Clint took the situation in. Without a word, he reached out and yanked Adam out of the seat. Picking him up, he carried him to the door, and paused for only one moment. He saw that Adam had passed out. Without a second thought, he leaped out of the airplane in one motion, wrapping his arms and legs around the body of the unconscious man. When he had fallen clear of the airplane, he pulled the ripcord. When the chute opened, it almost tore Adam from his grip, but he held tightly with the full strength of arms and legs, and then they were floating downward.
Looking around, he could not see the other chutes and knew that the airplane had traveled miles since they had bailed out. Looking down, he saw Germany beneath, a rich green forest. Then his eyes turned to watch the Last Chance as it nosed down and headed straight for the earth. Clint’s eyes followed it until it struck and blew up, sending black smoke and flames high in the air.
“She was a good ship,” he whispered. He held tightly onto Adam and looked down as the earth seemed to rise to meet him. He well knew that nothing good awaited him and Adam—either death by German soldiers or civilians—or prison camp, which was little better.
Looking up at the inside of the white chute, he breathed a prayer: “God, you’re in charge here. Look out for me and for Adam. It doesn’t matter much about me, but Adam’s got to find you before he dies, so please look out for us, Lord.”
SURVIVAL
The cold sky seemed to hold Clint in a vast fist as he plummeted toward the earth. With all his strength he held onto Adam, desperately trying to remember what he had been told about parachuting. He had never made a jump before, but he was well aware that what he was doing now would not have been covered. Vaguely he remembered that he was supposed to hit the ground, let his knees bend, and then roll to take the shock from the fall. As the ground rushed up at him, he knew he was falling at twice the rate of speed that he would have reached had he jumped alone.
The wind caught him and his burden, swinging them like a pendulum beneath the pure-white silk canopy above. Dizziness swept him, and he gave up all hope of making a safe landing, simply praying that he and Adam would survive. The wind whistled in his ears and his face was numb with the cold—then the two of them struck.
Clint’s feet hit first, and then he crumpled, unable to do more than simply hang on. The shock of the landing ripped his hands from Adam, and the two separated, sprawling out. For one brief moment he felt gratitude—they had landed on what appeared to be an open field rather than in an icy river or in the tops of tall trees. For several minutes Clint was unable to do more than lie there, for his breath had been knocked out by the force of the landing. A silence lay over the field as he struggled to his feet, thinking of a bit of information that had been given to him at various briefings: Surrender to a soldier if you can; the civilians are likely to kill you with pitchforks. They may have lost sons in the war. . . .
Struggling to his feet, Clint cast one quick look about the field. Darkness was falling rapidly, and he wondered if anyone had seen the parachute. No one appeared, however, and he saw no buildings of any kind. Quickly he moved over to kneel beside Adam, who was lying on his back.
“Are you okay, Adam?”
Adam’s eyes were shut, and he did not appear to have heard. When Clint leaned forward, he saw that Adam’s eyelids were moving and his chest was rising and falling. Quickly he freed himself from the parachute, then looked around, still half expecting to see farmers rushing across the fields with shotguns or pitchforks. The other instruction that came to him was hide the parachute, but he had no time for that. He unstrapped the harness and rolled the chute up into as small a bundle as he could, then stood confused for a minute, looking around.
The field they had landed in was surrounded by tall trees, evergreens of some kind, and Clint knew he had to get under cover. Without a clue as to which way to go, he leaned over and pulled Adam into a sitting position. With a grunt, he picked him up over his shoulder. Then straightening up he began trudging across the field. The edge of the tree line was only a hundred yards away, but he was breathing heavily by the time he got there. He had one quick thought—I’m glad Adam’s not as big as some of the Stuarts—then he reached the tree line. Instead of going in, he turned and moved to his left, hoping to see some sort of shelter.
He had not gone more than two hundred yards before he felt a burning sensation on his cheek and, looking up toward the sky, blinked as tiny, icy fragments touched him.
