Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

  Just as he reached the door, silken flashes lit the horizon. The bombers had returned, striking somewhere in the direction of Bremen. Even this lakeshore heaven, Wilhelm mused, must have its reminder of hell.

  Inside, the smell of fresh smoke greeted Wilhelm. The American had started a fire in the stove. Wilhelm placed the pot on top of the stove, removed the potatoes from the water, and placed them on a plate. He found a kitchen knife in the cupboard and began quartering the potatoes. When steam began to rise from the pot, he tilted the plate over the water and used his blade to sweep the potato chunks into the pot. Droplets splashed onto the stovetop and sizzled.

  The Yank went to the pantry and came back with a sealed jar of onions. Unscrewed the zinc cap and emptied the onions onto a plate for Wilhelm to cut.

  “My ex-hobo buddy would have called this ‘mulligan stew,’ ” the flier said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Stew made from whatever you got.”

  “Indeed.”

  Wilhelm sliced the onions and added them to the pot. Shook in a few dashes of pepper. They considered adding more from the pantry, but decided to conserve the rest of the food. The pot began to simmer and filled the cabin with the mouthwatering aroma of onion and potato soup. When the Yank took a turn at stirring, Wilhelm sat, folded his arms across the table, and put his head down. He could have fallen asleep right there, but for his hunger.

  The Yank went outside and returned with his water flasks filled. Set them on the table, stirred the pot once more, and declared, “Soup’s ready.” Ladled the soup into stoneware bowls and placed a bowl and spoon before Wilhelm.

  Wilhelm could have wept. Food, sleep, and warmth. The mere fact of having his basic physical needs met seemed an unpardonable indulgence. The war had taken much from him—and had taken so much more from so many others. He wished he could wall off this cabin in the woods from all the violence and insanity—except he’d have preferred to get walled off with one of his French girlfriends instead of this talkative, wayward American.

  He sat up straight. The Yank took a seat opposite him. Wilhelm took a spoonful of soup and placed it in his mouth. Burned his tongue, so he immediately grabbed a water flask and took a drink. But oh, the taste of warm food. He dipped the spoon again, blew on the soup, and watched the tiny ripples. Took another bite, this time without pain.

  For fifteen minutes, the men ate without speaking. Each refilled his bowl. The American spilled soup on his whiskers and wiped it with his sleeve. He seemed more in command of his emotions now. Perhaps his breakdown had brought some sort of catharsis—or perhaps the food and shelter had simply brought him needed relief. He looked up from his bowl and said, “You said your last name was Albrecht, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “May I call you that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Mine is Hagan. Karl Hagan.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  The men continued eating in silence. After Wilhelm finished his third bowl, he tilted the cook pot to see how much soup—or mulligan stew, as Hagan had called it—remained. Two pieces of potato and a chunk of onion swam in shallow broth, perhaps half a bowl’s worth.

  “You can finish it,” the Yank said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “All yours, Popeye. Too bad we don’t have spinach for you.”

  “Very kind of you,” Wilhelm said. He ate until nothing remained but a mouthful of broth, then put down the spoon, lifted the bowl, and drank off its final contents. Hagan took the bowls and stacked the cookware and utensils on the end of the table.

  “I’ll wash all these in the lake tomorrow,” the Yank said. “I’m going to bed.”

  Hagan lifted his knapsack, dug out the blankets of parachute silk, and selected one for himself. Shuffled toward one of the bedrooms like a very old and tired man. At the bedroom door, he turned back toward Wilhelm.

  “Put out the lamp before you go to bed, will you?” Hagan said.

  “Of course,” Wilhelm answered.

  The American disappeared into the bedroom. The door squeaked on little-used hinges as he closed it.

  Wilhelm sat at the table and stared into the oil lamp’s yellow flame. The flame imprinted itself on his retinas, and he could still see the oblong tongue of fire when he closed his eyes. The ghost flame floated in darkness like the funeral pyre of a distant tanker torpedoed in the North Atlantic. Wilhelm rested his head in his hands. He began to nod off, and he startled awake when his elbows slipped on the table.

