Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

  “Very good. Perhaps we can keep one another alive. I know the region better than you, and your presence could help me if we meet American troops.”

  “You’re going to need me a lot more if we run into your own troops, especially the SS.”

  Wilhelm frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “If an SS squad puts their rifles in our faces and starts asking questions, who would you rather be: a German deserter or a downed American flier? I’ll tell them you’re my navigator. It’s probably safer for me that way, too.”

  Wilhelm raised his eyebrows. “Well, Lieutenant Hagan,” he said, “you’re not stupid. I will give you that. Yes, I’d rather spend a few months in a stalag luft than get strung up from a tree.”

  “Can you speak English well enough to pull it off?”

  “Of course,” Wilhelm said in English. “My English is fluent.”

  The American did not seem impressed.

  “Your English is also British,” the Yank said. “We’ll have to work on your American accent.”

  “That is impossible.”

  The pilot chuckled. He took a tarp that he’d taken off one of the engines and pulled it over his shoulders. “Let me sleep half an hour,” he said. “Wake me up whenever you’re ready to move.”

  Why is he giving the orders? Wilhelm thought. Ah, well. No matter. We have not killed each other. That is progress enough for one night.

  Wilhelm tried to rest, too. He drifted off to sleep, and he woke much later than he wanted. When he opened his eyes, he saw the first gray flush of dawn. He shook the Yank by the shoulder.

  “Wake up, Lieutenant,” Wilhelm said. “We slept too late. We need to get moving.”

  The American stirred, blinked, and looked at Wilhelm with wildness in his eyes. Clearly, in the moment of awakening, he did not remember their meeting. Overwhelmed by instinct, the man started to reach for his pistol. Then his expression changed, and his eyes showed recognition. He kept his hand off his weapon.

  “That would have been a bad way to start the morning,” Wilhelm said in English.

  “Pronounce it bin,” the Yank said. “Not beeeen.”

  “Ach. As if I don’t have enough problems already.”

  The American slid the tarp off his body and rose to a kneeling position. In the morning light, Wilhelm could see him better now. Instead of a flying suit, he wore an old set of work coveralls; heaven only knew how he’d found those. Stubble darkened his chin, and his cheeks bore streaks of dirt or grease. He could have passed for a submariner back from a long patrol except for the tanned face and lack of a full beard. However, the skin around his eyes remained white—presumably the result of wearing aviator’s glasses as the sun streamed through his windscreen. The effect made him look a bit like a wasch-bär, or raccoon, as English speakers called it.

  “Excuse me,” the Yank said. He walked to a far corner of the warehouse, unzipped his coveralls, and urinated. Wilhelm didn’t like the idea of relieving himself in such an improper way, but circumstances did not allow for normal niceties. He found his own corner and emptied his bladder as well. The two men gathered their things and met in the front room of the warehouse.

  Peering through a shattered window, Wilhelm observed the street outside. A transport truck rolled past, followed by two vehicles filled with Luftschutz men. Though the eastern sky had begun to lighten, enough darkness remained that the trucks burned their headlights, thin beams shaded through blackout lenses.

  “How do you feel?” Wilhelm asked. “Are you ready to move?”

  The American pilot hugged himself, ran his hands along his upper arms for warmth.

  “A little cold and hungry,” the pilot answered in English, “but ready as I’ll ever be. That’s an Americanism. Say it.”

  Wilhelm rolled his eyes and said, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  The American shook his head and said, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  They stepped out of the building and began walking. A wire fence built with hook-shaped concrete posts lined the road. Ceramic insulators studded the posts; Wilhelm realized the fence was electrified. Or had been. Beyond it lay the remains of another bombed-out industrial building. Grass grew tall among the shattered masonry: The bombers had knocked out this place some time ago. Death might have come as a welcome relief, Wilhelm supposed, to the slave laborers confined behind that electric fence.

  The position of the rising sun told Wilhelm the road led southwest. He wanted to get off the road and away from any major lines of travel, but he did not want to climb that fence. The wires were probably no longer hot, but he didn’t intend to test that theory.