“Snow!” he grumbled, and for one moment could not decide if that was in their favor or not. Finally he put it out of his mind except to mutter, “We’ve got to find shelter of some kind!”
By the time he had gone another hundred yards, he was gasping for breath and the snowflakes had grown larger, swirling across the field in diagonal lines. Another fifty feet and the tree line broke slightly. Glancing toward the thick forest, Clint had a moment’s exultation when he saw a dark barn held in the depression that had been cut out of the woods. Taking a deep breath he muttered, “It’s okay, Adam, we’ll get some shelter and get you out of this cold.”
Trudging across the broken ground, half stumbling on numbed feet, Clint finally reached the barn, and without putting Adam down, he pulled at one of the two double doors. It had obviously not been opened for some time and was difficult to move. He did manage to get it open enough to squeeze through, then stepped inside. For a moment he stood there unable to see, then his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The interior, he saw, was filled with what seemed to be a jumble of old wagons and farm equipment. He could not make out more than this and could not hold Adam much longer. Moving around the equipment, he found at the back of the barn a pile of moldy hay, and with a grunt of relief, knelt gently as he eased Adam down. He said, “Adam, are you awake?” When he received no answer, he rose and left the barn. “Got to get that parachute,” he said and moved as quickly as he could through the ever-thickening snowflakes, some as large as dimes now. Reaching the parachute, he bundled it up and made his way back to the barn as quickly as possible. He entered and wondered whether to close the door. There was a window in the loft above that let in some light, but night was falling fast and he knew that it would soon be pitch dark.
Making a quick decision, Clint moved back toward the double doors, opened them wide, and let the gray light flood the floor of the barn. The equipment, he saw quickly, included an old thresher and what appeared to be a pony cart, very old and with a broken tongue. Several bits of machinery, random parts, and some old furniture cluttered the floor. The barn was evidently storage for things that were not to be thrown away but were fairly worthless. They probably built a new barn and use this one for worn-out stuff, he thought to himself.
Clint’s mind raced as he thought of what he had to have. A fire would be essential in freezing weather—but how to build a fire in a barn? He began to move among the various pieces and suddenly came upon a piece of sheet iron, some two-feet square. He had no idea what it had been used for, but at once he picked it up and carried it back to where Adam was lying on the hay. Clearing a spot out carefully, he put it down, and then returned to the equipment. After rummaging through the piles of junk, he found an old pot that would do for cooking and a rusty ax with a broken handle. Using this, he demolished an old, heavy wardrobe and breaking off several very small pieces, he began to build a fire on the sheet iron. He had, as part of his equipment, a box of matches in a waterproof case, and when he had splintered several pieces with the ax, he made even smaller pieces with his knife. He touched the curling pieces, and the dry wood caught at once. Slowly he fed the tiny flame, careful to keep the fire in the center of the piece of sheet iron. Soon, the fire began to crackle, and he fed it until it made a small but cheerful blaze that seemed to cut the gloom of the barn.
The temperature was dropping, and Clint was glad for their heavy fleece-lined flight uniforms, for he knew that the cold could get fierce in Germany in February. He turned to Adam and saw that his eyes were open. “Hey, you’re aw
ake!” he said.
“Where—are we?” Adam asked, his lips moving stiffly. His eyes were half shut as he looked around. “What is this place?”
“An old barn. We were lucky,” Clint said. “How you feeling?”
“Leg hurts.”
“Let me take a look at it.”
Clint awkwardly manuevered the wounded man’s trousers from his hips and leaned forward to peer at the wound, which was in the fleshy part of his thigh. It was a nasty looking tear that was seeping blood, even now, and Clint was appalled at the seriousness of the wound. A piece of flak must have torn right through there, he thought. Aloud he said, “Got to get the bleeding stopped.”
He ripped up part of the parachute into smaller fragments and then bandaged the leg. “I don’t think it broke the bone,” he said, “but I imagine it hurts pretty bad. I wish I’d thought to get the emergency kit when the plane was going down, but there wasn’t time.”
“How’d I get out of the airplane?”
