by Tom Young
He chuckled at the sight of the condoms. Guess they think I’ll get on well with the natives, he mused. But he knew the condoms were really for keeping matches and other items dry.
With no water to make broth, Karl couldn’t use the bouillon powder now, so he settled for the Charms. Opened one of the hard candies and popped it into his mouth. The damned thing contained just enough food value to make him even hungrier. While he crunched on the Charms, he opened the other flask. It contained a small first-aid kit, tweezers, aspirin, some five-mark German bills, and a toothbrush. If it were up to me, Karl thought, I’d have traded the candy for a little tube of toothpaste. The second flask also included an item Karl had added on his own: a Camillus folding knife. Not as fierce-looking as the Bowie knives and Arkansas toothpicks favored by macho types. More like the knife a gentleman farmer might carry in his work pants. In Karl’s estimation, far more practical.
He reassembled the escape kit, placed everything back into the flasks except the Charms. Resolved to get away from the city tomorrow and out into the country. There he might find a stream, and he could use the water to shave, clean up, and make the bouillon. The less he looked like an unshaven derelict, the better he’d blend in when he couldn’t avoid people. He also hoped to find some kind of coat; he was already cold and the nights would only grow colder. But he had no idea how he might go about scavenging a coat or a jacket without getting caught. One crisis at a time, he told himself.
For now, he made do with wrapping the tarp around him. It smelled like an engine and was filthy, but it kept him warm. Karl placed his .45 on the floor near his right hand and leaned back against the wall. After just a few minutes, he fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
A great trembling of the earth shook him awake. Karl opened his eyes in a state of utter confusion; for a moment, he could not remember where he was. Realization hit him like a gut punch—yes, he’d actually gotten shot down. And the nightmare had just become worse. The ground shuddered; the building rattled. A tremendous roar sounded from a couple miles away. Not distinct explosions, more like a continuous, pulsing eruption. Air raid sirens shrieked.
The Lancasters, Karl thought. That’s the RAF up there, heavy aircraft filled with bombs like insects full of eggs, impregnated with destruction.
Allied doctrine called for round-the-clock bombing of Germany, and the Brits took the night shift. Karl huddled in his corner, his senses overwhelmed by nonstop thunder. So this was what it was like to be on the receiving end of heavy bombardment. No, he reconsidered, this is only a hint. The bombs aren’t hitting on this side of the river.
Even at a distance, the detonations sounded like the end of the Earth. The rolling booms grew louder. Flashes lit up the broken window above him, and the glass clattered with each shock wave. Were the bombs walking their way toward him?
Karl sweated under his tarp. Wondered if the next bomb would take him out of this world. Night bombing was imprecise; it amounted to area bombing. After all, this new kind of industrial war was a war on cities. Stop the enemy’s factories, de-house his workers. In darkness, all of Bremen became a target.
An animal impulse in Karl’s mind cried out for him to flee. But flee where? He could only curl up in a fetal position and wait for the Armageddon outside to stop. Until it did, each second could bring death. Karl had once heard a Londoner say he didn’t worry about bombs, because they’d either hit you or not. If not, no problem. If one does hit me, the man said, I won’t even know it. So why worry?
But this wasn’t an either/or proposition. Karl could think of a thousand possibilities between escaping without a scratch and dying a quick death. Flying debris could maim you. Fire could trap you. Crumbling walls could bury you. Maybe that Londoner had downed a couple pints when he scoffed at aerial bombardment.
The noise pierced Karl’s eardrums and flowed straight into his brain. Is this what I wrought every time I flew? Karl asked. From Hellstorm ’s flight deck, the bombs were silent; they struck the ground with soundless blooms of smoke and fire. Now he realized just how appropriate a name had been given to that aircraft.
He did not regret his choices. This war was a fight between good and evil, simple as that. Cousin Gerhard couldn’t understand it, Karl thought, and that’s why he chose the wrong side.
