What’s he up to now? – Oh, I see.

  “Boys, von Schroeder has spotted a pasture up ahead; I think he’s trying for that.”

  Von Schroeder had seen the green grassland contrasting with the surprisingly dense forest. It was taking all the considerable skill he had to keep the flaming, lurching Gotha headed in the right direction. The three remaining engines were at full throttle, screaming their mechanical lives away, and still he was sinking.

  A jolt of terror coursed through him – the aircraft isn’t responding – is it going to crash?

  Then, he discovered an only slightly comforting fact – the aircraft sluggishly responded if he moved the wheel to absurd positions.

  This means the control cables are heated and stretching, from the fire. I don’t have much longer before they break or burn through, then—.

  He was sweating hard, deeply afraid. He moved the landing gear lever to the down position –nothing.

  So, the hydraulics are gone, this means the flaps are not operational. I don’t know how long this meadow is. I must land as short as I can.

  As he straightened out to align with the meadow, he felt the airplane faltering – the engines were dying, and airspeed was falling off.

  To stall is instant death! Without a thought, he lowered the nose, in a desperate attempt to keep his airspeed up. The trees ahead were rising in the windshield – not good; I will zoom over them, so—

  The small branches at the tops of the 300-year-old oaks snapped off and flew in every direction as the Gotha rammed through them to the clear air over the meadow.

  Chapter 111

  6 September 1945

  Horse Farm

  1711 Hours

  Confrontation and Capture

  Some analytical part of von Schroeder’s mind noted the orderly white fence surrounding the meadow, and that he was well to the left of the center. More suddenly than he expected, the Gotha just stopped flying, and dropped the last thirty feet with a sickening lurch.

  The impact was incredible. Von Schroeder slammed into his flying harness so hard it knocked his breath out. The dying airplane caromed along the grassy surface, and began to porpoise, smashing the nose down, then pitching it back up, only to repeat. The noise was incredible. White fence poles and boards scattered as the left wing shattered them. Von Schroeder was slammed around in the cockpit like a rag doll. The back of his head smacked the seat support, hard.

  The right wing tip caught the grass, and spun the slowing aircraft to the right. A slight rise in the ground pitched the nose up again. When it slammed down, the crew compartment, which stuck out like a man’s nose ahead of the wing, nearly snapped off. The still burning wreckage skidded, bouncing, to a halt. Von Schroeder hung in his harness, unconscious.

  Joel gasped as the staggering Gotha flew through the tree tops; he was above and behind it, and couldn’t tell how low it was. Then, suddenly, the Gotha slammed to earth with a huge spray of grass and dirt. He didn’t breathe until the wreckage spun almost to a halt, then they flew over it. Making a climbing turn to the left, Joel spotted a wide dirt road alongside the meadow.

  “Boys, I’m putting her down on that road. Phil, tell’ em what we’re doing, and to get somebody up here on the double-quick.”

  The left aileron must have been hit, too. This thing’s getting squirrely, Joel thought.

  He searched the road side for power lines or phone poles; not even a P-61 could win that fight. It looked clear, so he began to throttle back, and lowered the landing gear.

  The road seemed to be just wide enough, then he abruptly realized the trees all along the right side were too close. Reacting as quickly as the increasingly sluggish airplane would let him, he “S” turned to the left, and lined up with the pasture.

  Hope I can squeak past Schroeder’s plane. He flared, then the tires settled solidly onto the grass and they were down. When they were nearly stopped, he used the left wheel brake, turning the aircraft around to face the wreckage of von Schroeder’s plane.

  “Phil, you still got that infantry outfit on the radio? Good. Make sure they understand the urgency of the situation. Guns, rotate the turret if you have to and keep me covered, but be careful! I don’t want to get shot in the back! I’m going to see if he survived.”

  Joel stepped out warily with his Army issue M1917 Smith and Wesson revolver firmly gripped in his right hand. The standard Army pistol for flyers was the Colt M1911A1 .45 automatic, but his long familiarity with revolvers made him more comfortable with the S&W. He began to advance carefully across the meadow.