Clint hesitated. “I dragged you out. We came down in the one chute,” he said. He smiled and patted Adam’s shoulders. “Here, let’s get your pants up, or you’ll freeze to death. I’m going to see if I can find some water around here—maybe something to eat.”
Picking up the ax, he took a short journey around the barn and managed to find an old tree that had fallen. “That’d be enough firewood,” he spoke aloud. He hewed off several of the larger branches and dragged one back to the barn where he broke it up into foot-long lengths, then moved inside and shut the door. “Nothing to eat,” he said cheerfully, “but if it keeps on snowing, we can melt some of that for drinking water. I’ll see what I can do to make this place more comfortable.”
Clint made a canopy out of the parachute that would hold some of the heat in for the two of them, arranging it more or less like a tent. It at least kept some of the heat on Adam. Afterwards he fed the fire carefully, making certain it didn’t spread. Most of the smoke floated up to the ceiling and Clint thought, That’s good—I don’t think anybody can see it. He settled back and was shocked to discover how weak he was. The mission, the jump, and the stress had drained him of all strength, and he went to sleep after one last look to see that Adam was resting comfortably.
The light struck Clint’s eyes, and he blinked and rolled his head to one side. He smelled the moldy hay and knowledge came rushing through his senses. He sat up at once, and his first movement was to look toward Adam. He saw that the wounded man’s face was pale and quickly moved to see if any blood had seeped through the bandage and the uniform. With relief he saw no fresh blood. I wish I could sew that up, he thought. He saw Adam’s eyes open and said, “You stay right here. I’ve got to go get something to drink.” Taking the pot he had found, he moved outside. The snow was at least three inches deep. It had almost stopped falling, but there would be enough snow for water if he could not find a stream.
He did find a stream, however, a small one, less than a hundred yards from the barn. It curved around a clump of large trees in a serpentine fashion, standing out sharply as a dark line beside the white banks of snow. Gratefully he took a drink, then filled the pot and moved back. When he was inside, he helped Adam to a sitting position. “Have some of this.”
“Thanks.” Adam guzzled thirstily at the pot, drinking awkwardly, and when he lay back he whispered, “That was good.”
“Well, we’re alive, we’ve got water, and we’re out of the weather,” Clint said.
“We’ll never get out of here, Clint.” Adam’s voice was raspy. He looked around at the barn and said, “We’re right in the middle of Germany, and I’m wounded and can’t walk.” His eyes were feverish, and he hesitated for a moment then looked up. “Clint,” he muttered urgently, “get out of here and save yourself! No good waiting around for me—I can’t make it.”
“Hey, that’s no way for a Stuart to talk!” Clint admonished Adam. “We’ll make it fine. God’s kept us this far. He’s going to keep us the rest of the way. Now, let’s take a look at that leg.”
Clint changed the bandage and kept the other, knowing that he would have to wash it out. He helped Adam dress again, then sat for a few minutes thinking hard. Doubt gnawed at him, for he knew enough geography to realize that their chances of escape were slim. Even if Adam were not wounded, they were hundreds of miles away from any border. Very few downed airmen had ever made their way out of the interior of Germany. Only those who had gone down close to the borders of Switzerland or other neutral territories had managed such a thing.
Lord, you’re just going to have to do a miracle, I guess, Clint prayed. He sat there putting the doubts away and after praying steadily for some time, smiled. You told me to cast all my cares on you—so I’m doing that right now. It’s all yours, Lord!
Peace came to Clint Stuart then. He got up and began searching through the jumble of worn-out equipment and managed to find a few items that might help. He knew that they would have to have food, and when Adam woke up, he said, “I’m going out foraging for food, Adam. You just stay quiet and keep warm.” Clint struck Adam’s shoulder lightly, saying, “Hang on.”
He left the barn and made his way along the tree line, his eyes searching constantly for any sign of movement. It seemed to be a purely rural part of the country—no signs of a road anywhere. Finally he passed an open field where a thin gray horse lifted its head and looked at him.
