by Tom Young
“Maybe a little better,” Hagan said. “If we do get caught, say one or two things in English, but keep it to a minimum. Tell ’em you studied German in college.”
“I hope to tell them nothing at all.”
“Yeah, but it helps to have a plan. If you playact as my navigator, you’ll need to know a few things about my unit, too.”
“Such as?”
“If we get interrogated, we don’t have to give anything but name, rank, and serial number. You’re a first lieutenant. But if you need more back story, you’re from the 94th Bomb Group, 331st Squadron. Repeat that back to me.”
“Ninety-fourth Bomb Group, 331st Squadron,” Wilhelm said in English.
“Exactly. They know our unit designations, so you’ll need to get that right. Our ship’s name was Hellstorm. She had a square A on the tail.”
“Hellstorm. Appropriate.”
Hagan paused. He stared past Wilhelm as if suddenly troubled.
“Those dog tags I gave you might keep you alive,” the Yank said, “but there’s a problem. I should have thought of it before now.”
“What is that?”
“If we wind up in a stalag and they process you under Meade’s name and serial number, they’ll send that information to the Red Cross. His wife will get word that her husband is safe in a prison camp.”
Wilhelm had not considered that, either. He chided himself for his thoughtlessness. “That won’t do,” he said.
“You’re damned right it won’t do.”
Wilhelm pulled the chain from under his shirt. He started to lift it from around his neck.
“No,” the Yank said. “Keep them. Just—lemme think for a minute.”
Hagan sat quietly for a few moments. Wilhelm let the dog tags dangle between his fingers. He tried to imagine the grief of a wife getting a telegram saying her husband is missing. But how much worse to receive false hope that’s later dashed?
“Throw these things away if you must,” Wilhelm said.
“No. Keep them, like I said. If we get captured, let the SS or whoever see them to make it look like you’re one of us. But when they start doing paperwork,” Hagan added, “you don’t give them Meade’s real name and number. Make up a name, lose the dog tags, do whatever you gotta do.”
Wilhelm placed the tags back into place under his shirt and said, “I give you my word.”
“Good.”
Smart thinking by the Yank, Wilhelm believed, to plan for a bad turn of events. Wilhelm certainly had seen the value of preparing for emergencies. His crew had practiced crash dives, firefighting, and other procedures until they became second nature. He had pored over technical manuals constantly, because one never knew when a little tidbit of knowledge might save the day. Hagan had probably trained similarly as a bomber pilot. And like Wilhelm, he had likely begun his career by thinking of it as a grand adventure. Wilhelm wondered about that, so he decided to ask.
“When I joined the navy,” Wilhelm said, “I thought it would be all glory, but I found out differently very quickly after the war started.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“When did that happen for you?” Wilhelm asked. “If you do not mind my asking.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hagan said. “And I don’t.”
“Don’t,” Wilhelm repeated. The contractions still sounded unnatural.
The Yank let a few moments pass before answering. “It wasn’t one of the big missions,” he said finally. “It was one that probably didn’t even make the newspapers.”
Hagan told of a mission he’d flown back in June, days after the Allied invasion at Normandy. The Eighth sent a relatively small force—thirty planes—to hit an airfield near Leipzig. His crew suffered no injuries and his plane sustained no damage.
“But when we got back to Rougham,” the Yank said, “one of the ships that arrived after us shot up a red flare in the landing pattern. That meant wounded aboard. They had taken some flak on the run-in, and then they got bounced by fighters. The ship was Cajun Cassie. Jackie Bilodeau was the aircraft commander. Louisiana boy.”
Hagan explained how he watched Cajun Cassie taxi into the hardstand next to his own aircraft, Hellstorm. Bilodeau’s bomber had suffered heavy damage; the rudder and vertical stabilizer looked torn as if clawed by some giant predator. Shrapnel had peppered the fuselage and slashed holes in the wings. Near the right waist gunner, a cannon round had opened a puncture the size of a basketball. The Fortress leaked fluid as it groaned to a stop.
“At first, I thought she was losing oil or brake fluid,” Hagan said. “But it was leaking from the seams of the waist door. And it was red. The airplane itself was dripping blood.”
