Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  Today was Friday, March 31st.

  She fell back onto the bed with a moan. Erich’s birthday. He should be twenty-six today. Instead, he would be forever young, while she grew old.

  Beside her, Gretchen stirred. “Is it time to get up already?”

  Late in the morning, Heidi escaped to the woods on the farm’s western border. She didn’t need an audience to witness her tears. And there would be tears. Papa would say her water works had been threatening to rampage ever since she realized the date. If only he were here.

  If only Erich was here.

  She slid down the trunk of a tree and let the tears flow. Her throat stung and a headache loomed. She massaged her temple.

  The pain remained so sharp. When, exactly, would time heal this wound?

  A branch snapped. Heidi searched for the source without moving her head. A flash of yellow. Ugh. Ursula Grote. The snoop had her in her sights and was zeroing in.

  Heidi turned her face away and wiped away any trace of tears. Her nose must be red, and her eyes. She sniffed. The headache began to throb.

  “What are you doing out here?” Ursula hunkered down in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

  I’m trying to be alone, but my privacy has been invaded.

  Inhale. Exhale. “I’m in need of solitude.”

  Heidi refused to meet her eyes. Ursula was probably licking her chops, ready to sink her teeth into Heidi’s pain.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Laughing would be a bad idea. Heidi pursed her lips. Go away. Just go away.

  “How long ago did your husband die?”

  Heidi jumped to her feet. Too close, Ursula jerked backwards, and sprawled on her bottom. Heidi didn’t stop. She took off for the house. How dare the chit question her about Erich!

  Ursula scrambled to her feet and her footfalls clomped after her in a hurry. “Wait. If you’re lonely, I’ve got a great idea. Otto’s friend Rudy would like to see you. I can call him and…”

  “No.” Heidi wasn’t ready to face the children. She veered toward the barn. “I. Am. Not. Interested.” She ran the last few feet into the barn and shut the door with a thump. Leaning against it, she caught her breath.

  Of all the nerve. Ursula would probably call Rudy anyway, and suggest he visit. Heidi hugged herself. He was revolting.

  Doll nickered from her stall. Heidi joined her and wrapped her arms around the gentle mare. If only she was hugging Erich.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Sunday, April 2, 1944

  Paul cycled toward an intersection and squeezed the left hand grip. Whoops, wrong one. The right hand grip controlled the back wheel, and braking with the back wheel was preferable to braking with the front wheel. If the front wheel stopped moving, the back of the bike could whip forward. English bicycles were different from American bikes, with their brakes at the handlebars instead of the pedals. Lots of guys, like Walt Kressle, got hurt when they tried to slam on the brakes with their feet and didn’t stop.

  One of their gunners rested in the infirmary after crashing into a jeep and flying over the handlebars, ending up in a colonel’s lap. It would have been funny in a Charlie Chaplin movie, but Bob now sported dozens of stitches. The doctors treated as many bicycling injuries as combat wounds. Joining that parade wasn’t on Paul’s list of things to do. Combat was dangerous enough.

  He headed for the main gate.

  “Ahoy there, Paul. Heading out for a country ride?” Kyle Hogan came alongside, astride his own bike.

  “Sure thing, padre. I’ve had my fill of military life and need to see some normalcy, English style.”

  They pedaled for a mile in companionable silence before the chaplain spoke. “How are you doing, Paul?”

  His arched brows indicated that a “Fine” wouldn’t suffice. No problem. Paul wanted to talk.

  “I think it was Abe Lincoln who said something about both sides read the same Bible and pray to the same God, asking His help in their struggle against the enemy, but the prayers of both can’t be answered. He referred to the Civil War, but the same thing applies today.”

  Kyle nodded. His silence encouraged Paul to continue.

  “A German fighter pilot who bailed out near the Spam Can was angry with us. We were so close I could see that. Our bombs cause a lot of death and destruction in his homeland.”

  English roads weren’t laid out in north-south and east-west directions. They meandered every which way. When they reached a crossroad, Paul looked around. It’d be nice if they could find their way back to Ridgewell before nightfall.

