by John Wilson
AN F.E.2B PLANE
This thing can’t possibly fly. I’m wrapped in a thick sheepskin jacket, with a leather helmet and goggles on my head, and crouched in a horribly exposed cockpit. If I had the courage, I could lean forward and look straight down to the ground. The pilot, a happy young Englishman, sits behind and slightly above me. Behind him is a huge thundering engine and the massive two-bladed propeller. Farther back, several fragile struts support a tiny tail, and on either side, impossibly flimsy wings stretch out into the silvery moonlight. I swallow convulsively, desperate to keep the contents of my stomach in place.
“It’s called a pusher,” the pilot informs me cheerfully, leaning forward to shout in my ear. “Propeller’s at the back, you see, pushing us forward. That allows the observer—the chap who sits where you are—a clear field of fire without having to shoot through the propeller. We decided it was best not to give you a Lewis gun. Don’t want any accidents, what?”
I grunt through clenched teeth, praying that he will shut up and let me suffer in peace. He doesn’t.
“These tubs were a godsend last year, when the Fokkers were at their worst. A bit slow now, but still maneuverable. One of these brought down Immelmann this past summer. It’ll do until something better comes along, and it’s good for night work like this and the odd bombing mission.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about and I don’t care. I just want my fear to end.
“Right-ho, then. Shall we take off?”
I lean forward and throw up on the cockpit floor, trying to avoid the battered suitcase at my feet. If my cheerful pilot notices, he’s too polite to mention it.
The engine note changes and we begin to move forward, bumping over the field. The ground seems to rush past me at an insane speed. I throw up again. As I sit back up, I gradually become aware that the bumping has stopped. Cold wind rushes past my cheeks. We’re airborne. I feel a slight thrill. Then I make the mistake of looking over the side. In the moonlight, dark shapes rush by below us. Before dizziness overwhelms me, I can make out a few derelict buildings, a battery of heavy artillery and the straight line of a country road. I slump back as low as I can and grip the edges of the cockpit, glad that there’s nothing left in my stomach to come up.
“We’ll fly low and fast over the front line,” the pilot shouts at me. “That will give us the best chance of avoiding the anti-aircraft guns.”
I don’t like his use of the word chance, but I try to focus and push my fear down. Hiding my fear is something I’ll have to do, like pushing my hatred down so it won’t show. I concentrate on my breathing, paying attention to every breath in through my nose and every breath out through my mouth. Fear tries to push its way into my thoughts, but I push back and focus my awareness on my next breath—in, out, in, out…
I feel my hands relax on the cockpit edge and force myself to sit upright. I look up at the sky. We’re flying east, away from where the sun set two hours ago. The moon is high in the sky and almost full. Wispy clouds drift across it like torn pieces of curtain. I try to pick out familiar constellations, but the clouds are too thick and the moon too bright to allow more than an occasional glimpse of the brightest stars.
Studying the familiar sky helps me relax more and I risk lowering my eyes. Ahead, occasional bright orange flashes light up the horizon. I assume they must be German guns near the front lines. It’s strangely beautiful, a weird film in magical color with the music drowned out by the plane’s thudding engine. I remember as a child watching a thunderstorm and trying to predict where the next lightning flash would occur. I do the same here, but the flashes are random and I only ever manage to see them at the edges of my vision.
Over to my left, a bright pinpoint of light soars up in a long, lazy arc. At its highest point, it hangs for a moment before bursting into an incredibly bright white fireball that drifts down to the ground. Entranced, I forget my fear and lean over to look down. Below me, I see a bewildering complexity of ghostly white marks zigzagging across the landscape—the front lines. I know that thousands of men are down there trying to kill one another, but the terrain below me is empty. It’s a dead landscape. All signs of life—farms, villages, fields, roads, livestock—have vanished. All that remains are shell holes, the water in them gleaming like mercury in the light. The flare fades into darkness, then the red burst of an exploding shell shocks me out of my reverie and I slump back in my seat.
“Poor blighters,” the pilot says. “Rather be up here than down there any day.”
The next time I look over the edge, the war has vanished. We’re over open countryside. Undamaged poplar trees line the roads. Over to my right, a train puffs sedately on its way. To my left, the lights of a small village twinkle calmly. It looks as if I am over the only place in the world not ravaged by war, but it’s an illusion. Down there is Belgium, my homeland, and the invaders who have ruled her ruthlessly for more than two years.
“Almost there now,” the pilot shouts. “Our field is just beyond that clump of trees. I hope the farmer hasn’t plowed it since we last checked.”
I watch as the trees approach and sweep under us, the tops a few feet below our wheels. Once past the trees, we drop sickeningly and bump and rumble across the pasture.
“Out you pop now,” the pilot says cheerily as soon as we come to a halt. “If you go north along that road ahead of us, you should be in Damme in a couple of hours.”
I clamber clumsily out of the cockpit, dragging my suitcase after me. My knees are so weak I can barely stand, but I’m glad to be alive and back on solid ground.
“Thank you,” I say.
“My pleasure, but you probably don’t want to be found wandering around Belgium in a Royal Flying Corps jacket, helmet and goggles.”