A shell had torn off a gunner’s leg, Hagan recalled, and the radio operator’s arm had to be amputated later. The bombardier and the right waist gunner were dead.
“When the ground crew opened the waist door,” Hagan said, “blood poured out. Fifty-caliber casings were floating in it. Just dripped into a pool underneath, like the airplane was a big whale somebody had harpooned.”
Wilhelm did not know how to respond to such a story. He had seen people lose their lives in awful ways, but he had never witnessed anything quite like the blood-spattered horror described by Hagan. Saying the wrong thing now seemed worse than saying nothing, so Wilhelm kept silent. After a few minutes, the Yank spoke up again.
“I can still see that,” he said. “Like it was yesterday. I can see it right now.”
“I suppose we have all seen things we wish we could erase.”
They talked no more that night, and Wilhelm slept fitfully. The cold kept him awake for much of the time. When he managed to fall asleep, he dreamed of a U-boat cruising submerged, trailing swirls of blood.
30
Improvising on the Verge of Disaster
At first light, a buzzing assaulted Karl’s ears. The sound came to him in that middle world between sleep and wakefulness, and the conscious part of his mind worked to distinguish between dream and reality. The noise persisted and grew more distinct as he drifted closer to full awareness, like runway lights growing brighter as he descended from a cloud deck.
Karl jolted to complete alertness when he recognized the noise’s source: Once more, it was that damned Storch.
He shook Albrecht. “Get up,” Karl hissed. “They’re looking for us again.”
The U-boat man sat bolt upright. Tossed aside his parachute cloth blanket as if he needed about half a second to wake up. Probably got conditioned to do that during his sea duty.
“The old man reported us,” Albrecht said.
“Was just a matter of time.” Evidently, the cord had not held the old man for long.
“Strike the tent?”
“No, let’s leave it,” Karl said. “Just get ready to move.”
The Storch’s engine grew fainter. Karl crawled from under the makeshift tent and scanned upward through the snow-lined trees. He caught no glimpse of the aircraft. Two inches of fresh snow lay on the ground, but as long as Karl and the German stayed inside the woods, a pilot would have a hard time spotting their tracks.
Karl stuffed a blanket into his pack. Grabbed his matches and folding knife, tossed them into one of the flasks of his survival kit. Dropped the kit into his pack. Drew his Colt from his pocket and checked its status: round chambered, hammer cocked, thumb safety engaged. Tied the pistol’s lanyard around his wrist and pulled the knot tight with his teeth. Albrecht emerged from the tent with his Luger in hand.
“You probably should ditch that Luger,” Karl said in English.
“ ‘Ditch’ it?”
“Drop it when we get away from the tent. Leave that old man’s rifle, too. If you gotta use a weapon, use that .45 I gave you. Makes you look more like an American.”
“Very good.”
The Storch’s engine grew louder. Coming back for another pass on the grid. But they had outwitted the search plane before; maybe they could do it again, Karl thought.
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“Remember,” Karl said. “When that thing gets close, just get up against a tree and hold still.”
“Ja.”
In the early-morning light, Karl led through the woods. Lacking a detailed map, he had no idea where he was going except generally farther from the old man’s cabin. A few hundred yards from the tent, Albrecht tossed away his Luger. The German pistol skittered on the forest floor. The U-boat man pulled out his wallet, removed a card, and threw that away, too.
The Storch’s engine grew louder, and Karl looked up to find the aircraft banking just a couple hundred feet above the treetops. The thing flew so close, he could make out the cord attached to the pilot’s leather flying helmet. Karl backed up against a tree and stood still. Looked over at Albrecht, who had done the same. Karl listened to the aircraft pass overhead, and he watched it level its wings and take up a new heading. At first, he heard only its engine and prop. But as the aircraft droned farther away, he heard barking. Then indistinct shouts.
“Do you hear that?” Karl asked.
Albrecht looked up at the sky, shook his head. But then his eyes widened as the barking grew louder.
“Damn it,” Karl said. “They’re coming.”
The sailor glanced at the snow-covered forest floor, and Karl knew what he was thinking: If they find our tracks, they have us.