  What makes the difference, he asked himself, between an enemy and a friend? On the run from his own compatriots and having befriended an American, Wilhelm felt he should find some lesson, some concluding moral. But in his exhausted state, he could not work his mind toward that harbor.

  Maybe it will come to me, Wilhelm mused, as a final thought when the SS stands me in front of a wall.

  He got up from the table and lifted the makeshift silk blanket that Hagan had left out for him. Carried the blanket to the other bedroom and placed it on the cot. Spread out the blanket, sat on the cot, and took off his boots. His toes cracked as he flexed them. He untied the pistol lanyard from his wrist and stripped off his jacket. Took the Luger from his waistband and placed it on the floor. Unbuckled the American gun belt from his waist and put the holstered Colt on the floor as well.

  Wilhelm returned to the main room and gently lifted the oil lamp. He carried the lamp into his bedroom and placed it in a corner. Looked around the room enough to get his bearings. When he felt sure he could find his way to his cot in the dark, he scrolled the lamp’s wick down until the flame went out, as if the burning tanker had finally slipped beneath the waves.

  28

  The Future Doesn’t Belong to You

  Karl woke to a dawn so heavily frosted that at first he thought snow had fallen. When he stepped outside to relieve himself, his boots crunched on dried grass and fallen leaves fuzzed with rime. The frost looked much like the kind of ice that would form on the B-17’s leading edges when flying through mist above the freezing level. The Fort didn’t take well to that; she could carry a heavy load of bombs, but not a load of ice. Fuzzy wings meant you needed to get out of icy weather.

  The outdoor privy smelled foul, and that concerned Karl. The odor implied recent use. He wondered if he and Albrecht should move immediately. But the thought of another night in the open made him shudder. Just one more day, Karl thought, to get our strength back. He pissed through the hole in the bench and closed the door behind him. Outside the privy, he took a deep and grateful breath of clean air as he surveyed the forest and lake.

  The water’s surface lay still and bright silver like a pool of mercury. All around the shore, whitened evergreens rose from the lake on gentle slopes. A cloudless sky stretched overhead, still dark enough in the west for Karl to make out a couple of stars.

  From the woodpile, he selected three pieces, all quartered sections of oak. He carried the firewood into the cabin and set it down next to the stove. Opened the stove, took hold of the poker, and stirred the ash. The effort revealed glowing coals.

  Piece by piece, Karl placed the firewood into the stove. He stacked the wood crosswise to let air circulate, and he closed and latched the stove door without adding kindling. The coals from the night before still looked hearty enough to ignite fresh firewood by themselves.

  At the table, he gathered up an armful of dirty bowls and cookware. Carried them outside and down to the water’s edge. The lake’s surface no longer stood motionless; a pair of mallards had landed a hundred yards away, and they cut ripples in the shape of twin vees as they swam.

  Karl kneeled, put down the cookware, and dipped one of the bowls into the water. Grasped wet sand with his thumb and three fingers and smeared the sand into the bowl. Scrubbed with his fingertips until the bowl looked fairly clean; then he rinsed it and set it aside.

  As he continued washing the dishes, he heard aircraft engines and looked up. For several seconds, he
scanned the sky, but saw nothing. Then the planes appeared from behind the screen of trees to the east. Six Focke-Wulfs prowled low, no more than three thousand feet above ground level. They held a tight formation, their cruciform shapes black against the morning light. Each aircraft sported a yellow band around the fuselage near the tail. Their engines skirled loudly enough to send a vibration through Karl’s rib cage, and the ducks lifted off the water in an explosion of spray and flapping wings.

  The fighters flashed across the lake and receded to the west. Karl speculated about their target. Their altitude suggested they intended to strafe troops on the ground instead of engaging bombers in the cold, thin heights. And that implied Allied lines were moving closer.

