Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  Once a month they were obligated to dine on a one-pot meal and donate the savings to the state. These days, most meals consisted of just one course. Their allotted daily rationing was abysmal.

  “How do they expect us to survive?” Heidi tapped the nose of a rabbit trying to squeeze through the trellis. She went to bed hungry most nights and dreamed of feasting on hearty meals that used to be routine. How were the children to grow up healthy and strong on such skimpy fare? Herr Ziemer had to punch new notches into his belt to keep his pants in place.

  Five more children had arrived since March began. Five more children who needed food and clothing and love. The four adults were hard pressed to spend a bit of individual time with each youngster. As for keeping them clothed, new clothes were impossible to find. Heidi’s talent for creating beautiful outfits was limited by material.

  The Reich clothing office allowed ration stamps to be used for cloth pieces measuring less than a square yard. The pieces were intended to repair existing clothes, not make new garments. Heidi could sew pieces together, but that would result in seams in unlikely places. And what if the pieces didn’t match?

  She plodded back to the barn with the emptied turnip sack, devising and discarding pattern possibilities. Two little sisters had come with nothing but the ragged clothes they wore. She had to make something for them. Maybe one cloth piece for the front and a contrasting piece for the back. That would be cute for children’s clothes.

  A piece of cardboard lay on the floor. She scooped it up and shoved it back into place between two workbenches. Something blocked it. Pulling it back out, Heidi caught a flash of red. A bolt of fabric? What in the world?

  Stretching her hand into the narrow space, she managed to grasp it between her fingertips. It was heavy, hard to pull out. Whatever it was, it was big. Lots and lots of material. And some white. Must be more than one piece. Wiggling it forward, she got a firm grip and eased it out. In open space, the material unfolded. Heidi’s heart stopped and she leaped back.

  A humongous swastika flag. The vile crooked black cross taunted her. Why did Herr Ziemer have it stashed away, hidden from sight? Why did he have it at all?

  Because everyone was expected to display the flag. Of course. He must have been given this by Herr Grote or the Gestapo, and told to hang it on the barn. It had to be at least six feet long. Just think of the clothes this would make. She stilled. The two little sisters would have new clothes after all.

  With jerky movements, Heidi folded the flag as small as possible and stuffed it into the turnip sack. A furtive glance outside revealed no one in sight. She ran to the kitchen door and slipped inside. Frau Ziemer and Gretchen had the children in the large front parlor. Good. She dashed for the stairs and scurried up, taking care to miss that squeaky third step from the bottom.

  Heidi spread out one end of the flag on the floor, positioned a pattern, and made the first cut. There. The flag was ruined. No reason not to turn it into clothing now.

  What were the penalties for desecrating the flag? Would Herr Grote or, worse, Gestapo Otto question Herr Ziemer why he didn’t display it? He could claim complete ignorance as to its whereabouts. But what would she say if asked about the sisters’ new clothes?

  By the time Gretchen burst into their bedroom in the late afternoon, Heidi was putting the finishing touches on a small red shirt. The collar, button placket, and hem were trimmed in a blue print from a square of repair cloth. She’d removed the white circle from the flag and readied it to fashion into panties.

  “Heidi, what are you making? I thought you didn’t have any material for new clothes.”

  “Oh, I’m making do.” Heidi refused to look up, lest Gretchen see guilt in her eyes. For their own protection, it was best no one know where she found the cloth. “Would you bring Lili up for a fitting?”

  Gretchen fingered a sleeve. “This is so cute. But where did you find this red material?”

  “It was around. Lili, please?”

  Her sister disappeared and Heidi hunched her shoulders, then dropped her head and rolled it from side to side. She’d done it, but now she needed a logical explanation for the red material. An old tablecloth? Who had solid red tablecloths? No one had red bed sheets either. Christmas decorations? A forgotten red tree skirt! The excuse was flimsy, especially since a tree skirt wouldn’t have enough fabric to make the two complete outfits she intended to sew, but it would have to do.

