by Tom Young
Maybe Cadet Ardmore made a mistake or maybe he suffered mechanical failure. But one day he failed to return to base from a solo cross-country training flight. The commander sent up six Stearmans to search for Ardmore, one of them piloted by Karl with an instructor.
The Stearman didn’t have an electric interphone like the B-17 and other combat aircraft. The instructor had to yell at the student through a Gosport system. The Gosport amounted to little more than a speaking tube that divided into two hoses extending to the ear pads in the student’s leather helmet.
As best he could, Karl scanned the ground for any sign of a crash or a downed pilot. Even out in the open, a lone individual was just a tiny dot. If the tiny dot wasn’t moving, it became even harder to spot. He saw hitchhikers, farmers, and campers—but no one who looked like a stranded aviator.
When none of the Stearmans found Ardmore or his crash site along the planned route of flight, the search became even more difficult. If he’d gotten lost, where had he gone?
“I have the aircraft,” Karl’s instructor shouted through the Gosport. “I’ll show you how to fly a search grid.”
Like boats dragging a lake for a drowning victim, the biplanes crisscrossed the search areas. Karl monitored compass headings, checked wind drift, and tried not to waste gas by droning over the same place twice. They found nothing on the first day of the search. Or the second. Or the third.
Finally, on day four, Karl caught a glimpse of yellow amid the trees in the Los Padres National Forest, miles from Cadet Ardmore’s planned route. The army trucked in some enlisted men who reached the crash site on foot. They said it looked like Ardmore had died on impact. No one ever found a cause for the crash.
Later, Karl lost more friends to training accidents—more than he cared to remember. The folks back home heard about combat deaths, but they had no idea how many airmen died in training. From this first painful loss, he took several lessons. One came back to him now: If we don’t panic and run, that pilot will probably miss us.
As the Storch came around again, Karl and the German flattened themselves against two spruces.
“That’s it,” Karl said. “You’re a tree. Think like a tree.”
The look on the Kraut’s face made it clear he thought Karl had lost his mind. But he’s still listening to me, Karl thought. He hasn’t gone sprinting through the forest. An important quality for an officer: Know when to listen. Since this guy has sense enough to listen, Karl figured, maybe he’s pretty smart.
The Storch passed almost directly overhead, so low that Karl could hear not just the banging of its cylinders, but the whoosh of air over its airframe. Built for just this sort of slow flight, the thickly cambered wings let the Storch practically crawl through the sky. Just an oversized Piper Cub, to Karl’s thinking. Multiple glass panels made the cockpit look like a greenhouse, so the pilot had a terrific view. But he must not have seen the men on the ground, because he flew across the forest on the same heading until he turned for another fruitless pass. Looking up through the canopy of leaves, Karl watched the plane flicker in and out of sight.
“Like running deep and silent with a destroyer above us,” the U-boat man said.
“Just hold still and let him finish his grid.”
The Storch crossed the forest border and flew over the cornfield again. For a few seconds, Karl had an unobstructed view of the aircraft. Then it disappeared again, obscured this time by corn tassels. After two more passes, the Storch vanished altogether, and the gurgle of its engine died away.
“Not much of a search,” the sailor said as he stepped from under the tree. “Typical Luftwaffe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Those eagles of the Fatherland are not nearly as good as they say they are. They couldn’t keep your antisubmarine planes off me, and they can’t keep your bombers out of our skies.”
The comment surprised Karl. The Luftwaffe was damned good, as far as he was concerned. Good enough to shoot down far too many Fortresses. And to kill Adrian. Maybe this U-boat guy has his expectations set too high for what air power can do. Might make for a fascinating conversation, Karl thought, if we could sit down and compare notes for several hours.
But you couldn’t really hold a military science seminar while running for your life.
For the rest of the day, the two men continued their trek through the countryside. They crossed two more creeks, and at the second creek, Karl emptied the contents of one of his survival flasks into his pocket and filled the flask with water. The fishing gear and other equipment chafed against his thigh, but the need for water overrode any concern for comfort.