  Good news, if true. Yet Karl knew he’d need a lot of luck to live long enough to reach Allied lines. He also found it strange to interpret a Luftwaffe formation as any kind of good omen. For so many months, he’d seen squadron mates fall to Luftwaffe guns, and he’d expected to meet his own death the same way. His death now seemed even more certain—except it would happen on the ground instead of in the air.

  When he finished washing the dishes and spoons, Karl carried everything back inside. He found the cabin’s interior pleasantly warm; the firewood he’d placed in the stove must have caught quickly. Albrecht was up, rummaging through the pantry and cupboard.

  “Good morning,” Karl said. “What are you looking for?”

  Albrecht answered without looking at Karl. He picked up something from a pantry shelf.

  “Found it,” the German said. “I was hoping someone had left a razor here. There is a fragment of mirror hanging on the wall in my room. I see no shaving powder, but I did find soap.” Albrecht waved an ivory-handled straight razor.

  “Excellent,” Karl said. He scratched his beard. “I’d love to get rid of this bird’s nest. Look a little bit less like a hobo.”

  “First we eat breakfast.” The U-boat man lifted a jar from the cupboard. “Pears, perhaps?”

  “Anything.”

  Karl placed the cleaned dishes back in the pantry. He found two forks, and he and the sailor ate the pears right out of the jar. The fruit had a syrupy taste, sweeter than raw pears. It had been cooked so thoroughly that it melted in Karl’s mouth like cotton candy at a county fair. When one pear half remained, Albrecht offered it to Karl.

  “You gave me the last of the soup,” Albrecht said, “so now it’s your turn.”

  “Thanks,” Karl said as he speared the pear half. Then he held the jar toward Albrecht. “Don’t waste the juice. You drink it.”

  “Danke.”

  The German lifted the jar with both hands and drank the syrup. He paused once, to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, then drained the jar completely.

  “I’d say I wish we had coffee,” Karl said, “but that would be getting greedy.”

  The U-boat man nodded, swallowed, wiped his mouth again. “I’ll warm up some water to shave and wash,” he said.

  “All right,” Karl said. “While you’re cleaning up, I’ll see if I can catch us some dinner.”

  Albrecht picked up the cook pot Karl had just scrubbed and took it outside. He returned a minute later with the pot filled with water, and he placed it on the stove. Karl began looking through the fishing tackle the cabin’s owner had left. He found a rod fitted with a casting reel, and the reel held a spool of line that looked like braided cotton or linen. Some German fisherman had left an artificial lure tied to the end of the line—just a simple silver spoon with a treble hook. Though Karl had his own rudimentary fishing kit, he decided to use the lure already tied on: After all, the Kraut who owned this rod probably knew the fishing here better than anyone else.

  On the pantry floor, Karl also found a landing net. He took the rod and net outside and down to the water’s edge. As he looked across the lake, he saw no fish breaking the surface; if they were feeding at all, they were feeding at lower depths.

  The lure hung by its hook on one of the rod’s line guides. Karl plucked the lure off the guide and let it swing at the end of the line. Clicked the spool release and held the spool with his thumb. Raised the rod over his head and flicked it forward. At the same time, he lightened the pressure he held with his thumb, which allowed the spool to spin and the line to pay out.

  The lure sailed out over the water in a long parabola. The sight reminded Karl of lines of tracers arcing from Luftwaffe guns. The spoon hit the lake with a muted sploosh, and ripples spread from the impact point. The ripples put him in mind of the shock waves of bomb strikes viewed from high altitude, and he wondered if the war had doomed him to see everything through a prism of destruction.

  Karl waited a heartbeat to let the lure sink. Then he began turning the reel, retrieving the spoon just fast enough to keep it off the bottom.

  No fish struck on his first cast, and he reeled in the lure. Pulled it dripping from the lake. Pressed the spool release, thumbed the spool, cocked his arm for another cast.

  And stopped cold.

  What in heaven’s name am I doing? Karl asked himself. This could be Keystone Lake back home in Pennsylvania, he thought, with me on a day off without a care in the world.