But such bad things had to happen before the good could win. Hamlet was right: cruel to be kind.
Through the ringing in Karl’s ears, he heard the boom of flak guns. He hadn’t heard them before, and that’s when he realized the bombing had ended. The gunners continued their barrage, perhaps hoping to pick off stragglers from the formations. After a time, the pounding of flak batteries stopped—replaced by sirens, shouts, and the rumble of trucks and ambulances.
He kept still and tried to get back to sleep, though he doubted he could sleep again tonight. Closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Bremen attempting to recover from another attack. Seconds later—or was it an hour?—the sound of footsteps told him two things: Yes, through sheer exhaustion, he had fallen asleep again. And someone else was in the warehouse.
In the next room, boot heels ground against dirt and glass on the floor. The steps came slowly and deliberately. Karl wondered if someone had seen him come in here and reported him to authorities. He picked up his .45, clicked off the thumb safety, and held it with both hands.
The smoke and haze had cleared somewhat, and now the moon poured enough bourbon-colored light to throw shadows. A silhouette emerged at the warehouse entrance. Karl couldn’t tell if the man was armed; the figure kept his hands at his sides. With his Colt aimed at the stranger, Karl waited and hoped the man wouldn’t see him.
The figure turned slowly, scanning the warehouse.
Maybe Karl breathed too hard. Maybe moonlight glinted off his watch. Whatever the reason, the stranger ducked behind an engine block. Now Karl could see little but a pair of hands. Holding a pistol.
“Wer bist du?” Karl called.
“And who are you?” the stranger said.
“I asked you first.”
“I am a naval officer. Off duty. My home was destroyed.”
Karl said nothing. Wondered about the right thing to do.
“You’re just looking for shelter?” Karl asked finally.
“Yes, yes. You too?”
“I used to work here in a factory,” Karl said. “I’m a soldier on leave. My mama’s house got bombed.” Tried to keep his sentences simple and childlike.
“Then we have no reason to point weapons at one another.”
“Okay, put yours down.”
The figure rose from behind the engine block. Lowered the pistol, but did not put it down. Karl tilted his muzzle toward the floor, but kept his finger inside the Colt’s trigger guard.
“Come on out,” Karl said. Realized he’d used his command voice, and he chided himself. Remember, he thought, you’re a simpleton.
The stranger stepped toward Karl, into a shaft of moonlight. Karl recognized the man’s handgun by its distinctive shape. A Luger. The man eyed Karl’s weaponry as well.
“This could end well or badly,” the man said. “I mean you no harm.”
Of course, you don’t, Karl thought. I’m a fellow German, for all you know. Why would the guy say that? Does he suspect?
Neither man moved to put away his handgun.
“Are you from here?” the stranger asked.
“My mama lives here, like I said.”
“That’s not a Bremen accent.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it, Karl thought. I’m gonna have to shoot this guy.
“That’s not a German pistol, either,” the stranger said. “As a matter of fact, that’s a Colt Model 1911. Standard issue, I believe, in the United States Armed Forces.”
“Yeah, my papa got it in the war. I mean the other war.”
“And you just happen to be wandering around tonight with family heirlooms.”
“Well, I—”
The stranger raised his Lug
er higher, but he did not point it at Karl. “Let us drop this charade, Sergeant. Or Lieutenant, or whatever your rank is. You are an American airman. And a lucky one, to have made it this far. Your German is good, too, wherever you learned it.”
“I learned it at home, just like you,” Karl said.
The stranger regarded him over the Luger, holding the weapon out with straightened arms, a look on his face like a man working through some difficult puzzle.
“Do you know what you have done to my people, to our cities?” the man asked.
Now I’m under interrogation, Karl thought. He dropped the simpleton act, kept his finger on the trigger. “I got a pretty good idea. Especially after tonight.”
“I should shoot you right now.”
