Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1) Page 12

  Supper held little appeal for him, even after the scant snack of candy aboard the Spam Can that had tasted suspiciously like rubber and gunpowder. Returning to his Quonset hut afterwards, he collapsed on his cot and stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Marvin Jones offered to tuck him in. His crew had flown twelve missions now. He understood what Paul was experiencing. “Time to go nighty-night?”

  Walt had disappeared after debriefing. Gone to visit a pub, Quinn guessed. Fine with Paul. It’d be nice not to have to endure Walt’s hot and cold attitude for a while.

  A new crew moved into their hut, replacing the Peters crew that had finished their tour the previous week. One man spoke to a crewmate and Paul’s ears picked up a familiar accent the others might not recognize. He waited until the man glanced his way before asking, “Woher kommen Sie?”

  Shock covered the man’s face when he realized Paul had spoken to him. A wary look came over him. “Why do you ask?”

  Paul sat up and smiled. “My grandparents came from Pomerania. I know a hint of German when I hear it. I’m Paul Braedel. Where’s home now?”

  The man wilted down onto the cot he had claimed. “I’m Rafe Martell, from Milwaukee.”

  “Really? So am I.”

  A sergeant knocked at their door. He entered and glanced around at the officers present. “Which is Lieutenant Kressle’s bunk?” Paul pointed at the cot by the door and the sergeant began stripping it. “The lieutenant had an accident with a bicycle. His spine was injured and he might not walk again. At any rate, he won’t be flying again.”

  Gathering Walt’s belongings, he turned and left.

  “Well, of all things.” Quinn dropped his pen and paper on his bunk. “Over a year of training down the drain after only one mission.” He wandered to the window and stared out. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think I’ll miss the guy. He sure didn’t care to be friendly. I never figured out what demons drove him.”

  Paul lay back down and linked his hands beneath his head. Quinn’s words echoed in his mind. What demons drove Walt? That first day Paul had joined the crew, Walt had seemed to open up after he learned Paul had lost Rachel. But then he turned prickly again, always ready with a smirk. Asking whether he had washed out of pilot training, as the gunner implied, would have been a surefire way to make him snarl, especially since Paul himself hadn’t washed out. Since Rachel’s death had softened Walt, maybe he’d lost someone, or been the recipient of a Dear John. Paul never even bothered to learn where he was from.

  He shifted on his bunk. Was he too wrapped up in himself? Barely on speaking terms with God. Unwilling to speak to a difficult crewmate who likely had hurts of his own. Good thing Rachel couldn’t see him from heaven. She’d be disappointed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Saturday, March 25, 1944

  Heidi swung the carpet beater. Wap! A cloud of dust forced her to back up several steps. She glared up at the evergreen. Its boughs hung completely still. What happened to that lovely breeze that had prompted her to gather all the rugs and carry them outside for a cleaning?

  The back door banged and Gretchen ran toward her. “I’m afraid I didn’t have much luck at the store. This is all I could get.” She held out her hand, displaying one spool of white thread. “No colors are available, and Herr Bloch said he doesn’t even expect any more white while there’s a war on.”

  “Oh, dear. This won’t last long. Having squares of cloth for repairs is no good if I can’t sew them into place.” She handed Gretchen the beater in exchange for the spool. Transforming the swastika flag into clothing had exhausted her dwindling supply of thread. All that remained of the flag were strips of black she planned to use for knee patches. The boys were so rough on their britches. She played catch with the spool. “I wonder if Sankt Goar has thread.”

  Ignoring her sister’s sputters over being left with the rugs, she headed for the house. When she opened the door, the children spilled out. Outdoor playtime. The older boys raced for the clothesline, where Gretchen gladly surrendered the carpet beater. Hopefully she’d ensure the boys didn’t get too enthusiastic and damage the rugs. At least the traitorous breeze was stirring again.

  Frau Ziemer guided the little ones in a walk around the yard. “Why don’t you ride the mare to Sankt Goar on Monday during naptime? The weather should clear, and Doll could use the exercise. You could also mail some letters and avoid the Grotes’ curiosity.” The farm wife’s eyes took on a gleam. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. I’ll write those letters this evening.”

