by Tom Young
The bathroom cabinet contained a straight razor, but no shaving cream. Wilhelm wiped a towel across the fogged mirror. The face that stared back at him looked at least a decade older than his twenty-five years. He filled the sink with hot water and substituted soapsuds for shaving cream. He razored his beard away carefully; the effort took several minutes, and despite his caution, he cut himself in a couple places. But the cuts stopped bleeding after he dried his face.
Wilhelm dressed, put on his boots, and donned the jacket. Took the Luger from its holster and placed it in his waistband. Hardly the most comfortable way to carry the weapon, but he figured it was safer to keep it concealed instead of wearing it openly with a holster in civilian clothing. He found his flashlight in his fatigues and placed it in a jacket pocket. Also from his fatigues, he pulled the brick fragment from his grandparents’ house, and he placed it in a trouser pocket. Rolled his old, dirty clothes around the empty holster and tucked the bundle under his arm. Clomped down the stairs to say his good-byes.
“Captain,” Wilhelm said as he offered his right hand, “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”
Brandt took Wilhelm’s hand in both of his own. The shake hurt the bruised hand, and Wilhelm tried not to let his pain show.
“It is nothing,” the old officer said. “Be careful.”
The perfect way to end the conversation, Wilhelm thought. He liked “Be careful.” Not “Give ’em hell,” not “Heil Hitler.” Just “Be careful.”
Wilhelm let himself out Brandt’s front door and stepped into the street, wearing the clothes of a dead man.
11
Shell Shock
Karl hit the ground with his knees slightly bent, just like he’d been taught. That kept him from breaking his legs, but it didn’t keep him from getting dumped on his ass like a sack of potatoes. He tumbled onto his side and bruised his hip. Scraped his elbow, too, hard enough to hurt through his flight jacket. His pistol holster dug into his armpit. The white silk canopy settled beside him. The wind had calmed, and Karl felt grateful for that. A gust might have reinflated the canopy and dragged him across the ground.
He rose up on one knee and looked around. A weed-strewn dirt parking lot surrounded him, but no cars were in the lot. A large building, perhaps some kind of factory or shipyard facility, lay in ruins just yards from Karl’s landing site. Most of the walls had collapsed, but the back section of the building, near the river, remained intact. He saw nobody, but he knew that kind of luck wouldn’t last. He’d parachuted into an urban area he’d just bombed. That meant lots of people who might find him, and they’d probably not like him very much when they did. He took in several heavy breaths, and his heart pounded so loudly he could hear it.
If I’d bailed out into the Black Forest, Karl thought, I might have stood a chance. As it is, I’ll probably wind up in a stalag before nightfall.
Still, he had to try. First priority was to hide his chute and find cover. He clicked the releases on his parachute harness and shrugged out of the straps. Wrapped the risers and canopy over his arms until the parachute became a white mass of cloth that he held against his chest. Karl jogged toward what remained of the building by the river.
He knew time worked against him. Now that the raid had ended, people would start coming out at any moment. Karl had heard of downed fliers beaten to death by enraged mobs. Since he spoke German, he figured he stood a chance of blending in if he could evade capture long enough to get out of his uniform.
A door at the rear of the bombed-out factory stood ajar. Karl crouched by the door, the bundle of parachute still in his arms. Looked inside and listened. He heard nothing and saw no one. Just an abandoned desk, a floor strewn with bird droppings, and a bulletin board with a yellowing poster. The poster’s foreground depicted a bare-chested factory worker wielding a hammer and a set of tongs. The background showed the shadowy image of a soldier in a German Army helmet, and the lettering read: DU BIST FRONT!
“You are the front,” Karl thought. Pretty standard propaganda for factory workers. He stood up and began to slip through the door, but he stepped on a shroud line drooping from the bundle in his arms. He tripped and fell into the room. The impact startled a pair of pigeons on the sill of a broken window. The birds flushed from their roost.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Karl thought as he scrambled to his feet. He dropped the parachute and kicked it behind the desk. Unfastened his throat microphone and threw it to the floor. Unzipped his flight jacket and withdrew his .45. Pulled back the hammer to cock the weapon and checked that the thumb safety was engaged. Stood as still as he could, held his breath, and listened.