Karl remained still, his weapon held ready, but not aimed directly at the naval officer. He tightened his fists around the Colt, clamped the grip safety down hard. Set his finger against the trigger. Every part of the weapon—spring and sear, hammer and firing pin—gathered within a breath’s pressure of unleashing a bullet.
Just a matter of who’s half a second faster, Karl thought.
He examined his would-be executioner. Young guy, probably only a little older than Karl. But with the eyes of a man who’d witnessed too much. That was clear even in this dim light. Karl knew the look; he’d seen it before. On his friends and in the mirror.
“You seem to have lost your taste for killing,” Karl said.
“I never had a taste for killing,” the man said. Answered quickly, too. But a long moment passed before he added: “I just had a job to do.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you, now?” The stranger sounded like he wanted to argue. But he let his question hang in the air without any elaboration.
After several seconds passed, Karl said, “You said you had a job to do. Past tense. They discharged a naval officer at a time like this? And that’s why you’re in civilian clothes, hiking through an air raid by yourself?”
The man let his eyes wander as if considering how much to reveal. With the stranger off guard, Karl noted this would be a good time to fire. But he saw little profit in that right now.
“I am a sailor home from the sea,” the man said. “For good.”
Karl tilted his head back, raised his eyebrows.
“You mean you’ve just quit?” Karl asked. “Walked away from your base?”
Long silence. “Yes,” the stranger said finally.
“Then you’re in more trouble than I am,” Karl said.
PART II
14
Truce
Wilhelm had often brought the enemy into his sights, through the periscope, through the TBT. But never this closely, to look into the enemy’s eyes, to hear his words, to see his face. Wilhelm wanted to pull the trigger; these bomber crews had rained destruction on his boat, his men, his home. Now came a chance to exact highly personal retribution. Vengeance would take nothing more than a slight tensing of his hand muscles. That would send a nine-millimeter slug exploding through this American’s brain. A sense of power rushed through Wilhelm even more energizing than when he stalked an Allied convoy.
Yet he did not fire.
Over the Luger’s sights, he observed the airman. In the low light, the American appeared oddly familiar: Young. Frightened. Resolute despite the fear. Wilhelm had seen that same look many times—the same widened eyes and set to the jaw—on the faces of his crewmates. Already he missed them so badly.
The American could have fired his Colt several times by now. Why hadn’t he? Wilhelm’s hesitation could have proved suicidal if the Yank hadn’t hesitated, too. Perhaps a part of Wilhelm wanted to die. What had he done? What had his world come to, when he could talk to no one tonight but an enemy flier, a conversation over the muzzles of cocked pistols? He could trust no one. But he felt an instinctive need to trust someone, if only for a few seconds. He decided to take a chance.
“Safe your weapon, Yank,” Wilhelm said in English, “and I will safe mine.”
Wilhelm lowered his Luger and engaged the safety. The American lowered his Colt, and Wilhelm heard a soft click. The airman let out a heavy sigh, like a submariner whose damaged boat has finally stopped taking on water. Now he just looked tired. And alone.
“What is your name?” Wilhelm asked.
“Karl Hagan. First Lieutenant, United States Army Air Forces. You?”
“Wilhelm Albrecht. Oberleutnant, Kriegsmarine. U-boat service.”
“Pleased to meet you, Oberleutnant Wilhelm Albrecht.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, you didn’t shoot me. That’s a start.”
“Where is the rest of your crew?”
The American hesitated before answering. The question put an end to his flip manner.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he said. “They bailed out. Except my copilot. He’s dead.”
“I am sorry.”
“I just bet you are.”
“No, I am,” Wilhelm said. He placed the Luger back in his waistband and held up his hands to show they were empty. The American nodded and put down his Colt. “We all know how this war will end,” Wilhelm continued. “Any further deaths are an ungodly waste, but an ungodly waste we will have.”
Wilhelm took a step to get a better look at Lieutenant Hagan. The American made no threatening move.
“What the hell,” the Yank said. “Have a seat.”