  “We hear a little about what the Germans are doing in the conquered countries. They’re guilty of unimaginable cruelty, and we probably haven’t heard the worst of it. So it’s easy to think they deserve to be bombed. We know how they bombed Warsaw and Rotterdam and London. Now we’re destroying Hamburg and Cologne and all the other German cities. But does that take us down to their level?” Paul tilted his face toward the sun. The breeze fanned his face. “And they can’t all be like that. My wife’s best friend in high school was a German girl. I can’t believe Heidi approves of the atrocities her countrymen are committing.”

  They came to another crossroad. Kyle pointed to the right and they pedaled on.

  The chaplain finally broke his silence. “Sometimes war is necessary. In the Old Testament, we read of the Israelites being commanded to utterly destroy their enemies. In the time of Saul, Samuel relayed the Lord’s order to wipe out the Amalekites—men, women, and children. Saul spared the king and the best of the flocks, and he lost his throne for his disobedience. Why kill the innocent babies? Maybe they would have grown up with hidden resentment and led a revolt, I don’t know.”

  Kyle stopped to watch a flock of sheep, and Paul squeezed his right hand brake to stop beside him. Ha! He got it right.

  The chaplain turned to him. “Hitler and his Nazi cronies must be stopped, and war is the only language they understand. Right now, the air war is the only way we can attack Germany and disrupt their war industries. Later, the armies will advance through France and the Low Countries with a great deal more destruction and death of civilians.”

  Paul studied the man beside him. Time for a shocker. “What’s the point of praying? What’s going to happen is going to happen.”

  Kyle didn’t look shocked. Or saddened, either. Nothing seemed to ruffle him. He merely nodded.

  “Remember the story of Sodom? God intended to destroy the city because its sin was so grievous. Abraham pleaded with Him not to destroy it if there were fifty, or forty, or five righteous among the wicked. Or how about Jonah, the ancient submariner?”

  Paul turned up one side of his mouth. “Okay, God does change His mind. It just seems wrong somehow, to pray for our safety while we’re blasting away the Germans with our bombs.”

  Kyle laid a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was so reminiscent of Paul’s walks with his father along the Lake Michigan shoreline. He missed his father’s company and counsel, although Kyle wasn’t a bad substitute. His mouth twitched again. Kyle might not appreciate being thought of as a father figure.

  “You mentioned telling a lady in Florida that you choose to believe in God.” There was a question in the chaplain’s voice, and Paul nodded. “Choose now to keep talking with God, even if you feel He’s not listening. In situations like this, we can’t rely on our feelings. And remember this: On the cross, Jesus cried out, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ Even He felt like His Father had turned a deaf ear.” He clapped Paul’s back. “Now, which way do we go to get back to Ridgewell?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Tuesday, April 11, 1944

  “I can’t stop thinking about that young man from the night fighter crash saying Koblenz was the target.” Frau Ziemer stirred a large pot of barley.

  Heidi looked up from her task of pouring precious milk into fifteen mismatched cups. Breakfast time, or
any mealtime, presented a challenge with so many hungry children.

  “In particular, you’re thinking of your sister, right?” Heidi sighed. “My cousin Karla lives near Koblenz and I haven’t seen her in ages. Last I heard, her husband is missing in Italy, their apartment was badly damaged in an earlier bombing, and she has two young children.”

  Her vivacious cousin possessed such a talent for finding mischief while they grew up that it became a family legend. She and Konrad were the same age and they’d been called the Trouble Twins. How much merriment could Karla be having now?

  “What would you think of taking a little trip to Koblenz to try some trading with an acquaintance of my husband’s?”

  Heidi brightened. The acquaintance, a baker in Koblenz, dealt in the black market. While she hadn’t done any illicit trading herself, it was worth a try. “I’d be happy to go.”

  Herr Ziemer brought in a bottle of freshly strained milk in time to hear their words. “The wife and I have been talking. We’ve got fifteen children now and expect more will be coming. We need additional help. Do you think your cousin would like to come to Bickenbach?”

