by John Wilson
Manfred stares out the window as if what he’s describing is happening there. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and collecting in the stubble of his beard. He seems to have run out of energy.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s all right.” I take his limp, pale hand and squeeze it. I get no response, so I collect the old dressings and leave. I feel sorry for Manfred and what he has gone through, but only one thing he said sticks in my mind, and it makes me wonder if I am losing my humanity. He said he was in charge of construction at the Bruges docks, and I can’t help thinking how useful he could be.
I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t notice Amelie approaching until I feel her hurriedly stuff a piece of paper into the pocket of my uniform. “Tomorrow,” she whispers as she passes me.
—
My instructions are straightforward: Étienne, the old farmer, has agreed to help us and I am to cycle down to his farm. At least this time my journey will be in daylight and I will be carrying nothing but a pannier of innocuous vegetables.
The danger will come that night.
I am to wait at Étienne’s until dark, when he will give me two flares that Pieter has passed to him, one red and one green, and instructions on how to find a hole in the airfield fence. Our contact at Gontrode says that the giant plane is in one of the newly built smaller hangars beside the zeppelin sheds, and it is my job to mark that hangar. British bombers are planning to attack the airfield at ten-thirty. I must be in position by then. When I hear the engines of the bombers, I will fire the red flare to guide them to the airfield. When they’re overhead, I’ll set off the green flare outside the hangar to mark where the giant bomber is. Then I’ll escape in the confusion.
Sunset is at nine, so it won’t be completely dark until after nine-thirty, which doesn’t give me much time to get into the airfield, cross it and prepare my flares. There’s a half-moon tomorrow night, but it doesn’t rise until well after midnight, so the darkness will cover me.
My journey down to Gontrode is uneventful and I spend much of the time talking to Alec inside my head, telling him of my adventures. I pray that one day I will be able to tell him my stories for real.
Étienne welcomes me with open arms. “I told Monsieur Éclair we would meet again,” he says as he leads me into his kitchen, where a woman is taking a golden pie out of the oven. “This is my wife, Adelle. Can we offer you some pie?”
“It’s kind of you,” I say, smiling at Adelle, “but I don’t think I could eat anything right now. My stomach is full of butterflies.”
“It’s very brave of you to come back here,” Étienne says.
“It’s very good of you to help,” I reply.
He nods. “I am an old farmer—too old to fight. I must do what I can. Monsieur Éclair and I are at your service. But for now, we must wait. As soon as the sun goes down, I will lead you to the hole in the fence.”
Étienne is as good as his word, and as twilight fades, we are standing in the trees close to where I took the photographs.
“That bush hides a hole in the wire,” Étienne tells me, pointing out a slightly darker patch by the fence. “Pull the loose wire to the side and you can slip through. The Germans don’t patrol the perimeter very much and you’ll be far enough away from the buildings that you will not be seen from there. Follow the fence around until you’re behind the hangars. Then you simply wait until you hear the bombers.”
Étienne digs in his pack and produces what looks like a small, squat pistol.
“This is your first flare,” he explains. “Point it up in the air, flip the small switch at the back with your thumb and pull the trigger. The red flare will rise several hundred feet in the air to signal the airfield’s location to the approaching bombers. This”—he pulls out a long stick with a pointed end—“is the green flare. Jam the pointed end in the ground and pull the flap at the top. Make sure you place it as close as possible to the hangar. It will burn very brightly once it starts, so make sure you get as far away as you can before anyone sees you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“You’ll do well. But don’t linger. As soon as the bombing starts, it will be dangerous around the hangars, so hurry back to the fence. I’ll be waiting for you. This may help.”
Étienne hands me a short metal tube with a glass end.
“It’s a flashlight.” He turns away from the airfield and moves a tiny switch. A pale, narrow beam shines into the trees. “Don’t use it unless you have to.”
“Thank you,” I say as I tuck the pistol and the flare into the belt of my skirt and slip the flashlight into my pocket.
“And now, I think it’s dark enough to begin,” Étienne says. “Good luck.”
Even in the moonless dark, I feel like I’m trying to hide in broad daylight. As soon as I leave the shelter of the trees, I’m certain that anyone looking up from the hangars on the other side of the airfield will spot me immediately.
Crouching low and tripping over tree roots, I work my way to the fence, pull the gap in the wire open, squeeze through and feel my way around the edge of the airfield. I had assumed there would be little going on at night, but it seems I was wrong—lights flicker in the living quarters, and I begin to see figures moving in and out of the cones of light in front of the hangars.
I move as fast as I can until I am behind the hangars. Most of the work is going on at the front, so it’s dark on my side. A worrying thought suddenly strikes me: What if the Germans are preparing the giant for a night flight? It might not even be here when the British bombers arrive, and everything will have been in vain.
There are four hangars, spaced widely apart—two towering zeppelin sheds and two smaller structures. I assume the smaller buildings house the Gothas and the giant bomber, but which is which? Pale rectangles of light shine through grubby windows at the back of each one. I take a deep breath and, in a crouching run, head across the open ground to the hangar at the near end of the row. I throw myself down beneath one of the windows and listen for the warning shouts and running boots I am certain will come. But the only sounds are the officers barking orders, the clang of metal tools and my own heavy breathing. Carefully, I rise to my feet and peer through the bottom corner of the window.