Wilhelm joined the flier in the corner of the warehouse. He sat with his back to the wall, knees pulled close to his chest.
“You want some Charms?” the American said. “I hate these things.”
What in God’s name is a charmz? A strange lot, these Americans.
When the Yank spoke again, he switched back to German, with the diction of the working class. “So,” he said, “you got tired of shooting torpedoes at merchant ships and drowning civilians?”
A flash of anger burned in Wilhelm’s chest. Who was a bomber pilot to judge him? He jabbed his finger in the air as he spoke.
“They were legitimate military targets—”
“Shh,” the Yank said. “Keep your voice down. If you’re a deserter, you don’t want to get caught any more than I do.”
Wilhelm wanted to punch this impudent flyboy. But the man was right about the need to keep quiet. No point arguing grand strategy with a peasant American, especially late at night with SS on the prowl. How did he speak such good German, anyway? Lower class, to be sure, but fluent.
“You said you learned German at home,” Wilhelm whispered. “Now that we have stopped pretending, where did you learn it? Did you study here before the war?”
“I learned it at home, like I said. My father came from outside Koblenz. He moved to the States before I was born.”
Interesting. This American was all but German himself. Wilhelm had first wanted to kill the Yank. Now another idea flowed through his mind like a tide race: Should the two of them stay together? The Reich’s lines were collapsing by the day; Wilhelm knew that sooner or later, he might encounter Allied forces. U-boats had terrorized Allied shipping for years. What might Allied troops do to a U-boat officer?
But if I help this downed pilot, Wilhelm thought, perhaps he’ll help me. Maybe stop his compatriots from blowing my head off.
“We seem to have reached an unlikely truce,” Wilhelm said. “That hardly means we’re comrades—let me make that clear. But if we traveled together, I could help you evade detection. And if we encountered your countrymen, perhaps you could help me get inside American lines.”
“How do I know you won’t try to save your ass by turning me in?” the American asked in English.
“If you had seen what I saw today,” Wilhelm said, also in English, “you would know there is no turning back for me. I could not save myself by betraying you.” Wilhelm described the hanged soldier and the sign left on the body.
“Damn, that’s ruthless,” the Yank said.
“So you see,” Wilhelm said, “my own c
ountry considers me an enemy now.”
“All right. I get your point.”
Several minutes passed in silence. On the road outside, a vehicle rumbled by, but did not stop. Eventually the Yank said in German, “I guess you know your way around here?”
“Somewhat,” Wilhelm answered. “My grandparents used to live in Bremen.”
“I have relatives here, too, but I don’t know exactly where they live.”
Wilhelm stared at the American pilot.
“Wait,” Wilhelm said. “You mean to tell me you dropped bombs on a city where you have family?”
For the first time, the American looked angry.
“I mean to tell you I dropped bombs on a submarine pen,” he said. “And I mean to tell you it’s none of your damned business.”
Clearly, a sensitive subject for the Yank. The pilot folded his arms and stared straight ahead. He looked spent, wrung out. Understandable for a man who had just parachuted from a doomed airplane; Wilhelm had seen exhaustion among his crew many times. But the American’s fatigue seemed of a higher order—a breaking point as much spiritual as physical.
One part of the Yank’s misery required no speculation from Wilhelm, and that was loneliness. We were both leaders of finely honed teams, Wilhelm considered. Social by nature, proud of our technical expertise and that of our men. And here we are, by choice and chance, bereft of our power, our machines, and our friends.
After a few minutes, the American continued his thought. “I did what I had to do,” he said. He sounded like a man trying to convince himself of something. “Look where it got me. Look where it got my crew.”
This man is as alone and hopeless as me, Wilhelm thought. “We had our missions,” Wilhelm offered. “We did the best we could. That part of our war is over now.”
The Yank appeared to mull over this for a moment. Finally he said, “All right. If you want to travel together, we can do that.”