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Same Day

  The personnel truck barreled through the English countryside, bound for the 381st Heavy Bombardment Group located in the East Anglia town of Ridgewell. Paul peered out the canvas covering as they turned down a muddy lane. Tall, scraggly coniferous trees stood watch over a striped guard’s hut. Waved through by a bored guard, the truck continued on past innumerable prefabricated, half-round, metal huts, and squat, nondescript, wooden buildings. A triangle of runways lay in the distance. The gray, rainy day failed to add any cheer. Paul slumped on the bench seat. The base displayed all the charm of a refugee camp.

  At the headquarters building, three other trucks pulled up with them and four combat crews jumped out with their baggage. What a break that both Art’s and Chet’s crews had also been assigned to the 381st. Having friends nearby was a boon he hadn’t dared hope for.

  A major processed their papers. “Welcome to Ridgewell, men. I’m assigning the Stiles and the Walton crews to the 534th Squadron. The transportation truck outside will take you to the squadron’s combat quarters.”

  Walton was Art’s pilot. They’d see a lot of each other. As they filed out, Paul nodded to Chet. Surely they’d still be able to spend time together.

  The officers and enlisted men were directed to separate quarters. Twelve officers from three crews shared a half-round metal hut. Here, Paul and Art split up.

  Paul followed his crewmates into their barracks and looked around. The gloomy, damp place smelled like coal, cigarette smoke, and ripe socks. Made of corrugated metal with a cement floor, two windows, and a rounded roof, it had a coal-burning stove in the middle. A single low-watt light bulb hung from the ceiling.

  “How cozy,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging. This was nothing like his parents’ comfortable home in Milwaukee. Even his and Rachel’s dollhouse with scant furniture had at least been cozy.

  “Imagine how this was for the guys here in the middle of winter,” the lone occupant seated cross-legged on a cot spoke up. “I heard they never had enough coal to keep that little stove going.”

  “Looks like they still don’t.” Paul nudged the empty pail. “And it still is winter. ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s almost here.’” A slight adaptation of a line he’d read in Rachel’s notebook.

  “Robert Browning.” The man didn’t hesitate in naming the author of the famous classic quote.

  “Well, your Browning didn’t know what he was yammering about.” Walt dumped his flight bag on the stripped cot nearest the door and stormed back out, nearly bowling over Quinn. Walt’s mood continually vacillated between surly and maybe-we’ll-be-friends.

  The officer raised a brow and glanced around. “As officers, we’re privileged to be in these Quonset huts. The enlisted men are in Nissen huts.” He pointed his pen toward other bare cots. “Those are available, next to the Peters crew.” Setting aside some letters he’d been marking, he stood and offered his hand. “I’m Marvin Jones, the navigator of the Radcliffe crew.”

  “Paul Braedel, navigator. My pilot, Aubrey Stiles, and copilot Quinn McPhee.” He paused before adding, “Our bombardier’s Walt Kressle.”

  Quinn stepped up to a window and peered out. “I didn’t know there’s a difference between Quonset huts and Nissen huts. Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “You’re looking at the difference.” Marvin settled back on his cot. “We have clear side windows in those fancy dormers. They have only translucent glass in the doors of the Nissen huts. The enlisted men say it’s like living in caves. Maybe
the names aren’t the official designations, but that’s how we differentiate.”

  “Living in caves. Huh.” Quinn turned from the window. “This war’s thrown us back to cavemen days. We have to live like Neanderthals.”

  The windows jutting out of the sides of the rounded walls offered precious extra light. Pity the enlisted men. Their barracks had to be dingier than this. Rachel would cry if she saw Paul’s new abode, and start braiding a rag rug for the floor beside his cot.

  “Makes being an officer worth it just for that.” Aubrey chuckled as he claimed the cot next to Paul. While they stowed their gear and made their beds, he asked, “How many missions have you been on, Marvin?”