From time to time, Karl checked his button compass to keep on a south-by-southwest course. Several times, he thought how it would have been great simply to press a talk switch and say, “Hey, nav. Gimme a heading.” And each time he wondered what navigator Conrad and the other crew members were doing right now.
Who was dead? Who was captured? Were any of them still evading capture? No way to know, and they might remain missing for years. Then maybe way out in 1975, some German farmer would dig up a set of dog tags that traced back to an American flier from a bomber called Hellstorm.
At dusk, Karl and the sailor stopped in a glade set among a stand of birch trees. No sound of road traffic intruded. Karl hoped the nearest highway or village lay miles away, but he couldn’t be sure.
“We might as well rest here,” Karl said in English. “We gotta sleep sometime, and at night, I guess, we’re less likely to have a farmer stumble onto us while we’re asleep.”
“Agreed,” the German said.
Karl sat with his back against a birch trunk, the bark peeling like parchment. He pulled off a section, and it looked like a ripped page torn from the book of Fate. But the page contained no words, no advice, no guidance. Karl rolled it up into a little scroll and started to flick it away with thumb and forefinger, but then decided to keep it for kindling. Took out his Colt and set it on the ground beside him.
Somehow the trees and the pistol and the danger and desperation made him think of a Hemingway novel he’d read back at base. Right now, he took no great meaning from For Whom the Bell Tolls. Rather, he took a practical tip. Robert Jordan, the American teacher turned guerrilla in the Spanish Civil War, kept his pistol tied to his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it. That seemed like a smart idea, especially since Karl, in his haste to change clothes after he first bailed out, had left his holster behind.
He removed the survival tools from his pocket in one great handful and spread them out in front of him. He found a length of parachute cord bound up with a rubber band. Slipped off the rubber band and uncoiled four feet of line.
“What are you doing?” the sailor asked.
“Making a lanyard.”
With his thumbnail, Karl snapped open the folding knife and cut the line. Threaded one end through the lanyard loop at the base of the pistol’s mainspring housing and tied a simple overhand knot. Pulled on the cord, and the knot began to slip.
“Good heavens,” the sailor said in English. “Can you not tie a lanyard knot?”
Karl shrugged. The German held out his hand. Karl handed over the Colt and the parachute cord. The Kraut shook his head and muttered, “You aviators.”
Immediately Karl wondered if he’d made a mistake in passing his weapon to the sailor. What if the Kraut got spooked by that Storch, Karl asked himself, and decided he’s better off without me? Will he shoot me as soon as I’m no longer convenient?
The submariner made no threatening move; he just untied the parachute cord and began his own knot. Still, Karl reminded himself not to let his guard down.
The German’s fingers moved so quickly, Karl could not follow the work. But when the Kraut handed back the weapon, a neat loop attached the cord to the mainspring housing, fastened with a knot so tight it felt like a pebble between Karl’s fingers.
Karl tied the other end of the lanyard to his wrist. This time he used a square knot, one of the f
ew other knots he knew. Gave the German a questioning look.
“It would not pass muster in the Sea Cadets,” the U-boat officer said, “but it will hold.”
Karl chuckled. He cut another four feet of line and tossed it to the Kraut.
“I guess you’ll need one, too,” Karl said.
“Thank you,” the German said. In less than a minute, he secured his Luger the same way Karl had lanyarded the Colt.
The gray in the eastern sky deepened toward black. The breeze fell to a dead calm, the kind that would have made for nice, smooth flying: one of those evenings when you could control an airplane with the tips of two fingers. The thought turned Karl’s mind to the unfairness of it all. He and his crew should be done and packing for home. Why, why, why? Karl closed his eyes and bumped the back of his head against the birch three times, once for each why.