“What are you doing out here in the snow, old fella?” Clint moved closer. When he stuck out his hand, the horse came to him, moving slowly. Clint patted its nose, saying, “You better get in out of this. It’s going to get worse.” He looked around and saw at the far end of the field what seemed to be a small barn. Quickly he stepped across the fence, and as he moved across the snow, the horse followed him. When he got to the shed, he saw that it was no more than a shelter for animals with some ancient harness hanging on the wall.
“Got to be something around here. They wouldn’t leave you out like this,” he muttered. He slapped the horse on the flank and then moved outside, searching for other signs of habitation.
Clint found it five minutes later when he stepped out of a grove of trees—then stepped quickly back inside the shelter again. Less than a hundred yards away sat a house with smoke ascending out of the chimney, scoring the gray sky. He stood inside the shelter of the evergreens searching for signs of life but saw no one moving outside. It was a large, two-storied house with several outbuildings. Uncertainly, he waited, then began to circle around following the tree line, which held the house as in the crook of an arm. One of the buildings, the largest of the barns, was close to the tree line, sixty or seventy yards from the house. Carefully keeping himself hidden from anyone who might be inside watching, Clint followed the tree line until he had put the barn between himself and the house. Then taking a deep breath, he stepped out and walked across the open space. His breath was coming shortly, for he expected to hear someone calling each moment, but there was nothing. He got to the barn and found that there was a small back door. Holding his breath, he opened it carefully, and peering inside, saw that no one seemed to be there. He stepped inside, shut the door, and at once heard the lowing of a cow, a most familiar sound. He peered into the gloom to see a cow in a stall who lifted her head to examine him. A calf stood close by.
Grinning suddenly, Clint said, “Well, good thing I’m a country boy. Adam and I’ll have milk if nothin’ else.” He found a milk bucket and stool, and immediately sat down and leaned his forehead against the cow’s withers. He heard the warm, frothy milk drilling against the bottom of the tin pail. When it was half full, he stopped, lifted it, and drank thirstily. Then he filled it again and rose, slapping the cow affectionately. “Thanks, old girl,” he said. “I’ll probably be coming back for more of the same.”
He carefully stashed the bucket of milk and looked around the barn. Finding an old blanket and folding it up, he put it beside the milk.
He searched the barn but found nothing edible. Moving toward th
e front, which had two double doors, one of which stood slightly open, he peered out at the house. He still could see no sign of life, although it was ten o’clock in the morning, he guessed. Still, he was nervous, for someone might leave the house at any moment and come right to the barn.
A movement caught his eye and he heard a familiar sound. “Well, well, well!” he mused. “How about that!” Looking out, he saw several chickens pecking at the snow-covered ground, and his eyes lit up. He began to cluck as he had done a thousand times at home. “Chick, chick, chick,” he called softly. I don’t know what chicken is in German, but I guess chickens understand that noise, he thought. He proved to be right, for several of the chickens came curiously toward the door. Looking around, Clint found what he expected, a can close to the door with chicken feed in it. Taking out a handful, he moved toward the door, tossing several grains out. The chickens came close and began pecking at the snow.
“Come on, chick, chick, chick, chick,” he crooned, and soon the chickens were stepping inside. Carefully throwing the feed closer to his feet, Clint waited until one of them, a fat white hen, came to his very feet and was pecking at the feed. “Welcome home,” Clint whispered. Leaning over, he picked up the hen, and with one smooth motion, broke the neck of the fowl. It shuddered for a moment, but he held tightly, and the others did not even notice. Quickly he moved back, wrapped up the chicken in the blanket, then grasped the milk bucket with his free hand. Have to be careful not to spill it, he thought. He left the barn by the back door, made his way into the trees, and soon was out of sight of the house. He hurried as fast as he could, and when he came to the barn where he had left Adam, was glad to see no signs of footprints except his own. He did think for a moment, If somebody comes by here, they’ll see my prints—unless it snows again.
Winds of Change Page 27