  “Eight. When you get that far, you begin to think maybe there’s hope for you after all.” He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched. “My navigational pearl of wisdom for you, Paul, is to bring lots of extra pencils. I had two on my first mission. The lead tip broke on both of them. Kind of hard to keep the log up to date without anything to write with.” He laughed and wiggled his fingers. “And make sure you wear silk gloves under the heavy gloves. I have to remove the heavy one to write. The silk is too thin to be warm, so there’s constant on and off with the thick glove.”

  Quinn paused in pulling his blanket tight. “The nose and the cockpit have heaters, don’t they?”

  Marvin snorted. “Sure they do, but when the temperature’s minus forty at twenty-five thousand feet, they’re woefully inadequate.”

  Aubrey’s brows lowered. “We haven’t done much high-altitude flying.”

  “You’ll get some practice flights before they send you to meet Jerry.” Marvin drew another line through the letter he’d been reading. “Huh. I need to have a talk with that guy. This letter’s not worth sending.” He held it up. Nearly everything had been crossed off. “You learn a lot about your enlisted men when you censor their mail.”

  Paul left him to finish his task and wandered out to tour the base with his pilots. They were among several replacement crews sent to the 381st after a brutal raid in February decimated the group. Marvin didn’t need to tell him the cot he’d claimed had belonged to a man who failed to return from a mission.

  The four squadrons of the bomb group were widely dispersed on the sprawling base in case of a German bombing raid. Most men had bicycles. He’d get one at the first opportunity. They passed a chapel and, finding the door unlocked, Paul moseyed inside. An open Bible rested on a lectern beyond a series of benches. He walked down the aisle to read familiar words.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…’” How relevant this was for him now. Taking a deep breath, he resumed reading, “‘I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’” He sighed and added in a whisper, “Please let it be so, God.”

  A sound at the side of the room brought his head around. A lieutenant with dark brown hair and an easy smile stood there. A chaplain’s insignia decorated his uniform. He looked a little older. Maybe in his thirties.

  “Hello, I’m Kyle Hogan.” The chaplain approached with his hand extended. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

  Paul shook his hand. “No, I’ve just arrived. I’m Paul Braedel, navigator on the Stiles crew. We were touring around the base and I decided to come in.” He looked back down at the Bible. “Now that I’m here in England, I’d really rather not be. I think the cold and the damp have gone straight to my heart.”

  Kyle offered an understanding smile. “A rather common feeling, I’m afraid. Feel free to drop in any time for quiet contemplation and prayer or, if you want to talk, come see me. I’m always around.”

  Paul nodded slowly, fingering the Bible’s pages. “Maybe I will. My wife died while I was in training.”

  Why’d he say that? He wasn’t in the habit of telling his personal business to strangers. Maybe, like his crewmates, this man would be a friend.

  A long moment passed before the chaplain spoke. “How is your relationship with God right now?”

  Paul flipped the pages over to Psalm 116 and stabbed his finger at verse fifteen. “‘Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.’ Now there’s a comfort.”

  His voice might reek of sarcasm, but that little verse didn’t belong in his Bible. He nearly swallowed his tongue when the chaplain laughed.

  “Actually, it is.” Kyle’s smile faded and earnestness filled his eyes. “God knew your wife before she was born. He watched over her throughout her life. He shared in her joys and her sorrows. Like any father, He wanted to shield her from harm. And now she’s with Him. He welcomed her with open arms. Imagine your father welcoming you home when you finish your tour here. He’ll be ecstatic, won’t he?”

  Paul nodded. Yeah, but it wasn’t quite the same. His dad couldn’t watch over him the way God did.

  “And that’s barely a glimmer of how God felt when your wife came home to Him. Don’t concentrate on the grief you’re experiencing as a result of her death. Think instead of the joy she’s found, and the joyous welcome you too will receive someday.”