  Gerhard von Schroeder shook his head, gathering his wits. His head throbbed. The world was at a crazy tilt. He finally realized the shattered crew compartment was lying partly on its side. He hadn’t lowered the landing gear – couldn’t, in fact. That meant the emergency exit, through the Plexiglas over his head. One panel was held in place with fasteners that looked like hinges.

  Instead of hinge pins, it used lengths of steel cable attached to big red handles. His injured back screamed as he reached over his head and pulled the cables. The panel fell free, clattering to the ground. A movement caught his eye, and he saw the fighter land on the meadow. With great effort and much pain, accompanied with not a few curses, von Schroeder pulled himself through the hatch, and slid to the ground. The heat of the fires seared his face. He moved quickly away from the aircraft, toward the woods on the other side of the broken white fence.

  In the P-61’s gunner’s seat, “Guns” watched intensely as his pilot moved towards the wreck of the German plane.

  Joel was halfway when von Schroeder limped away from the far side of the crumpled nose.

  “Halt! Drop your weapon! You are my prisoner!” Joel shouted.

  In the upper seat of the P-61, “Guns” moved the turret back and forth, as he leaned to one side, then the other, trying to find a clear bead on the German.

  Colonel Knight is too close to the guy! I’ll hit him sure as Jesus if I shoot. He forced his hand away from the trigger, grinding his teeth in frustration.

  Von Schroeder had unsnapped his holster as soon as he’d hit the ground. Now, he held the walnut grips of his Walther P 38 pistol firmly in his right hand. When Joel shouted, he spun around and fired twice, rapidly.

  To Joel, the first round sounded like a big, very angry bee. The second round kicked up the dirt at his feet. Von Schroeder fired again and ran for the woods just beyond the broken fence.

  Stepping behind a too-small tree, he leaned against it heavily, and fired.

  Something slapped Joel’s left arm just above the elbow. It felt like he’d been smacked with a baseball bat. He staggered a bit to the side, then fired his revolver. A puff of dirt proved he’d missed. He shot again – wide.

  Von Schroeder moved from behind the little tree, dropped to one knee and took careful aim. Joel remembered the two-handed stance he’d been taught at the Academy. Bracing his right hand with his left, he fired twice, rapidly. His left arm screamed in agony. Von Schroeder fired, missed, just as Joel fired, and then was thrown back as Joel’s second shot hit him on the right chest. He fell heavily to the ground, and lie still.

  Chapter 112

  6 September 1945

  Horse Farm

  1729 Hours

  Owner

  Sergeant Phillip Lloyd, the RADAR operator/radio man, stood on the road warily watching, his .45 in his hand. He turned at the sound of a car. A tall, slender, white haired man stepped out of a beautiful Maroon 1936 Ford station wagon. On the front door a sign on the gleaming wood read “Colton Sutter Farms,” under which was “Champion Tennessee Walking Horses.”

  “Boy,” the old man said. “Ya’ll are going to have to move that machine off my propert
y. Ya’ll are trespassin’.” He gestured toward the P-61 with a beautifully polished wooden cane.

  For the first time, he saw the crashed airplane and the huge, still burning fire. One wingtip was skewed toward them, with a clearly visible white cross outlined in black.

  “Oh, my lands! It’s a Nazi plane! How’d it ever get here? Who’s shooting?”

  “Sir,” Phil said, “you’d better take cover.”

  Joel was alert, eyes intently focused on the inert form as he crept warily up to where von Schroeder was lying. A few feet away, he spotted the barrel of von Schroeder’s P 38 pistol, and relaxed a bit. A muffled groan revealed that his long-time adversary was alive, at least for the moment.

  Joel kicked the gun out of reach, and bent down carefully. Von Schroeder was on his back, his chin tilted up. An ominous red stain was spreading on the right breast pocket of his uniform blouse. A faint gurgling accompanied his labored breathing. Joel unceremoniously yanked the man’s dagger from its sheath; no sense in taking chances, he thought.