  The sound of approaching traffic diverted Wilhelm’s attention from the fence. He could not yet see the traffic; a curve in the road about half a kilometer ahead concealed it. It was too late to run for cover; to be seen running would amount to a confession. The American must have sensed Wilhelm’s apprehension.

  “Remember,” the American said. “You’re my navigator. We were in a B-17 Flying Fortress.”

  A flatbed truck appeared from around the curve. Slits of light shone through its blackout lenses. The vehicle swayed on worn springs as it struck a pothole.

  Wilhelm and the Yank moved into the ditch to let the vehicle by. A cloud of dust rolled over them when the truck juddered past. The driver and passenger wore Luftschutz helmets, and they barely gave the two pedestrians a glance. A row of black bags lined the truck bed.

  Bodies.

  The submariner and the pilot exchanged a grim look, then stepped out of the ditch and back onto the roadway. Wilhelm appreciated the way the American had reminded him of his cover story. So he’s cool under pressure, Wilhelm thought, like a good U-boat man.

  “We need to get off this road,” the Yank said in English.

  “Right away.” Wilhelm tried to place an ease into the vowels, less crispness into the consonants.

  “Better,” the Yank said.

  The electric fence gave way to coils of concertina wire along the roadside. Tendrils of climbing nightshade intertwined with the concertina, and the poisonous red berries looked like drops of blood on the wire’s razor edges. Behind the concertina lay an open field littered with barrels, concrete blocks, and a rusted-out car. At the far edge of the field, abandoned apartment buildings overlooked the River Weser. Between the broken buildings, Wilhelm caught glimpses of the river. Steam fog rose from the black water in wisps, and it made Wilhelm think of the spirits of dead submariners rising from ocean depths.

  Without any suggestion from Wilhelm, the American stepped across the ditch and began picking his way through the razor wire. A blade snagged the leg of his coveralls, and he muttered a curse. With his thumb and forefinger, the pilot freed the fabric from the wire, then winced and shook his hand. A runnel of blood appeared on his thumb. He wiped the blood on his sleeve and placed the side of his thumb in his mouth. Spat another English curse, and stepped through the last coil and into the field.

  Wilhelm followed close behind, receiving his own small wounds and rips in his pants. Somehow he got a long scratch on the back of his hand. Concertina wire really was the devil’s own invention: It would slow down any escaping laborer long enough for guards to aim an easy shot. Assuming, of course, the would-be escapee didn’t get fried by the electric fence first.

  The two men waded through dry weeds toward the apartment block. They stumbled over chunks of brickwork and bent rebar, and Wilhelm guessed this open area had not really been a field. Another row of buildings had probably stood here. They’d been bombed out, apparently, and bulldozers had scraped away most of the rubble. To Wilhelm’s left, broomstraw nearly concealed a set of concrete steps that led to nothing.

  The weeds gave way to a crumbling strip of pavement and the remains of the apartments. At the first structure, spars of wooden shoring propped up a leaning brick wall. The other three walls had collapsed; Wilhelm wondered why anyone had bothered to keep one standing. The wall’s two windows stood hollow, a
ll the glass broken out. A row of four starlings perched on a sill. The birds scattered at the men’s approach.

  This vantage point afforded a better view of the river. No one stirred on its banks, but a tugboat wallowed upstream along the main channel. Black smoke rolled from its stack, and the tug’s engine emitted a throaty grumble that sounded to Wilhelm like worn pistons.

  Perhaps the tugboat’s noise prevented Wilhelm from hearing another engine. Maybe his ears remained dulled from the explosion back at the submarine base. Or maybe he simply let his guard down. For whatever reason, the American took Wilhelm by surprise when he grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him behind the shored-up wall. For an instant, Wilhelm believed the Yank had suddenly thought better of traveling with a German, deserter or not, and decided to kill him.

  The bomber pilot pushed Wilhelm to the ground, onto his stomach. Still not comprehending the Yank’s purpose, Wilhelm rolled and started to reach for his Luger. But the Yank made no more threatening moves. Instead, he dropped and lay flat. Wilhelm now found himself confused and in pain; the jarring of sore ribs sent waves of fire through his chest.

  “Shh,” the Yank said. “Car coming.”