  Back outside, with the words of the Psalm playing through his mind, Paul looked out at the perimeter track circling around the runways. Here were the hardstands for each of the B-17s. The bomber parked on the nearest hardstand sported several holes which the ground crew was patching. One of those holes gaped open right in line with where the navigator’s head would be if he sat at his desk. Either a bullet from a German fighter plane or shrapnel from a German anti-aircraft shell had pierced that hole. Had it hit the navigator? Paul might experience his own joyous welcome and be reunited with Rachel real soon.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Leverkusen, Germany

  Monday, March 20, 1944

  The train slowed, creaking to a stop on a siding. Heidi groaned. Not again. At this rate, she’d never get back to Bickenbach. This was positively her last visit to Hagen until the war ended. At least by train. Travel was too hazardous, too complicated, and too restricted.

  “The tracks are damaged at Cologne,” the train conductor announced as he strode through the car. “You may get off the train, but stay close. We should be able to continue within the next two hours.”

  Heidi’s eyes widened. That was optimistic. Railroads were a favorite target of the Allied bombers, especially marshalling yards. Waiting in a Ruhr-area rail yard could be hazardous. She disembarked. If Leverkusen came under attack, at least she could run… somewhere.

  Windows in a row of nearby shops displayed beautiful merchandise, but if she went inside to purchase something, she’d be told they didn’t have anything. Even with ration coupons, nothing was available. She stared at a mannequin clad in a dusty suit. Why tantalize the population? At least one person should be allowed to get some wear out of that outfit. New clothes simply weren’t available. The shirt factory no longer had work for her. Same old story—no more fabric.

  A distant wailing from the south reached her ears. Around her, everyone’s eyes turned to the sky. Air raid! But what was the target? Another siren wailed, closer by.

  “They’re heading back to England, finished with their Terrorhandlungen, the swine.” A man in work clothes spat in the street.

  Terrorist activities? Heidi peered through her eyelashes at the worker. Late fifties probably. Just missed the cutoff for fighting in the last war, not yet conscripted for this one. He hadn’t witnessed what Germany’s military had done.

  Heidi didn’t need to see the results of the fighting. The one time Erich and Konrad had been together during the war, they’d
traded tales. Heidi hadn’t slept well for a week. Erich had been so concerned, believing Germany was sowing dreadful seeds and would reap a disastrous harvest. Konrad agreed. He’d been in the invasion of Holland. He scoffed at Propaganda Minister Goebbels’ claims that the British had violated Dutch territory and the Germans went to the aid of the Dutch. Konrad hadn’t seen any Englishmen. Only angry Dutch people resisting Germany’s “help.” So the Germans had destroyed the city of Rotterdam. The Allies must feel justified in their terrorist activities.

  “Or they may be doubling back to hit Düsseldorf.” His companion rocked back on his heels. “Or Duisburg.”

  Or Leverkusen? Heidi looked around for a bomb shelter. The train station likely had one. She should go back.

  A distant throaty rumbling grew, like a dozen trains approaching.

  “There they are! They’re not coming here.”

  Heidi spun at the shout. High overhead to the east flew a flock of bombers. Dozens of airplanes, the size of ants, flew in mesmerizing diamond patterns. All that power. Germany didn’t stand a chance against American productivity. The Luftwaffe couldn’t stem the flow of Allies coming over and bombing all their cities.

  Bam! Bam! Heidi jumped, her hand flying to her chest, where her heart stuttered. Had she been shot? A pair of 88-millimeter anti-aircraft guns continued to boom, deafening her from their gun emplacement behind the train station. Streaks of light shot out of the guns as they recoiled, followed by small black cloudbursts of flak far out of the bombers’ range. Other streaks screeched skyward from other guns, closing in on the range. The planes lumbered by.

  They must be heading for Düsseldorf. Why else would they fly through all that flak instead of going around it? Suddenly an orange spot blossomed in the midst of the bombers, trailing down like a falling star.