  Would Karla come? She’d have no trouble handling mischievous boys. And reinforcements for dealing with Ursula would be so nice. Heidi grinned. “I’ll ask her.”

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Same Day

  “Sir? The navigator of Time Out is ill. You’re to take his place.”

  Paul rose on one elbow and glared at the man, but the sergeant had already moved on. He glanced over at Art, still sound asleep. Putting his head back down on his pillow was so tempting. With a sigh, he heaved his feet to the floor, stood, and stretched.

  The Radcliffe crewmembers hadn’t been called, not being scheduled for this mission either. He smiled. Marvin’s earache. Of course. Here was his chance to chalk up an extra mission. One in the bank, should he ever miss a flight with his crew. He grabbed his gear and headed for the latrine.

  As he took his place in Time Out’s nose, the bombardier gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement and turned back to his own station. So, he wasn’t the talkative sort. That was fine. Paul didn’t want to be sociable either. He laid his head on the desk and dozed until take-off.

  The propellers spun so fast as to be invisible. Paul yawned wide enough to crack his jaw. Take-off had been at seven fifteen. A respectable hour, except they’d been roused at three thirty. That might not be so bad if he’d known he’d be flying and had gone to bed early. But no, since the Stiles crew wasn’t listed for today’s mission, he’d stayed out until midnight, stargazing instead of sleeping. Worse yet, their target lay on the far side of Germany, near the Polish border. Total time aloft would exceed ten hours.

  An abundance of flak greeted them over Sorau. Paul watched the bombs fall from the planes. Sure would be nice if that factory down there was put out of commission for good and wouldn’t require a repeat mission.

  Their Little Friends did a fine job of keeping the enemy fighters at bay until one slipped past the Mustangs. Paul watched, as though in slow motion, as the Messerschmitt bore in on them in a mammoth game of chicken. The enemy’s wings belched fire and Paul cringed. Surely the bullets would tear through the Plexiglas nose.

  They didn’t. They were aimed higher. At the cockpit. The pilots.

  Time Out lurched to the side and down. Paul scrambled through the hatchway up to the cockpit. The pilot lay flopped over the controls while the copilot sprawled back in his seat, both dead. Paul yanked the pilot back and lunged for his controls. He gestured to the engineer, just regaining his feet behind the cockpit. Get them out of here.

  Another man, probably the radio operator, arrived and together the two enlisted men untangled their pilots from the cramped cockpit. One of them plugged in Paul’s oxygen mask and communication cable before pulling the bodies back to the radio room. Paul slid into the pilot’s seat, brushing aside shards of glass and cringing at the blood splattered on the instruments.

  The Flying Fortress possessed far more switches and dials than a Stearman. Why hadn’t he first asked if anyone else had experience in flying a Fort? It didn’t take long to ascertain the controls had suffered no major damage. What a relief.

  The engineer returned, asking, “Need any help, sir?”

  Better and better. Paul nodded to the copilot’s seat.

  The hours dragged by as he wrestled to keep the big plane in formation. Icy wind blowing through the shattered window made the task more miserable. It had one advantage. His fatigue had vanished.

  Ridgewell had never looked more beautiful, or more treacherous. Could he land a heavy bomber? Apparently, the men in the control tower had their doubts. Time Out received instructions to wait until last to land. Paul grimaced. They didn’t want the runway tied up if he crashed.

  Time to get this right. He turned to the engineer. What was his name? He’d been told the pilot’s name only. Mike. No time to ask. “Gear down?”

  He lined up with the runway and bombarded heaven with a one-word prayer: Help!

  Time Out bounced once before settling, and raced down the runway. Too much speed. Paul’s muscles strained against the controls. Ever so slowly, the airplane creaked to a stop, fifteen yards to spare. “Huh.” He expelled his breath. “Not bad for the first time.”

  The engineer’s head whipped around. “Hadn’t you flown before, sir?”