  The whine of an engine rose as a vehicle neared. Sounded like something smaller than the truck they’d just seen. Rather than speeding past, the vehicle slowed. The engine idled.

  “They might have spotted us,” the Yank said.

  Slowly Wilhelm rose up on his knees until he could peek over a window opening. The movement caused another stitch in his chest.

  On the road by the fence line sat an old Kfz.13 Adler armored car, with an MG34 machine gun mounted on a pintle. Three soldiers sat in the car. Two got out, while one manned the machine gun. One of the dismounted soldiers carried a Mauser, and the other carried a Sturmgewehr 44. The runes on their collar tabs indicated their branch of service.

  The SS.

  15

  Hunted

  Behind the blasted brick wall, Karl gripped his .45 and held his breath. He and the German deserter dared not take another look around the wall. To avoid being seen, they could only hide, listen, and wait—assuming the SS troops hadn’t pinpointed them already.

  Karl felt his pulse thumping. The slightest sound became amplified; the master control knobs for all of Karl’s senses got turned up to the stops. The crunch of approaching boots grew louder with each step.

  The footsteps stopped.

  “Wo?” one of the soldiers asked. Where?

  “I don’t know. I thought I saw movement in the field.”

  Karl mouthed a silent curse. They must have seen something just as they rounded the curve. He tapped the U-boat man’s shoulder. When the German looked at him, Karl pointed two fingers toward his own eyes, then pointed to the right side of the wall. He pointed to the German, then at the left side. Raised his pistol. You cover the left; I’ll cover the right.

  The German got the message. He set himself on one knee, Luger aimed to the left. Karl covered the right side and the windowsill above him.

  The odds of surviving this engagement, if it came, tallied up even at best. With luck and straight shooting, Karl figured, he and the German might take down the two SS men who’d dismounted from the armored car. No, the odds came up far worse than even: It looked like at least one of the men had an automatic weapon. And what about the guy on the truck with the big machine gun? He could open up from the road.

  Doesn’t matter if he can’t shoot through the wall. He can still keep us pinned down here, Karl realized. Until more Krauts come. Which won’t take long.

  A pair of boots clomped closer. The soldier took two steps, then stopped. Two more steps. Stopped.

  The man was stalking. Hunting.

  “Here?” a voice asked.

  “Somewhere,” came the answer.

  “Probably a stray dog, Johann. You see an escaping Jew around every corner.”

  If Adrian had to die, Karl thought, thank God he died in the air. What would he have gone through if these people had caught him? Yeah, come on around this corner, you goose-stepping son of a bitch.

  The SS troops outgunned him, but Karl knew his .45 fired a heavy slug. Just one in the torso would put a big man down. Karl hoped he could at least take one enemy with him.

  We’ll report to Saint Peter at the same time, he thought. And part ways after that.

  The steps advanced even nearer. Stopped. The enemy soldier stood so near that Karl could hear his breathing. The man coughed. Spat. Took another step.

  Karl raised his weapon higher. Tried to picture where the SS man’s torso would first appear. Wondered if his parents would ever learn what happened to him.

  “Come on, Johann,” a voice called. “You will make us late.”

  “Verdammt,” came the response, just feet from Karl’s head. “Very well.”

  A scuffing sound followed, perhaps a boot heel scraped in frustration. When the footsteps began again, they moved away from the wall.

  Yeah, Karl thought, you don’t want to be late, wherever the hell you’re going. We Germans are ever punctual. Relief flowed through his muscles like a narcotic.

  Karl lowered his .45 and turned to look at the U-boat man. The sailor rested his Luger against his knee as if the weapon had suddenly grown too heavy to lift. He furrowed his brow and pressed his lips together in a puzzled look.

  I know what you’re thinking, Karl mused. You almost got your first taste of land combat, and who had your back but an enemy officer? I was just thinking the same thing.

  A door slammed on the armored car, and the vehicle’s engine revved. With one hand, Karl braced himself against the wall and prepared to look over the windowsill. His new German acquaintance held up a finger to wait.