Distant voices called out in excited tones; Karl could not make out the words. Neighbors coming out to check on one another, or perhaps some sort of official survey team.
Near the bulletin board with the propaganda poster, an open door led to a hallway. Karl moved toward the door, holding his pistol with both hands. Clicked off the safety. Pressed himself against the wall by the doorjamb and peeked down the hall.
Nothing illuminated the hallway except the gray daylight that spilled through windows and the few open doors. Industrial-type pendant lamps hung from the ceiling, wire guards protecting dead lightbulbs. The place looked like it had been bombed years ago and the Germans had judged it not worth repairing.
Karl crept into the hall, holding his Colt out in front of him. He didn’t quite know what he sought except a better place to hide, and maybe some clothing. Dressed in a USAAF flight jacket and a gabardine A-4 flight suit, he might get shot on sight.
He came to the first room on his right. The door was closed. Karl listened intently, heard nothing behind the door. Only the shouts outside. They sounded closer now. He twisted the doorknob and pushed.
The room lay empty. A cracked translucent window admitted milky, filtered light into a chamber about half the size of a typical classroom. Maybe, in better times, this was the office of a low-level supervisor. Karl did not go inside the room; it contained nothing of use to him and offered no good place to hide.
He eased farther down the darkened hallway. The door to the next room, on his left, stood open. Metal lockers and tool cabinets lined the walls. Clipboards of yellowed paper cluttered a table. At the far end of the room, a glassless window opened into what had been a much larger room—probably an assembly line. Bombs had blown off the ceiling, and rubble covered the concrete floor.
This must have been the tool crib, Karl thought.
Workers would come to the window and check out tools. Somebody wrote down who had each tool and when the employee brought it back.
Very German.
Inside the tool crib, Karl looked around for anything he could use. A set of welder’s coveralls hung on a coat hook behind the door. Not exactly the kind of civilian clothing he wanted, but he gave the coveralls a closer look. Stiff and dusty, they smelled of mildew. Spiderweb across the collar. Even filthier than his flight suit, which was damp with sweat.
Just as Karl figured he’d pass up the coveralls and look for something better, someone spoke from across the bombed-out factory floor.
“Was it here?” the voice asked in German.
“I don’t know,” another voice answered. “They said they saw a bomber go down.”
Karl lifted the coveralls off the hook and hid under the table. Gripped the .45, readied himself to shoot.
Then he realized the weapon was useless. He might get the first guy. He might get the second. He might get all of them. But the sound of gunfire would bring more soldiers, police, SS, whatever. He’d never win. Karl placed the pistol on the floor. Surviving the next few days—or the next few minutes—would depend on his wits, not his weapons.
Now what? Put on the coveralls, fool, he told himself. And make up a story pretty damn fast.
Karl rolled over into a sitting position. Bumped his head on the underside of the table. Unlaced his boots. Stopped and listened.
Footsteps and murmurs came from outsid
e. Men were poking around the building, but not in any ordered fashion that Karl could discern. Deep inside him, an animal instinct screamed to forget this quick-change nonsense and just run like hell. But he knew that would only lead to capture or worse.
His heart thumped as he peeled off his flight jacket. With trembling fingers, he unbuckled his shoulder holster and pulled it off. Stopped and listened again.
Silence.
Where have the men gone?
All right, Karl thought, it’s now or never.
He unzipped his flight suit from neck to crotch. Freed his arms from the sleeves. His dog tags clanked, so he took their chain from around his neck and placed it on the floor by his Colt. Then he leaned back, raised his hips off the floor, grabbed the waist section of the flight suit, and slid it off of his legs. Now he wore only his boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and his green G.I. socks.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway behind him.
Oh, perfect, Karl thought. What will people think if I get killed or captured like this?