Karl fought a surge of panic; for an instant, he felt like a field mouse trying hopelessly to hide from a circling hawk. “We gotta move,” he said.
The two fugitives began running through the forest at a quick jog. Twice, when the Storch flew near, they leaned close to tree trunks, panting. The land pitched downward, and Karl hoped that meant there was a shallow stream at the bottom of a cut, which they could cross and break up their tracks in the snow.
The slope did not lead to a stream. At the base of the hill lay the curve of a paved road. Through the trees, Karl saw trucks moving along the road. Military trucks. Black Balkenkreuz crosses painted on the sides, just like on the Focke-Wulfs.
“Son of a bitch,” Karl muttered under his breath.
“Let’s stay up on the hill and keep to the trees,” Albrecht said. “That way.” He pointed roughly north; Karl didn’t take the time to dig out his pocket compass. Navigating no longer mattered, anyway; hiding was the only goal. With dogs and men behind them, and troops on the road in front, Karl felt the options narrowing by the second.
They followed the hill’s contour, climbing to stay well above the road. Karl stumbled and went down on both knees. When he got up, patches of snow stuck to his lower trousers. The curve continued into a tight switchback, and the two men found themselves in a tongue of forest looped by pavement. The barking grew louder.
“We’re gonna have to take a chance and cross that road,” Karl said. “Maybe the woods get deeper on the other side.”
Albrecht nodded. Both men let themselves slide and stumble downhill. About fifty yards from the road, Karl grabbed a sapling to stop himself, and he raised a hand to motion for Albrecht to stop, too.
“I hear more traffic,” Karl said. “Let’s wait for it to pass, then double-time it across the pavement.”
The rumble of heavy tires increased, and two more trucks passed. Karl listened closely to make sure the vehicles kept moving. When the noise died away, he whispered, “Let’s move.”
He jogged down to the base of the hill, his knapsack bouncing across his shoulder blades. Heard Albrecht’s footsteps right behind him. Crouched at the forest’s edge and looked both ways. He couldn’t see far in either direction because of the curve’s sharpness. But he saw no trucks or soldiers in his limited field of view, so he stood up and charged across the road. Albrecht followed close behind. Just as they entered the woods on the far side, another truck whooshed around the curve.
Karl did not look back. For a moment, he held out hope that they hadn’t been spotted. But then, he heard the truck screech and groan to a stop. Doors slammed. Shouts rose. Karl could make out the German:
“Halt!”
“Which way?”
“There! I think I saw two!”
The two men sprinted through the forest. Albrecht pulled slightly ahead of Karl. His boots threw little showers of snow.
A rifle shot cracked behind them. Neither man fell. A warning shot, perhaps? Karl didn’t care. He simply ran. Madly. Hopelessly. Low-hanging evergreen boughs slapped his face. His lungs burned.
The fugitives scrambled up a wooded rise, then slid down the hill’s far side. The knapsack caught on a branch and tore from Karl’s shoulders. He left it.
Somewhere through the trees, he heard engines gunning, more doors slamming. Yaps of more dogs. Another rifle shot split the morning. Bark flew from a tree just to Karl’s right.
“Stop!” a voice commanded.
“Zeus,” another voice called. “Attack!”
Did I hear “Zeus”?
Karl did not have to wonder long. He heard the thumps of fast paws behind him.
And then the dog was on him, all teeth and snarls. The animal grabbed him by his trousers. Karl felt teeth sink into the back of his left thigh. He tumbled to the ground. Fell hard on his shoulder. Rolled to find a German shepherd leaping for his throat. Lips curled back to reveal flashing teeth. Karl blocked with his elbows to keep the animal off his head and neck.
The dog grabbed Karl’s forearm. Karl felt teeth break the skin—teeth like spikes. With his free hand, he grabbed at the dog’s collar. The animal fought and writhed; Karl had no idea a damned dog could be so strong and fast.
From somewhere out of Karl’s field of vision, Albrecht tackled the animal. Grabbed it around its barrel chest. Sprawled forward and drove the dog off of Karl.
“Just run!” Karl shouted.