Now that he had a chance to stop and catch his breath, a rage built within him. Karl wanted to lash out at something, tear a limb from a tree and beat the ground with it. Scream curses and threats at Hitler, the Luftwaffe, Gerhard, and anybody who’d ever pissed him off.
But that would only wear him out and make the sailor think he was crazy. And after ten minutes of losing his mind, he’d still be right here, stuck on the ground in enemy territory. You better stay focused and in control, Karl told himself, or you’ll wind up extremely dead.
The air began to chill, and Karl felt the sweat on his back growing cold and sapping his body heat. He doubted the temperature would drop below freezing tonight, but it sure would get cool enough to make him miserable unless he did something. In the last of the fading light, he pushed himself away from the birch tree and up onto one knee. Studied the ground for a moment, and selected a flat spot far enough from any trees. He wanted a place without too many roots.
He brushed away the leaves and spruce needles to make a circle about three feet in diameter. Then he began to dig with his bare hands.
Karl made little progress against the dry top crust. The soil rubbed his fingertips raw and hurt as it clotted under his nails. He reluctantly opened his folding knife and chopped at the ground. Hated to do it because it would dull the blade.
“What on earth are you doing?” the sailor asked.
“Digging a fire hole.”
“A hole?”
“Yeah. It’ll keep us a little warmer, but the flame won’t show.”
“Can I help?”
“Try to gather some kindling. The lighter the better, like the bark off these birches.” Karl pointed at the trees with his knife blade. “Then some bigger stuff, like twigs.”
“Very good.”
While Wilhelm began peeling bark from trees, Karl continued digging. He wished he’d started sooner; night fell around him and he dug purely by feel. He felt like an idiot for not having a flashlight—but his escape kit was designed for rapid bailout, not an extended camping trip.
From the corner of his eye, Karl saw a sliver of light shine from the German’s fist. So the U-boat guy had a flashlight. Of course, he did. Probably got pretty damned dark in a submarine when the power went out.
“Can you hold that light over here for a minute?” Karl asked.
“Ja.”
The Kraut tromped over to the half-finished fire pit. Dropped a handful of bark and twigs beside the hole, shaded the flashlight with the palm of his hand, and shone it where Karl was working.
The light revealed a root in the way, about the size of Karl’s little finger. He jabbed at the root with his blade, pulled it out of the pit, and flung it away. Kept dumping handfuls of soil beside him until he had dug down to his elbows. Then he opened another, smaller hole, and he tunneled with his fingers to connect the two pits. When he finished, he rested on both knees and wiped his forehead. Brushed his hands against his thighs to shake off some of the dirt. Noticed the German’s questioning look.
“The little hole’s for ventilation,” Karl said.
“Excellent. Did they teach you that in your air force?”
“Boy Scouts.”
Working by the shaft of illumination from the flashlight, Karl selected some of the bark and twigs the sailor had gathered, and he added the little birch bark scroll he’d made. Placed it all at the bottom of the fire pit and found his matches. Not the ones from his escape kit, but the matches he’d taken from the dead man by the river. Slid open the matchbox, took one wooden match, and pressed its head against the striking surface on the side of the box.
Don’t waste these, Karl told himself. You don’t know how long you’ll be out here.
He struck the match, and it ignited on the first attempt. The match burned with a sulfurous flare that assaulted his nostrils. He touched the flame to a tatter of birch bark and waited for the fire to catch. When the bark started curling and reddening, Karl dropped the match and held another shred of bark over the flame. Gray smoke stung his eyes, but gave him a little surge of victory now that he’d started the fire.
After a couple minutes, the flames licked at the top of the pit. The Kraut added larger sticks to the fire and gathered more deadfall to burn during the night. Once the concealed campfire became well established, both men sat beside it and warmed their hands. The U-boat man opened the bag from the butcher shop and brought out more of the wurst. Karl wiped his knife blade on the sleeve of his coveralls and started cutting slices of wurst. The knife had dulled a bit, but it still made clean slices. When he finished, he wiped the blade again, closed the knife, and returned it to his pocket. The wurst seemed enough for a meal, so Karl decided to save the potatoes for later.