He unzipped the welder’s coveralls. A startled spider crawled out of one sleeve. Karl shoved one leg into the garment, hoped another spider didn’t bite him.
Do they have black widows in Germany?
“No one is in here,” a voice said from just yards away.
“We better check, anyway,” someone replied.
Karl yanked on the other pants leg and pushed his arms into the dirty, cold-soaked sleeves. Tried to pull up the zipper, but it wouldn’t budge.
You gotta be kidding me, Karl thought. I’m gonna die because of a rusty zipper.
The footsteps sounded closer.
“My cousin used to work here,” a voice said.
“What happened to him?”
“Drafted. Killed on the Russian front.”
“Spooky in here now.”
Karl jerked at the zipper once more, and the tab zipped only about halfway up his chest before it stuck again. Good enough. The pants pockets of the coveralls were deep enough to accommodate his pistol, so he jammed the .45 into the right pocket. Grabbed his dog tags and stuffed them into the left pocket.
Oh, hell, Karl thought. Nearly forgot my ID. Karl did not bring his wallet on combat missions, but he did carry his military identification card in a pocket folio. Fumbled into his flight suit and retrieved the ID. Stuck it in the pocket with the dog tags. Pulled on his left boot and tied it. Pulled on the right boot, and its heel scraped on the concrete floor.
“Hey,” a voice called from somewhere close. Now just feet away. “I heard something.”
Karl wrapped his flight suit around his jacket and holster. Rolled from under the table. Stood up and opened a steel tool cabinet, no longer caring what noise he made. Stuffed the bundle of clothing into the cabinet. Looked down and realized he’d never tied his right boot. Too late. Maybe even a good thing.
“Stop,” someone shouted. “Identify yourself.”
Karl turned to see a man in the doorway. An older guy, probably in his fifties. Gray temples, bulging stomach. He wore a military uniform, but not one Karl recognized from intel briefings.
Not SS, thank God. Not regular army, either.
Two men about the same age stood in the hall behind him. They wore the same type uniform. Their helmets bore a set of wings with lettering that read Luftschutz.
Oh, yeah, Karl thought. Civil defense force.
Mouth open, Karl looked at them as if he didn’t understand.
“I said, identify yourself,” Gray Temples said.
“Uh, Karl. My name is Karl,” he said in German. The fewer lies he told, the less he’d need to remember. “What’s your name?”
“I’m asking the questions here, you imbecile. What is your full name?”
“Karl Hagan. Oberschütze Karl Hagan.” A private. Senior rifleman.
“What’s a private doing here by himself?”
“Uh, well, I heard them bombs and got scared, so I ran in here.”
Karl thought hard, tried to remember the ungrammatical, lower-class German his father used when he got angry.
The men looked at one another. Gray Temples said, “No, idiot. I mean, why aren’t you at the front?”
“Oh, I was. They gave me leave. Me and my friends got hit—I mean, there was this mortar shell. My mama lives over there.” Karl pointed. “I worked here before I got drafted. Me and some guys had some comic books in here back then, but I can’t find them no more. Did you see any comic books around here?”
“The Führer has banned such smut, you moron.”
The Luftschutz men murmured among themselves. Karl heard Gray Temples say, “I think the boy’s touched in the head.”
“Shell-shocked,” the second man whispered. “He doesn’t even talk normal.”
“Saw it many a time, back in the Great War,” the third said.
Gray Temples turned to Karl and asked, “Did you see an airplane crash nearby? Any airmen coming down in parachutes?”
“Um, no, sir. I been hiding in here the whole time.”
Gray Temples nodded and pursed his lips, as if he’d known all along he’d get no useful information from such a dunce. “The air raid is over,” Gray Temples said. “Go on home.”
“I will, sir,” Karl said.
The men began moving down the hall, and Karl felt flush with relief. Sweat dampened his whole body.
Then he realized he’d left his escape kit in his flight suit.
Now that someone had seen him, he needed to get away from here as quickly as possible. The Three Stooges from the Luftschutz might find his parachute in that other room at any moment. But he might need the escape kit later.