The inside of the hangar is well lit with powerful lights on tall metal tripods, and despite the grime on the windowpane, I can clearly see the four Gotha bombers that must be the ones I watched land three weeks ago. They are parked, two on each side of the hangar. It’s obvious that these planes won’t be going anywhere tonight. Mechanics in greasy overalls are swarming over the machines closest to the hangar doors, and the engine of one is stripped and mostly in pieces on a sheet of canvas on the ground.
I hunch back down into the shadows, slide along the back wall, dart across the open space to the next hangar and squint through a corner of the window. There’s only one plane in this hangar, but it takes up almost as much space as the four Gothas. It’s parked side-on to me, and although I’m standing on my tiptoes to peer in the window, I’m still looking at the underside of the lower wing. That wing is supported by a wooden tripod, and a stepladder leads up to a vast engine suspended between the two wings. There are propellers at both the front and the back of the engine, and a mechanic stands in a small cockpit between them and makes adjustments to a network of hoses running above his head.
I was awestruck by the size of the giant when it flew over me, but its size is mind-numbing this close up. I could stand on the lower wing, stretch my arms above my head and still not touch the upper wing. It’s horrifying to think of the number of bombs this beast could carry to drop over innocent people’s homes in London. It must be destroyed.
I’m about to move away when I see a German officer walk underneath the nose of the plane. He says something to the mechanic working on the engine and heads in my direction. I duck down before he can see me, but then I notice the door in the hangar wall. If the officer comes through tha
t door, he will see me.
I run along the wall and throw myself around the corner just as the light floods out the doorway. Keeping to the deepest shadows, I work my way forward, praying that this isn’t the direction the officer is planning on coming. In the last patch of shadow, I turn and peer back, but I can see very little in the darkness. There’s no sign of the officer.
Looking the other way, I see a well-lighted scene of great activity. To my relief, most of the work is concentrated around the zeppelin shed, which towers above me like a dark mountain. The massive doors at the front are open and a zeppelin is sliding out into the light, dragged by a crowd of soldiers hauling on ropes. Men are shouting instructions all around, but the zeppelin moves in silence, giving the whole scene the eerie feel of a ghost story. I watch, transfixed, as the monster is drawn out into the open.
The first indication I have of the arrival of the British bombers is the sight of several men looking up and scanning the dark sky to the west. Then I hear the deep, distant rumble of the approaching planes. Others hear them as well, and groups of soldiers rush to drag wheeled carts with heavy machine guns mounted on top. At the far end of the runway, the harsh beam of a searchlight begins to sweep the sky.
There seems no point in firing the red flare—the searchlight is doing a better job of showing the airfield than I ever could—but I have to ignite the green flare to mark the position of the bomber. I try to haul the flare out of my waistband, but it’s caught on something. I tug and the flare comes loose, but the flare gun also flies out and lands on the ground at my feet. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need the red flare. I jam the sharp end of the green flare in the ground and fumble for the tag I have to pull.
A ZEPPELIN READY FOR FLIGHT
“Was machen Sie?”
A shudder of horror runs through me as I look up to see the silhouette of a figure coming toward me. Behind him the sausage-shaped zeppelin is almost out of the hangar. The sound of the approaching bombers is loud now. Soldiers are running about everywhere and the first of the machine guns opens up with a loud staccato rattle.
“What are you doing?” the approaching man demands. “Who are you?” He’s reaching for something in his belt. I have to stop him. Even if I manage to set off the green flare, he will be able to put it out. I fumble on the ground for the flare gun. The man is close now, and he’s pulling a pistol out of a leather holster at his waist. I flip the switch on the flare gun as Étienne showed me, wave it at the man and pull the trigger.
There’s a loud bang and something hisses within inches of the man’s head. He stumbles back in surprise and turns. We both watch as the wavering red line ricochets off the wall of the hangar, traces a large, graceful arc and lands on top of the zeppelin. For a moment nothing happens, and then, with fascinating slowness, the red glow of the flare expands. It forms a widening circle of fire that eats hungrily down into the body of the airship.
People are beginning to point and look up. It’s hard to believe how fast the flames are spreading, bursting out through the fabric walls and eating deep into the doomed vessel’s heart. Above the growing roar of the inferno, the machine guns continue their rattling fire and the first bombs explode nearby. But the death of the zeppelin has everyone’s attention now. The heat is becoming intense, hurting my cheeks, and people are beginning to run from the falling colossus. Even the man who discovered me is moving away from the heat.
The entire back end of the zeppelin is engulfed in flames and sagging to the ground in a mass of twisting metal. Sheets of burning fabric fly into the air like doomed birds as the fire races forward. The gondolas beneath the airship are crashing to the ground, and the terrified crewmen are scrambling away before the blazing giant falls on them.