  He yelled to Phil, “Bring the first aid kit, quick!”

  Phil handed him the first aid kit, and said, “Colonel, I got in contact with an L-5B operating with that infantry company. The pilot relayed what I told him, and he’s on his way. I gave him basic directions, but the guy’s familiar with the area ‘cause he’s from around here. Anyhow, I figured you’d want to take this character to the nearest hospital, if he’s still alive.”

  The Stinson L-5B was a light aircraft that performed scouting duties for the Army; the –B version was equipped to fly a litter.

  “You’re right, Sergeant. Now let’s do what we can to keep him alive ‘till that bird gets here.”

  Chapter 113

  6 September 1945

  At the Edge of the Woods

  1743 Hours

  Forgiveness and Salvation

  Von Schroeder blinked his eyes, and shook his head a little, as if to clear it. He struggled to focus on Joel, and a grimace formed on his face.

  “You. I thought you had killed me. Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Gerhard, just make you stop shooting at me.”

  “Bah! You hate me; are you too much the coward to finish it?”

  Joel’s voice softened just a bit, “I’ve never hated you Gerhard. We’re adversaries, that’s all.”

  “But I have hated you, for years! I have wanted to kill you! Do you not understand this?”

  Joel smiled from the side of his mouth, “That’s OK, Gerhard, I forgive you. Now, how do you feel?”

  “I think I will not live much longer. The pain is great.” His breath came out as a gurgling sigh as he put his hand over the already blood soaked dressing on his chest. “I can barely breathe. How can you forgive me?”

  “The same way I am forgiven, Gerhard, by the Grace of Jesus Christ. Have you accepted Him as your personal Lord and Savior?”

  “What? I do not understand.”

  The pain from his shattered arm suddenly swept over him, and Joel staggered.

  “I,-uh,” Joel stammered.

  Joel felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the white haired owner of the farm, Colton Sutter. “I was a Deacon for years at Wartburg Baptist Church, son. Let me help you here. Ya’ll sit down; help is on the way.”

  The old man leaned on his cane, and spoke to the wounded man.

  “Son, there comes a time in every man’s life when he must make the most important decision there is: where you do stand regarding Jesus?”

  Von Schroeder looked puzzled, “I know of him. He is the Christ of God. I was often in church as a boy.”

  Sutter smiled wanly, “The Scripture says that the very demons in Hell know Christ, and shudder in fear; just knowin’ about him is not near enough.”

  “But I have gone often to church—”

  “Being accepted by Christ as one of his own isn’t like joinin’ a club, son. You don’t just show up at the meetin’s and get into heaven. You – you personally – have to ask Him into your heart, have you done that?”

  Von Schroeder didn’t answer.

  Joel said gently, “Gerhard, I think you are right; you won’t live much longer. You must make this decision now, while there’s still time. Will you accept the forgiveness of Christ?”

  “How can He forgive me? I have done much bad, and too little good.” There was self-pity in his voice.

  “Nope, you’ve got that wrong too, son,” Sutter said in his confident way. “See here now, ya’ll can’t earn your way into eternal life – there’s just no way you could ever do enough ‘good’ to justify God overlooking your sins. Why, the only way is to accept the sacrifice that Jesus already made for you, because his blood will wash your sins away and make you white as snow.”

  Schroeder coughed soggily, bloody foam now on his lips. Sutter bent down stiffly and gently wiped it away.

  “Here’s the thing, son. Christ died as a substitute for you – he died in your place, and because He did, if you accept His sacrifice, and believe, God Almighty will see only Christ’s blood, not your sins. Then and only then will God accept you.”

  “How can I do this? I do not deserve forgiveness.”

  “Not a man that’s ever been born does. But Jesus made a way, he gave us all a gift. All you have to do is accept that gift, and it’s done.”

  “Truly? How do I accept this gift?”

  Sutter knelt down beside the stricken man, his joints popping.

  “You just need to pray a simple prayer and believe. Just follow after me, all right?”