  Did the U-boat man suspect a trick? Maybe. These SS guys weren’t Boy Scouts. They wore the totenkopf, the death’s-head insignia, for a reason. Probably knew all kinds of ruses to play on scared people trying to hide.

  Sure enough, the armored car’s motor raced for several seconds—without going anywhere. Karl imagined all three occupants scanning the field and the apartment block, waiting for someone to break cover. After a minute or so, Karl heard someone put the armored car into gear and drive away. He eased himself upward, unbending his knees, and peered over the bottom right corner of the window opening.

  The field lay empty; the SS men had gone.

  “Cagey customers, aren’t they?” Karl said in English.

  The U-boat man looked puzzled for a moment. He seemed to ponder Karl’s figure of speech just for a second, then toss it out of his mind.

  “We have not seen the last of them,” the sailor said in German. “Their job requires little expertise, but they have mastered what few skills they need.”

  The sailor’s contempt for the SS dripped from every word. That surprised Karl a little, but he thought he understood. This Kriegsmarine officer carried the pride of a mariner, a professional. Much like an aviator. If he had deserted because of cowardice, he would have forgotten all about military professionalism. So maybe this guy isn’t a coward. So much the better. Karl did not care to spend time with a man who took counsel of his fears.

  “We better keep moving,” Karl said.

  “Ja.”

  The two men rose from behind the wall and walked through the shattered apartment buildings. Karl pocketed his Colt, and the German put away his Luger. Gaps among the buildings offered views of the river. Karl gleaned two bits of information from the water: He and the sailor were moving upstream, which meant roughly southeast. And the river carried little traffic. Karl had seen no vessels since that tugboat a while ago. So, for now at least, it was probably safer to walk along the river than anywhere near a road.

  Though the German never said so, he seemed to think the same thing. He led the way down an embankment that sloped to the water’s edge. Riprap placed for erosion control made walking difficult. Chunks of limestone and broken concrete rolled underneath Karl’s boots. A black film, almost like cha
rcoal dust, covered everything. Perhaps the result of industrial pollution, Karl supposed, or possibly ash from fires touched off by incendiary bombs. In places, rubble from a destroyed building had tumbled down the riverbank, and in those sections, it became hard to distinguish the riprap from bomb damage.

  Karl could not tell whether the destruction along the water’s edge had happened last night or months or even years ago. From the lack of activity, he began to judge the damage old.

  Then he found a body among the weeds and concrete and stones.

  A man lay facedown, ten yards from the water. The corpse showed no sign of decay; it had not even begun to smell. The clothing was dry, so the man had not floated down the Weser. Apparently, he had died where he fell, a victim of shrapnel or flying debris, perhaps. The man was gray-haired and heavyset.

  The sailor gave Karl a sharp-edged glance. Yeah, I know, Karl thought. A victim of the air raid, more than likely. A civilian casualty. Just like the civilian crews of freighters. Karl decided not to have that argument again. Instead, he said only, “I hate to see that.”

  “As do I.”

  The dead man wore a brown woolen jacket. A gust rippled the river’s surface and flowed cool on Karl’s neck and face. The breeze reminded him how cool the night had been, and how the weather would only grow colder.

  “And I hate to do this,” Karl said.

  He kneeled beside the body. With thumbs and forefingers, he pinched the fabric of the dead man’s sleeve and trousers. Steeled himself for any vision of horror that might result from what he was about to do. Lifted, pulled, and turned the body over.

  Karl expected to see ghastly wounds, mangled features, or worse—teeming maggots. He saw none of that. Just an old man’s stubbled face with shallow, bloodless scratches. A senior shipyard worker, perhaps, or maybe an old pensioner. Probably alive and well only hours ago. Unseeing eyes stared up at the sun, pupils milky with death. Karl saw no injury to suggest a cause of death; it was as if the man had strolled along the river and dropped dead of a heart attack. Remotely possible, Karl supposed. But more likely some sort of blunt trauma had ended his life. Maybe a brick blasted into the air had struck his head. During wartime, death had so many ways of coming out of nowhere. Karl knew of a fighter pilot who got killed sitting on the ground at home base. Poor guy flipped a switch for a fuel boost pump and an electrical short ignited a full tank of gas.