I rip the top off the green flare, although I doubt it will do any good now, and run into the dark. When I reach the fence, I stop and look back. The skeleton of the zeppelin is largely hidden behind the massive shed, but flames from the wreck are still shooting high into the air. Half a dozen F.E.2bs are weaving around the airfield like moths round a candle flame. I can still hear the occasional bomb bursting and the German anti-aircraft guns. If I squint hard, I can just make out a green glow where I was huddled, but I have no idea whether the bombers have noticed it and I can see no obvious damage to the hangar housing the monstrous plane.
As I begin to follow the fence back to the gap, I notice that one of the F.E.2bs has peeled away and is flying to the north. I hold my breath as it wobbles toward the trees where Étienne is waiting for me, but at the last minute, the pilot manages to pull his machine up and it clears the trees and disappears from view.
By the time I reach the gap in the fence, the bombing raid is over and the flames from the zeppelin are dying down. There is a lot of activity around the hangars and the solitary searchlight is continuing its mournful sweeps of the empty sky. Was my mission a success? One of the dreaded zeppelins has been destroyed, but I don’t know if any of the bombs hit either of the smaller hangars. The mission didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, but I’m quickly learning that events in war rarely unfold as planned.
I begin to shiver violently, even though I’m wearing warm clothes and it’s not a cold night. It must be the release of tension. Oddly, when I was in most danger, I was calmest. I thought rationally and rapidly about what I had to do and then did it. I didn’t even hesitate to try to kill the man who interrupted me.
I begin laughing at the thought, quietly at first but soon uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I tried to kill a man. I probably did kill some people in the zeppelin. Me—a nurse who has dedicated her life to saving people, even enemy soldiers.
Eventually the hysterics pass and I regain control of my emotions. I wipe my face on my sleeve, slip through the fence and move into the trees.
“Étienne,” I whisper. I’m back in complete darkness, so I pull out the flashlight and switch it on. The beam is weak, but it helps. “Étienne,” I call again.
I keep calling as I move through the woods, but I get no response. I wonder if I should wait and see if he shows up, but it’s probably not a good idea to hang around too close to the airfield, so I keep going. After about half an hour of stumbling through the trees, I arrive back at the farm.
Adelle is standing in the kitchen doorway. “Ah, my girl,” she says. “Come. Hurry.”
“Where’s Étienne?” I ask.
“Hurry, hurry,” Adelle repeats without answering my question. She waves me past her into the kitchen.
Étienne is sitting at the rough table. Across from him, dressed in a Royal Flying Corps uniform and with a crude bloodstained bandage around his head, sits the pilot who flew me across the front line last December.
“Good evening,” he says with a smile. “I was passing and thought I’d drop in and say hello. It’s lovely to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.
“His aircraft crashed in the trees,” Étienne explains.
“Fritz got a couple of lucky shots in,” says the pilot. “One caught my gunner, Sid, through the heart. Killed him, I’m afraid. I was fortunate—a bullet just grazed my thick skull. Knocked me out for a moment, though. Lucky for me I came to in time to haul the old bird over the trees, or else I’d be as dead as poor Sid right now. Managed to bring the plane down in a clearing.”
“That’s where I found him,” Étienne adds.
“You shouldn’t have brought him back here,” Adelle says, wringing her hands. “When the Boches find the plane, they will come looking for him.”
“I couldn’t leave him to die like his companion,” Étienne replies. “But you are correct, my dear. He cannot stay here.”
“And neither can I,” I say. “Someone saw me at the airfield.” I hesitate. “And I’m the one who set the zeppelin on fire.”
“It was you?” the pilot asks.
I nod. “With the flare gun that I was supposed to signal you with. I fired it at the man who discovered me. I missed him
—”
“And hit the zeppelin,” the pilot interrupts. “Well, it is a much bigger target. They’ll give you a medal for that in London, but I doubt Fritz will be any happier with you than he will with me. I think we should both move on. But to where?”
We look at each other in silence for a moment and then an idea pops into my head.
“I know,” I say.
“Where?” Étienne asks.
“It’s probably better if you don’t know,” I tell him, “but we should leave soon. Do you have a spare bicycle?”
“I have one in the barn.”
“Are you all right to travel?’ I ask the pilot.
“Right as rain,” he replies. “Well, bit of a headache, to be honest, but that shouldn’t stop me from taking part in a cycling tour of your beautiful country.”
Étienne heads to the barn to retrieve my bicycle and one for the pilot, while Adelle bustles around the kitchen collecting food for our journey. “I can get you some of Etienne’s old clothes,” she suggests.
“Thanks,” the pilot says, “but best not to. If I’m to be captured, at least I won’t be shot as a spy if I’m wearing my uniform.”
Adelle nods agreement, and half an hour after we met again, the pilot and I are cycling north through the darkness.
“Since we are cycling into the unknown together,” the pilot says, drawing his bicycle next to mine, “we should be introduced. I’m Pilot Officer Albert Morris, at your service.”
“My name’s Manon Wouters,” I say, but I don’t really want to get into a conversation with Albert Morris. Part of my mind is still back at the airfield, and the rest is working out the route we must take and calculating if we have enough time to get to our destination before daylight. On top of that, I don’t want to be distracted. I can barely make out the road in front of me, so I have to rely on hearing any danger ahead, and for that I need to concentrate.