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Same Day

  Bad weather covered all of Europe. No flying today. The crews slept late and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Paul and Art were at the mess hall when Aubrey found them. “Art, you’re an official member of our crew now.”

  Paul punched Art’s shoulder. “How about that? You’re an orphan no more.”

  Art’s grin split his face.

  After helping Art move his belongings to their Quonset hut, Paul headed for the chapel. He stuck his head into Chaplain Hogan’s office. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Always.” The chaplain dropped his pen. “You flew your first mission this week. How did it go?”

  “For Berlin, we had it easy.” Paul shrugged. “Others didn’t, though, that’s for sure. Like Maggie Girl.”

  “Maggie Girl?”

  Paul twisted his cap in his hands. “The plane next to us.”

  “Ah.” Lieutenant Hogan nodded with a knowing look.

  Paul took a deep breath and held it for a moment. The horrific scene replayed in his mind like a movie reel. He exhaled hard. “I heard it was the crew’s twenty-sixth mission. Last year they would’ve been on their way home after completing their tour of twenty-five missions, but since the mission count was raised to thirty, there they were. I could see the gunner in the top turret. All of a sudden, the plane exploded. Boom! I watched it happen. One big fireball and they’re gone. Just like that.” Paul snapped his fingers. He shook his head and paced around the room. “Never in my life will I forget that sight. There one moment, gone the next. That could have been us. All I can think is, ‘The good hand of my God was upon me.’”

  “You’re quoting from…?”

  “Nehemiah.”

  “Right.” Hogan leaned forward. “Tell me, Paul. Would you still feel God’s hand was upon on you if you were struck by a bullet or shrapnel and lost a limb or suffered some other type of permanent injury? Would you still feel His hand is good?”

  “You mean, will I accept bad from God, as well as good?” Paul stared at his hands and flexed his fingers. “I’d like to think I could accept either. I mean, I know bad things happen to the people of God.

  “I’ve had a fairly easy life, but I know I could end up badly hurt here. I heard about the tail gunner who lost his oxygen supply for so long he passed out and went blind. The frostbite he suffered resulted in him losing his hands, feet, nose, ears.” A shiver raked him. “To me, that’s not living anymore, not really. If I’m hurt that badly, I’d rather die and go right to heaven. But if things do get so bad for me, I’d like to think I’ll hold tight to God’s hand rather than get mad at Him.”

  The chaplain nodded. “Hang on to that outlook.”

  “There’s the problem. I let go when my wife died. I know the pat answers. When I spoke with a war widow in Florida, I told her I choose to believe and I have hope, even though I’m mad at God. I felt like a hypocrite. I’m all confused.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Give yourself some leeway. After losing his wife, any man would have questions.” Hogan came around his desk and perched on a corner. “Ask yourself this question. Is yours an inherited faith based solely on what your parents and teachers have told you? Or is it a fire-tested faith based on your own experiences of God’s faithfulness? With a proven faith, adversity like loss and war can benefit you, molding you into a likeness of Jesus. Turn to Him, Paul, not away fr
om Him.”

  “Yeah.” Paul pivoted to the side and back. He scuffed his toe on the floor as he looked to the window.

  “Something else you’d like to talk about?” The chaplain returned to his seat and folded his hands on his desk as though he had all the time in the world to chat.

  Paul hesitated. Then words burst out of him. “Chaplains are like doctors, right? You keep confidentiality?”

  Chaplain Hogan inclined his head. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

  Paul dropped onto a chair and leaned forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “I’m not so much mad at God as I am at Rachel.” He rubbed his face and sat up. “People don’t just up and die. Not at our age. I thought maybe she had appendicitis, but that wouldn’t cause a coma, would it?”