  “I sat in the copilot’s seat during a couple of training flights.” Paul swiveled his head. “But the last flying instruction I had came in a Stearman nearly a year ago.”

  The engineer gaped at him. The man heaved himself from the seat and headed out, muttering something that sounded like, “Better than nothing, I guess.”

  Paul needed to get up and out, too, but he couldn’t summon the energy. Sweat trickled down his chest. He was wringing wet beneath his heavy coat in spite of have flown in the frigid wind. Dropping his head forward, his lips quirked at the sight of his quivering hands.

  A lifetime ago, he and Rachel had been at the county fair before their senior year of high school. He’d been about to swing the mallet to test his strength when Art had knocked into him. The mallet came down in the dirt alongside the scale, creating an impressive depression. Rachel had squeezed his bicep and cooed, “Mr. Muscles.”

  Now his muscles wilted like overcooked spaghetti.

  Art and Aubrey appeared in the cockpit. They stared at him. “You disappear from the base. We hear you’ve gone out on the mission. We sweat out the planes’ return and finally you come barreling down the runway like you’re off to the races.” Aubrey shook his head. “You do know how to make a grand appearance.”

  Paul swiveled his head again. “Did I win?”

  “Yeah, Paul. You sure did.” Art slapped his shoulder. If he hadn’t been slumped in the seat, he might have flopped over the controls like the dead pilot.

  Aubrey frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure.” Paul tried to grin, but his facial muscles were as limp as the rest of him. “But I think my neck’s the only part of me working at the moment.”

  His friends pried him out of the seat and maneuvered him to the forward escape hatch. Quinn grabbed his legs, guiding him to the ground as Aubrey and Art followed him out. He leaned on his supporting crewmates as applause wrapped around him. A crowd of airmen and ground personnel surrounded them, cheering his achievement.

  In front were the Time Out crewmen, recognizable by the crew’s artwork on their leather jackets. One’s face was washed by tears. Quinn leaned close to Paul’s ear. “For some of these guys, including the pilot, this was their last mission.”

  Only the engineer and the bombardier, by his insignia, were recognizable. A pale navigator stood with them. The guy he’d replaced, no doubt.

  One of the gunners stepped forward. He reached for Paul’s hand. “Thanks for getting us back.”

  His voice caught and he could say no more.

  Paul nodded. If this crew was as close as his own, he
knew the bittersweet feelings they were experiencing. They were headed home, without their pilots.

  The squadron commander addressed him. “Well done, Braedel. I believe there’s a Distinguished Flying Cross in store for you.”

  What could he to say to that? The deaths of two good men had triggered his piloting stint. He skipped dinner and dropped onto his cot that evening, ready for sleep.

  Art grinned at him. Paul quirked his brows in question.

  “When the news was radioed to base that Time Out was coming in with the replacement navigator at the controls, and it became known you’d never soloed in a Fort, guys placed bets whether you could bring it in. The brass wanted to order you all to bail out, but before the order could be sent, you lined up and barreled in like your pants were on fire. You landed hot, but even with the excess speed, you showed ‘em, buddy.”

  “Bail out and waste a good plane?” Paul shook his head. “If I never have to bail out, that’ll be just fine with me. Relying on a little scrap of fabric, even if fighters and flak aren’t around, is not my idea of a fun time.”

  Kyle came into the hut. “The hero of the hour.” He turned to Art. “Have you ever noticed how heroes usually don’t look heroic?”

  Art guffawed.

  Paul rolled over and pulled his sheet over his head. He rolled back. “You know what? I never gave a thought to God until we were about to land. Then it was, ‘Help!’”

  Kyle smiled from ear to ear. “And He answered you, didn’t He?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Wednesday, April 12, 1944

  Early the next morning, Heidi wrapped several eggs in a blanket tucked into a sturdy box, along with a large jar of cream they could spare. Herr Ziemer tied a rope around the box to create a carrying handle and secured the box to the handlebars and basket of her bicycle with another rope.