  Except he had all kinds of cares, more than he liked to consider, and they all added up to a very slim chance of survival. What the hell kind of war was this? He’d gotten shot down where the air was so thin he couldn’t breathe it, then returned to the earth unharmed under a canopy of silk—and now found himself on a nature hike with an enemy officer.

  Madness.

  Hell, maybe I already got killed, Karl thought, and this is the fever dream of a dying brain. Or else I’m in purgatory, doomed to wander a war zone with another soul as lost as me.

  But the weight of the Colt in his pocket reminded him this was all too real. He remained an officer of the United States Army Air Forces, with all the attendant responsibilities—and not a kid playing hooky from school to go fishing, or a troubled shade at large in Hades. Keep proper vigilance, he reminded himself. He eyed the opposite shore, turned his neck to watch behind him. No sign of anyone.

  Karl let fly with another cast. This time, he didn’t hold enough tension with his thumb, and the reel backlashed. The line bunched up around the spool and balled up into a large tangle. Karl cursed under his breath, examined the fouled line. Turned the reel forward and backward and spent the next fifteen minutes untangling the mess he’d made.

  If eating depended on my casting skills, he thought, we’d starve to death at this rate.

  After he’d cleared the backlash, he tried another cast. Better this time. The spoon flew about twenty yards before splashing down, creating no bird’s nest inside the reel. Karl waited a thousand one, a thousand two, then began retrieving the lure.

  Adrian should be here, Karl thought, telling me I can’t cast worth a damn. Dear God, wouldn’t he find this rich? On the lam through Germany with a disillusioned Kraut. If there’s a heaven, Karl mused, and if Adrian’s looking down on me, he’s probably laughing his ass off.

  Unless he’s mad at me for not turning back when I had the chance.

  Karl realized he’d stopped turning the reel’s crank, and he’d let the lure settle on the bottom. He tried to start retrieving again, but the spoon’s hooks hung up on something.

  Great, Karl thought, now you’ve done it. He tugged this way and that, but the lure remained stuck fast. Nothing for it but to pull straight back. If the line breaks, the line breaks.

  He lowered the rod tip and started walking backward. The line tightened until it sang and vibrated—then fell slack as something gave. Either the line had parted or the lure had pulled free.

  Karl started retrieving again and felt the small weight of the lure. So he still had it. And no, Adrian was all about the mission, Karl decided.

  He wouldn’t be angry with me for trying to hit a valuable target inside the Reich. And he wouldn’t be laughing at me; he was too serious a guy. He’d say, Now your mission is to survive: Catch some rest, catch some f
ish, eat, get back your strength, and keep moving.

  A fish’s strike interrupted Karl’s thoughts of his dead friend. The rod jolted as if electrified, and Karl felt the fish surging at the end of the line. He raised the rod tip high to keep tension on the line, and he began cranking the reel. The fish ran in short bursts, quick zigs and zags, but it never pulled hard enough to strip line even though Karl had set the drag lightly. Not a big guy, then.

  When Karl reeled his quarry within five yards of the shore, the fish broke the surface. Just a butterscotch flash, then it submerged again. But that glimpse was enough to tell Karl he’d hooked a trout.

  That knowledge tilted his thoughts toward mercy. To Karl, a trout was a noble fish, of a higher order than catfish or carp. An ichthyologist might disagree, but it seemed a creature leaping after minnows and stoneflies had evolved further than one scavenging the bottom for dead things. If it’s a little trout, Karl decided, I’ll let it go.

  The fish made one more show of fighting; it swam hard to Karl’s left and made the rod tip dance. It surfaced again, feathery tail wavering, and Karl reeled until it lay in the shallow water at his feet, gills pumping. The lure hung from the fish’s lower jaw. A small trout, as Karl had suspected. Maybe seven inches. Not big enough to bother with the landing net.

  Karl kneeled, leaned the rod across his thigh, and ran his fingers down the line until he could take hold of the treble hook’s shank. As soon as he did so, the trout began to flop and splash. One of the hook points jabbed into Karl’s thumb, though not deeply enough to sink the barb. Karl swore, shook his hand, and held up his thumb to examine the puncture.