  “Yes, say it.”

  “Say this: Dear Lord Jesus – repeat after me.”

  “Dear Lord Jesus,” Schroeder croaked.

  “I confess to you that I am a sinner.”

  Schroeder repeated the phrase, watching the old man’s face intently.

  “I confess that I believe that you died to save me from my sins, were raised again on the third day, and now sit at the Father’s right hand.”

  Again, Schroeder repeated Sutter.

  “I humbly ask forgiveness for all my sins, and that you will wash them away with your blood.”

  He had to stop to cough, but Schroeder repeated the words.

  “Nearly finished. Now say, I believe that your sacrifice has saved me, and that I will be raised up with the saints on the last day. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  Von Schroeder finished the prayer as tears cascaded down his cheeks.

  “I have been saved? My sins are forgiven of me, yes?” he asked urgently.

  “Yes,” chorused Joel and Sutter together.

  “Then I can die in peace,” Schroeder said, and visibly relaxed.

  Joel thought he had died, then the irregular breathing began again.

  “There’s a plane coming to take him to a hospital, sir,” Joel said as Mr. Sutter got back to his feet. “And thank you; I would not have done so well.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Colonel. You say the words, the Holy Spirit does the work; you need to remember that.”

  Chapter 114

  6 September 1945

  Sutter’s Farm

  1813 Hours

  Evacuation

  Much to Colton Sutter’s consternation at the continuing invasion of his farm, the camouflaged Stinson L-5B landed lightly in his pasture, and taxied to where Sergeant Lloyd was gesturing. The pilot jumped out and ran to Joel.

  “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Brian Carter. Is this man to be evacuated?”

  Joel nodded his head, “We’ve done all we can for him, Lieutenant. Now it’s between him and God. Get him aboard. Where will you take him?”

  The man gestured over his shoulder, “To Knoxville, sir, if that’s OK. It’s about thirty miles or so.” There was an unmistakable Tennessee twang in the man’s speech as he pronounced the city’s name “Knoxvull.”

  “OK, Lieutenant, where will you land? Where’s the airport relative to the hospital?”

  The man grinned proudly, “I’ll land on the
street right in front of the hospital, sir! I’m from Knoxville, and I’ve done it before. I’ll radio ahead and get my Uncle Max to stop traffic – my uncle is Chief of Police there, sir – and the hospital staff will meet us.“

  He stopped and looked thoughtful, “Say, sir, since this guy is a POW, do we need a guard for him? Do ya’ll want me to do it until we can get some MPs there?”

  “Good thought, Lieutenant. Yes, guard him. Have you a weapon? Good. Maybe your uncle would loan us some officers until the Army can relieve them. Ask him, please, and let me know. Don’t forget to check in with your commander; we don’t want him worrying about you.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that. And I’ll be right back for you, Colonel. You need to get that wound looked at right away, sir.”

  Joel closed his eyes against the pain, “Yes, you do that Lieutenant.” Blood was dripping from his fingers. He sat heavily on the grass.

  Joel opened his eyes; time had passed, but he had no idea how much.

  “He’s awake, sir,” somebody said.

  An Army Major bent over him. “I’m Major Timmons, sir, with the reserve unit your radio man called. I got here as fast as I could. My medic gave you some plasma, and put a splint on your arm. Lieutenant Carter is ready to fly you to Knoxville, sir, but we gotta hurry, ‘cause we’re losing daylight.”

  Joel licked his dry lips, “Good, Major, my thanks. I want – you need to put a guard around the wreckage. Don’t let your troops take any souvenirs, either. Umm, have my radio man call for mechanics, will you? My plane is shot up and can’t fly out.” He paused, “Did you give me something?”

  “Yes, sir, a shot of morphine. You rest easy, now.”

  Chapter 115

  5 December 1945

  Oval Office, The White House

  1030 Hours

  Recognition and Reward

  “Ladies, Gentlemen, if you will follow me? This way.” They were led into the Oval Office, where President Harry Truman was waiting.