The air smelled of wood smoke and evergreens, and the landscape fell silent except for the occasional call of a night bird. Stars wheeled overhead, silver dust embedded in obsidian. Karl took a handful of wurst and began to eat. In the forest’s peacefulness, he could almost imagine himself and Wilhelm as a pair of friends on a hunting trip. Or perhaps two knights-errant of old, traveling medieval Germany to right wrongs and rescue fair maidens.
After the meal, Karl lay on his back and stared up at the sky. We’re not friends on a hunting trip, he told himself. That Kraut is the enemy. Will he stab me while I’m sleeping? Karl rested his hand on his Colt and wondered whether he’d sleep at all.
20
Silent Running
In a fitful sleep, Wilhelm dreamed of Captain Slocum’s solo voyage, imagined himself as master of the Spray. The sloop’s deck and lines felt entirely real as Wilhelm tied up to a dock in Samoa. There, he accepted an invitation to visit the widow of Robert Louis Stevenson, just as Slocum had done. Wilhelm felt so honored to accept her gift of a set of Mediterranean sailing directories once owned by the late author.
How glorious it must have been to sail the world alone and in peace, obligated to no man, dependent on nothing except one’s own commanding expertise as a mariner. To use an old Martini rifle for nothing more lethal than firing warning shots when “savages” came too close. To view the world and its inhabitants with an affirming nod, and to accept every individual as a likely friend.
Wilhelm awoke in war, on land, surrounded not by waves, but timber.
He looked up at treetops smothered by low clouds. A fine mist hung in the air, barely able to wet the hairs on his arm. Despite the moisture, Wilhelm felt less chilled than yesterday; evidently, a warm front had moved in during the night. He sat up and saw the American trimming bark from a meter-long branch. The Yank pilot had broken off its twigs to form a fairly straight staff, and now he scraped with his folding knife as intently as if forming fine sculpture.
“Are you making a walking stick?” Wilhelm asked.
“Yep,” the Yank said in English, “until I use it for a fishing pole.”
“Sehr gut,” Wilhelm replied. He did not feel like starting lessons in American English this early in the morning.
The Yank took the hint. “Do you want to get moving?” he asked in German.
“I want to make some progress, but I don’t think we should tempt fate as w
e did yesterday.”
The two men discussed how best to continue their travels, weighed one risk against another. They decided to move mainly through wooded areas during the day. When crossing open country, they’d try to move at night, at least when the moon and stars provided enough light to see.
The American, apparently satisfied with his work, stopped scraping at the stick and gestured toward the forest with his knife.
“I wonder how deep these woods go,” he said.
“No idea,” Wilhelm said. “We will find out today.”
“You know, we’re going to have to get back to the River Weser and cross it at some point.”
The Yank was right. They needed to move south and west, toward the American and British forces. With the Red Army invading from the east, Wilhelm did not want to risk getting captured by Soviet troops. In their hands, he’d probably fare no better than if the SS arrested him. The Reds would probably kill the Yank, too. If they caught him evading with a German Kriegsmarine officer, they’d never believe he was really an American airman.
The Yank began kicking dirt into the fire hole. The soil showered onto the red embers and white ash and choked off the final wisps of smoke. He kept shoving the dirt with his boot until he had filled the pit. Then he scattered twigs and fallen evergreen needles until the place where the fire had burned looked almost undisturbed.
“All right,” the Yank said. “Let’s move.”
The American checked his miniature compass, pocketed the instrument, and pointed into the forest with his new staff. Wilhelm nodded and followed him into the spruces, carrying the muslin bag from the butcher shop. The bag felt much lighter now; they had eaten most of the wurst, and Wilhelm hoped the Yank really knew how to catch fish with whatever gear he carried in his escape kit.