He decided to risk it. He went back to the tool cabinet, opened it, and dug through his discarded clothing for the escape kit. Took the olive-colored pouch from his flight suit and closed the tool cabinet.
Looked up to see Gray Temples watching him.
Standing by the tool cabinet with the escape kit in his hand, Karl’s mouth turned dry. His palms slickened.
“What are you doing?” Gray Temples asked. “I told you to go home.”
Karl hesitated for just a moment, thinking. Then he held up the escape kit and smiled like an eight-year-old on Christmas morning.
“Found it,” he said. “My old lunch bag. I knew I left some stuff in here. I’m going home now. My mama will wonder where I am.”
Karl brushed past the Luftschutz man. Made sure his fingers covered the lettering on the pouch: KIT, SURVIVAL. E-17. USAAF. Strode down the hall as casually as he could fake it, fighting the urge to sprint. Behind him, he heard one of the men say, “God help us if we have many like him at the front.”
That’s right, Karl thought. Just keep thinking that. I’m the biggest dumbass you ever saw. Not too bright to begin with, and then I got shell-shocked.
He stepped past the room where he’d hidden his parachute. Took care to keep his eyes straight ahead. Emerged from the building and walked across the parking lot where he’d landed. Stuffed the escape kit into one of his pockets.
With no idea where he was going, except away from his landing site, Karl headed down a road that led through the industrial area, along the river. Bremen began to come back to life. Sirens screamed in the distance. Not air raid Klaxons, but fire trucks, Karl assumed.
A military truck with an open bed approached; the vehicle carried figures in uniform. When the truck rumbled past him, he saw it carried more Luftschutz men. Karl waved.
Keep doing that, Karl told himself. You’re hiding in plain sight. And remember—no more English. Don’t even think in English. Don’t even breathe in English. Thank God my father insisted on German at home, Karl mused. “It iss de language of mein heart,” Dad used to say.
And the language that could keep my ass alive and free, Karl thought. Maybe. If I’m very, very lucky.
Karl began to shiver, despite the sweat all over his body. He guessed the temperature was about forty degrees. His flight jacket would have felt good now. He
wondered where his crewmates had landed; the aircraft commander in him wanted to look for them. But that was impossible—Hellstorm’s dying turn on autopilot had put Karl out of the airplane miles from everyone else.
He hoped at least some of them had linked up and could travel together, and he prayed that if they got caught, they got caught by the military and not a mob. Rotting in a stalag would beat some of the alternatives. Godspeed, boys, Karl thought.
A plan began to form in Karl’s mind, each word in German: Find Uncle Rainer and Aunt Federica? Forget it. You don’t have their addresses, and you’d get them into trouble. Big trouble. Try to head south and west. The Allied armies will come from those directions. Keep playing the dumbass on leave. Stop second-guessing about how you could have turned back; that’s all done now. This situation’s awful but it’s what you got. Most important, don’t hurry and do something foolish. Weeks or months could pass before you see another American. Take. Your. Time.
At least you still get to live, Karl added. You just saw a bunch of guys get blown up. And you owe it to Adrian to get home and tell his parents what a first-rate pilot and officer he was. Keep your eyes open, and—as far as possible—keep your mouth shut. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. You’re a ground trooper now.
12
Sailing Alone Around the World
With little plan except to avoid human contact as much as possible, Wilhelm set out on a journey of unknown destination. The absence of a goal felt strange; a sailor always had a course to steer, a port to reach. Lines on a chart indicating route and purpose. Not today.
He turned down an alley that led to a main artery through town. Paused to dump his old uniform and holster in a garbage bin. Wilhelm lacked a map, but if memory served, the adjoining road would take him out of this neighborhood, through another industrial area, and eventually out into the country south of town. People were beginning to come out of their houses. They opened their doors partway, peered up into the clouds, and stepped onto their stoops and walkways as if they expected the sky to fall at any moment. No one paid Wilhelm any attention.