  The chaplain shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  Paul waved his hand. “Maybe it was something else. The thing is, she didn’t do anything. A bad pain, out of the blue, you gotta know something’s wrong, right? Sure, she didn’t like doctors and needles.” He hopped up and paced again. “I wrote her about all the shots I was getting in training. She wrote back, ‘Better you than me.’ Ha. No kidding.”

  Back at the window, he raked his hand through his hair, dislodging his hat. He caught it before it hit the floor. “Friend of our parents had surgery and afterwards couldn’t stop talking about how much better she feels. Should’ve had the operation ten years ago, she said. Rachel commented on that a couple of times. And yet, she did nothing.” He slapped his hat against his thigh. “She didn’t have to die.”

  Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away. “I’m seeing guys die here because the enemy killed them. They wanted to live. Rachel could have, but she did nothing.”

  “Paul.” Chaplain Hogan’s quiet voice held no shock, no censure, no disappointment. It held a lifeline. Paul turned around. “What you’re feeling is normal. You’re in a classic stage of grief, Paul. Anger at God for allowing your wife to die, and anger at Rachel for leaving you. Anger is a coping device to deflect the intense pain of her absence.”

  The chaplain rose. “Your war experience is exasperating your emotions, prompting comparisons. And don’t forget, you haven’t heard what caused Rachel’s death. She may have been beyond help no matter how quickly she got to a doctor.” He laid a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “God promised to be with you always. That promise is solid rock to stand on.”

  He brought his other hand to Paul’s opposite shoulder. “The Lord bless you, Paul, and keep you. The Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.”

  The ancient benediction brought a sting to Paul’s throat. He’d be bawling like a baby in another minute. He walked outside to see the sun break through the clouds. It was so much like a sunrise on the Miami coast. Warmth like a Florida breeze settled in his soul.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Wednesday, March 29, 1944

  The growl of an aircraft engine penetrated Heidi’s sleep. Whump! The house shook and a dreadful screech filled the air. Heidi gained her feet before completely waking up. She swayed in the dark. What was that noise? It sounded like a bomb, but now all was again quiet. Or was it? An eerie light outlined the window. She pulled aside the blackout curtain and her breath caught. Across the yard burned the wreckage of a plane. Two men stumbled away from it.

  Heidi yanked on her clothes over her nightgown. A plane crashing at that hour had to be British, since they did the night bombings.

  Herr Ziemer was already in the kitchen, laying his rifle on the table. “It’s one of ours, a night fighter.”

  They rushed out the door. One airman had crumpled to the ground. His companion jiggled his arm. “Herr Leutnant, we must get away from the plane in case it explodes.”

  Herr Ziemer laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I don’t think you need to worry about an explosion. Not now, with the way the plane disintegrated after you struck our tree. What’s still on fire will burn itself out.”

  The man looked around. “Oh, I guess you may be right. I’m terribly sorry. We didn’t mean to take down your tree.”

  He was shaky and babbling, probably in shock.

  Herr Ziemer knelt by the unconscious man and opened his blood-soaked flying suit. His left arm was entirely red and blood continued to flow. Heidi slapped a hand over her mouth. Herr Ziemer ripped up the torn suit and pressed it against the wound. The man groaned.

  “Heidi, run for Doctor Schultz.”

  She spun around and took only one step when the crunch of wheels on the gravel lane announced an arrival. In the flickering firelight, the doctor wobbled to a stop on an ancient bicycle.

  “I was on my way home from a house call when I saw the plane come down. Does anyone need help?” Without waiting for a reply, he crouched down beside Herr Ziemer over the wounded man.

  The crewman stayed to the side, eyes rounded, hands still quivering. Best to get him talking. Heidi took his arm and led him to a bench away from the wreckage. “My husband was in the Kriegsmarine. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with planes. What sort were you flying?”

  “A Messerschmitt 110.” The man’s chest rose and fell with a deep sigh before he added with a touch of defensiveness, “It’s a good plane. It has a bad reputation for not doing well against Tommy’s fighters, but that’s not its purpose. The 110 is intended for use against bombers.” He bowed his head and ran a hand over his hair. “We didn’t do so well tonight, though.”