Albrecht didn’t answer. Now the dog had a mouthful of the sailor’s jacket and was shaking him the way a terrier might shake a rat.
Just as Karl tried to get up to help Albrecht, a voice called out from a few feet away.
“Zeus, release. You pigs, do not move or I shoot!”
The dog let go of Albrecht. Karl looked up to see four German soldiers. Three of them pointed their Mausers in his direction. The fourth aimed a machine pistol at Albrecht. Karl couldn’t identify the weapon, but it reminded him of a Thompson submachine gun. The dog trotted to the man with the machine pistol.
All four soldiers wore camo field uniforms. On one collar, the man with the pistol wore the rank of hauptscharführer, a senior NCO. On the other collar, he wore the runes of the SS. A totenkopf insignia gleamed on his field cap. The man’s mouth was set in a thin, dark line. Salt-and-pepper hair trimmed close.
“Cowards,” the hauptscharführer said. “We know how to deal with deserters.”
With his good arm, Karl pressed himself up from the ground. Raised the other arm, fingers spread. Blood from the dog’s bite trickled down his arm. He pretended not to understand what the soldiers were saying.
“Do any of you sprecken zee English?” Karl asked in mispronounced, gobbledygook German.
The hauptscharführer frowned. “Are you American?” he asked. His English was accented, but fluent. “You look more like deserters. Cowards and deserters.”
“Yeah, I’m an American. I stole some clothes to blend in. But don’t take my word for it. I got my identification—” Karl started to reach for the folio with his ID, but stopped himself. Good way to get shot. “I got my ID on me,” he continued. “It’s in the right hip pocket. My weapon’s in my pants pocket. I’m not going to reach for it—don’t shoot me.”
“Get up,” the SS man said. “Slowly.”
Karl rose to his feet. Winced from the pain in his thigh where the dog had bitten him. It hurt like hell, but he had no trouble standing up. Apparently, those razor teeth had ripped only skin and not muscle.
“Who are you?” the German demanded.
“I’m a U.S. pilot. We got shot down about a week ago.”
Karl stood with his arms held high. Albrecht lay still and said not
hing.
“Search him,” the hauptscharführer ordered in German.
One of the other men, an SS corporal, slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped forward. Patted down Karl’s sleeves and pockets. Found the Colt, with the lanyard tied to Karl’s wrist. The corporal drew a long-bladed knife, cut the lanyard, and stepped back to examine the pistol.
“United States issue,” the soldier said in German.
“Give me that,” the hauptscharführer said. Took the weapon from his underling and placed it in a deep pocket of his tunic.
The soldier continued frisking Karl. He found the ID folder, opened it, eyed the identification card, looked back at Karl. Held the card at such an angle that Karl could see its familiar wording: WAR DEPARTMENT, The Adjutant General’s Office, Karl Robert Hagan, First Lieutenant. Photo with his tie tucked into his shirt.
“Seems to be him,” the corporal said.
The hauptscharführer held out his hand for the ID, and the soldier handed it over. The head man examined the card, grunted. Placed it in his pocket with the Colt.
“You,” the hauptscharführer barked in English at Albrecht. “Get up.” Motioned with his pistol barrel for the corporal to search Albrecht.
“He’s my navigator,” Karl said. “Like I said, we were shot down—”
“Shut up,” the hauptscharführer said.
The corporal began frisking Albrecht—who looked more pale than Karl had ever seen. The U-boat man looked at Karl, then down at the ground.
Don’t lose it, Karl thought. For both our sakes.
Albrecht lifted his eyes and stared straight ahead. The corporal found Albrecht’s .45 and handed over that weapon to his boss as well.
“What were you flying?” the hauptscharführer asked.
“I don’t remember,” Albrecht said. “Lemme think.”
The corporal glared at Albrecht for a moment. Punched him in the stomach. Albrecht doubled over. Groaned, sank to his knees.
Good, Karl thought. Now don’t push your luck.
“Does that refresh your memory?” the hauptscharführer asked.
Albrecht sucked in two ragged breaths, then looked up. “A B-17 Flying Fortress,” he said.