“Of course.” I laugh nervously, pull off the goggles, helmet and sheepskin jacket, and stuff them back in the cockpit. “Thank you again.”
“Good luck.”
I stand in the shadows of the trees and watch as the plane bumps its way over the field and—almost reluctantly, it seems—hauls itself into the air. The wings waggle in farewell as it banks over me and heads west, back to friendly territory. I wait until the last rumble of its engine dies away and a blanket of silence descends over me. I continue to stand with my back against a tree, savoring the quiet.
London was never silent. There were always people about, and their chatter was set against a background of clopping horses, rattling cart wheels, and the clank of motorcars, taxicabs and buses moving along the cobbled streets. I don’t think my surroundings have been this calm since the war began.
As my ears adjust, I begin to hear other sounds—the rustle of a small animal in the underbrush, and the cry of a hunted creature nearby. Beneath the natural sounds, there’s something else, barely there at the limits of awareness. It takes me a moment to understand that I’m listening to the sounds of war, the heavy guns far to the west. This makes me realize that I have work to do, and that I’m probably in more danger than the soldier huddled in his muddy trench beneath the guns.
I brush leaves off my coat, hoist my battered suitcase and step out onto the road. It’s deserted in both directions as far as I can see in the moonlight. Keeping close to the trees, I set off toward Damme.
—
My pilot’s estimate of two hours of walking was optimistic. It must be closer to four, and it feels even longer to my feet in their unsuitable shoes and my arms aching from carrying my suitcase. Three times I’ve taken refuge in the roadside ditch when I’ve heard horses approach, but no one has noticed me.
I move slowly from shadow to shadow through the outskirts of Damme, but no one is around at this time of night. Even by moonlight, everything is hauntingly familiar—the cobbled Kerkstraat, the neat rows of gabled houses, the squat tower of the church standing sentinel over the town. I skirt the main square, where I have both happy memories of playing as a child and dark ones of my father’s execution.
I turn up Slekstraat, and suddenly I’
m standing at the door of my house. I can hardly breathe because the emotion of the moment is so tight in my chest. I lift the door knocker and let it fall. It seems forever until I hear shuffling footsteps from inside. The latch is lifted and my mother is standing there.
“Mama,” I say softly.
“Manon, is it you?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly I am enveloped in my mother’s tearful embrace and pulled inside. I have come home.
After seemingly endless tears and hugs, Mama sits me down at the kitchen table and, despite the fact that it is well past midnight, insists on feeding me. “The Germans take the best of everything,” she says as she clatters the pots and pans. “Soon it will be impossible to get anything that we don’t grow ourselves. We will be living on turnips and potatoes.”
I sit in silence, letting Mama chatter on while I luxuriate in my surroundings. Everything around me is familiar—the smells wafting from the soup pot on the stove, the cast-iron skillets hanging from the hooks above the fireplace, the rough feel of the thick wooden table where I spent much of my childhood puzzling over homework. I let my finger trace out the initials that Florien and I dug into the tabletop one day many years ago. Papa was very cross with us, but he never sanded the table to get rid of our marks.
“It’s only vegetable soup,” Mama says, placing a steaming bowl before me. “But it is hearty. It will build up your strength better than the foreign food you must have been forced to eat for so long.”
“Foreign food was all right, Mama,” I say as I take the first mouthful. “Not as good as your cooking, though, and some of the dishes in Egypt were a bit strange.”
“Egypt, my heavens! You did get around.” Mama sits opposite me at the table. “Two years you’ve been away,” she adds wistfully. “You look much older. A real woman now. My little girl’s gone.”
“Did you not get any of my letters?” I ask. “I received two of yours and sent you several.”
“No, dear. None arrived. I was able to get a couple out because there was a nice Red Cross man staying in town. He was Danish, I think. Now that you’re home, you must tell me every detail of where you were and what you did.”
Between mouthfuls of soup, I tell Mama about nursing the soldiers in Egypt and France. I tell her I was in London, but I say I was a nurse there as well. I don’t want her to know that I am here as a spy.
“If anyone asks where I’ve been,” I say, telling Mama what I agreed with Macleod, “you must tell them that I went to stay with relatives in the east. It wouldn’t be good for the Germans to discover that I left the country to nurse their enemies.”
“Of course.” Mama’s brow furrows in worry. “Things are not good here, and they will not get better. Some people say that the war will never end, and that we will be a part of Germany forever. You escaped all this. Why did you come back?”
“I thought I should use my skills as a nurse to help my own people. Tomorrow I will go to Bruges and get my old job back.”
WARTIME BELGIAN NURSES GATHER FOR A GROUP PHOTO
“You won’t be helping many of your own people. Most of the beds now are filled with German soldiers and sailors. Is that what you want?”
In truth, that is what I want. It’s the German soldiers and sailors who will give me information that I can pass on. But I can’t tell Mama that. To avoid answering, I make a joke.
“You see through me too easily, Mama. The real reason I returned was because I missed your turnip-and-potato soup.”
Mama laughs and reaches for my hand across the table.