  Tommy. That’s what the British were called. The Tommies and the Amis, the Americans. She patted the hand lying limp in his lap. “What is your name?”

  “Unteroffizier Karl Mueller. I’m the radio operator. Leutnant Koch is the pilot.” His eyes strayed back to the activity nearby before he squeezed them shut. “We shot down a Wellington. It flipped over and went down like a comet and exploded just before crashing. Lit up the whole area. They were attacking Koblenz. We have to fire flares to keep our own flak batteries from hitting us. The searchlights have to be switched off so they don’t blind us. When its pitch dark, you can’t see the Tommies until you’re practically on them.”

  His words spilled out of him so fast, his tale was difficult to follow. Heidi understood enough. She hunched her shoulders. Even out in the country, Bickenbach wasn’t completely spared from the war.

  Gretchen glided up to them and pressed a cup of ersatz coffee into the crewman’s hand. Made of chestnuts, it tasted horrible but Mueller gulped it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and continued his story.

  “We got a position fix from our base in Bassenheim and were ready for another Tommy. And there he was, right in front of us. We opened fire and I saw a glow on the rear fuselage. I thought he was on fire too, but then Leutnant Koch yelled he was hit and breaking off. The glow I’d seen was muzzle flashes from their rear turret. Leutnant Koch kept slumping down on the controls and we veered off course.”

  Heidi stroked a light hand up and down his back. “You’re both alive. That’s the important thing.”

  The Grotes arrived. “Heil Hitler.” Herr Grote thrust out his arm before strutting about. “What a victory this is for us. This will teach those Limeys to come over here. They’re no match for Bickenbach.”

  Heidi gaped at him. The man was delusional, like all the Nazis and their grandiose ideas of final victory even as Germany fell apart around them.

  Doctor Schultz didn’t look up. “Herr Grote, where are your glasses? This was a German plane. This is a German pilot who needs a hospital. Have you telephoned the air defense commander? We need transportation as soon as possible.”

  Herr Grote deflated until he spied the crewman sitting beside Heidi. He stalked over, puffing up like a pigeon. Thrusting out a finger, he demanded, “What is the meaning of this? Your duty is to protect the Fatherland, not destroy the equipment entrusted to you.”

  Such audacity! Heidi gripped the bench. The mayor
was likely to take a swing at their unexpected guest, whose jaw had dropped. She rose to her feet, pleased to see Gretchen flank the sergeant’s other side. Even Ursula, flitting in the background, appeared confused by her father’s behavior.

  The doctor’s voice rang out. “An ambulance, Herr Grote. See to it.”

  Herr Grote spun to glare at the doctor. Not many dared to order him around. His Gestapo pals would likely hear about such insolence and pay the good doctor a visit within the next few days. The mayor stomped off.

  “Who was that?” Unteroffizier Mueller looked stunned by the verbal attack. At least Grote had lessened his shock from the physical crash.

  “The burgermeister. Welcome to Bickenbach.” Gretchen added in a whisper, “What a peacock our illustrious mayor is.”

  Ursula attempted to insinuate herself with the sisters. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Why hadn’t she gone home with her father? Heidi dug her nails into her palms. “Exciting? The pilot is badly wounded and that plane could just as easily have crashed into the house.”

  “Or ours.” Ursula sounded like she wished it had.

  The pilot stirred. His groans sent shivers racing through Heidi. Beside her, the sergeant tensed.

  “We need to get him inside, keep him warm.” Doctor Schultz beckoned to Unteroffizier Mueller. “Give us a hand here.”

  Heidi and Gretchen joined the men, each grasping a leg as they lifted the lieutenant. Painstaking progress brought them to the house where the door opened, revealing a half dozen wide-awake children. Naturally, the commotion had roused them and their curious natures refused to allow them to stay in bed.

  Gesturing for Bernhard and Hans to take the pilot’s leg, Heidi turned and firmly shut the door in Ursula Grote’s face. A grin lit Heidi’s face. God forgive her, but that was satisfying.