“I really did miss you and Florien terribly,” I say.
At the mention of my brother, Mama’s expression darkens. “You’ll find your brother much changed.”
“In what way?”
“You remember how happy-go-lucky he always was?”
“Of course. He never seemed to have a care in the world.”
“Now you would swear he carries the entire world on his shoulders. I don’t think you will know him. The war has destroyed the Florien you once knew. He gets out of bed each morning and barely grunts hello to me. The truck collects him and the other workers and takes them to Zeebrugge. He comes home late, if he comes home at all, and goes straight to bed. I hardly see him, let alone talk with him. I try to get him to eat supper, but he always says he ate at work. And he drinks too much. Every night he’s out with a real rough crowd. I get so worried.”
“It must be hard for Florien, being forced to work for the men who killed Papa,” I say in my brother’s defense.
“That’s not it.” Mama twists the dish towel between her work-reddened hands. “Florien never talks about his father. It’s as if he never existed. I gave your brother Papa’s pocket watch. I thought it would be something to remind him. Do you know what he did?”
I shake my head.
“He sold it. When I questioned him about it, he said he had done it to buy food. But he didn’t buy food—he bought alcohol for himself and his cronies.”
I’m shocked at what Mama’s telling me. None of this sounds like the sweet, sensitive brother I used to know.
“But that’s not the worst thing,” Mama goes on to say. “He admires the Germans.”
I stare at her in horror. “That can’t be right. You must be mistaken.”
Mama gazes at me sadly, suddenly looking much older than I remember. “There’s no mistake,” she says. “Soon after you escaped, Florien joined the Flemish Movement.”
“What is the Flemish Movement?”
“They want to split Belgium in two—a Flemish/Dutch half and a Walloon/French half. We have always been a country of two cultures, but we have managed. Now the Germans think it would be easier to govern a split country, so they support the Flemish Movement.”
“So Florien likes the Germans because he thinks they will create a Flemish country? But it makes no sense! He was never political.”
“That has changed. On the rare occasions that I can get him to talk to me, all he says is that we need to be a separate country and Germany will help us achieve that. He idolizes the Germans. He praises how well organized they are and how wonderful their submarines and guns are. I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know what I can do with him anymore. Perhaps your return will make him see things differently. Will you try talking to him?”
“Of course, Mama.” But I have no idea what I’ll say. I had planned on talking to Florien—but to persuade him to spy for Britain. The fact that he is pro-German is a shock and will make my task much more difficult. Why has he changed so much?
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the front door opening noisily. Florien, swaying slightly, stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Is that any way to welcome your sister home, little brother?” I stand up and step toward him. “I came back to see you and Mama.”
“After you deserted us for two years?” Florien almost spits the words out. “You abandon Mama and me to go off and live the high life.”
“Hardly the high life,” I say. “I was a nurse in Egypt, France and London.”
“That’s very noble.” Florien’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “No doubt you were nursing those stupid British soldiers. They shouldn’t even be here. It’s not their war.”
I decide not to argue with him. “Well, I’m home now, and I was hoping for a welcoming hug.”
Florien looks uncertain for a moment, but then his expression hardens. “How did you get back here?”
I can hardly tell him that I was brought in by a British plane. “The same way I got out,” I say as calmly as possible. “Through the border with Holland.”
“But that’s impossible. The Germans have built a wire fence all along the border. There are two thousand volts running through it. Anyone who touches the wire dies.”
“There are ways,” I say, thankful that Macleod had prepared me for this as well. “Some communities are cut in half by the wire
. The Germans let people through on market days. I just had to persuade a farmer to take me through on his apple cart.”
“I suppose you think you’re very clever,” Florien says.
“I don’t, but I am sorry that you don’t seem pleased to see your big sister.”
I step forward again and open my arms for a hug, but Florien is too wrapped up in his anger.
“You should have stayed on the other side of the wire,” he snarls. Then he turns on his heel and clumps along the corridor to his room.
Overwhelmed by sadness, I sit back down at the table.
“You see what he is like,” Mama says. “Things are difficult, but we could get through if we stuck together as a family. I don’t know how long I can stand him being like this.”
“Everything will be fine,” I say. “When Florien’s calmed down tomorrow, I’ll talk to him. He’ll come around. Everything will be good now that I’m home.”
To comfort Mama, I force as much conviction as I can into my voice, but it must be obvious that I don’t believe a word I’m saying. I left Belgium because I had lost my father. Now I’m back and I seem to have lost my brother as well.
The watery sun is low on the horizon and offers little warmth, but it’s still good to see. I’m cycling along the towpath beside the canal that leads to Bruges, and it’s so quiet and peaceful that I can almost imagine there’s no war on. My mind drifts back to the carefree days when I used to cycle this path, excited to be heading for the hospital and my nursing training. Some days Florien would cycle with me, just for the fun of it. We would race short stretches and I would always let him win.
Thoughts of Florien bring my mood down. I am shocked by his attitude. How could he have changed so much? Despite his late arrival last night, he was gone by the time I got out of bed. I was relieved that I didn’t have to face him again, but that just made me feel guilty.
