Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  Monday, May 8, 1944

  Another Monday morning at the office. Paul hoisted himself into the Judgment Day and joined Roger in the nose. Roger and Tony had been only mildly surprised to return from their leave in London and discover he’d replaced Marvin as their navigator after the loss of the Sly Buccaneer. Crews were lost so regularly that failure to return from a mission was almost expected.

  Going up to the window, he waved to Kyle. The chaplain had been against his return to flight status last week. The doctor had cleared him, however. There was no reason to delay. Paul’s ribs were firmly bandaged to protect the nicely healing wound.

  Today marked his third mission with the Judgment Day crew, and they were headed back to Berlin. Oh joy. The target wasn’t a problem. The distance was. A long day with nine hours of flying time stretched before them. Why did I ever think flying would be fun?

  The Luftwaffe came out in full force to protect their capital, and Paul stayed busy manning his gun. He’d better not need to navigate, having little opportunity to chart their positions. A German fighter flashed past his window, mere yards away. An instant later, the fighter belched smoke and fell away.

  “I got him! Did you see that?” yelled the top turret gunner.

  Paul started to congratulate Arnie, but no, that wasn’t Arnie. Arnie was dead with the rest of his crew. He swung his gun around and fired with a vengeance at a Focke Wulf 190.

  The impersonal factor of the air war was gone. The faces of his dead friends stayed with him. The Germans had to pay. He’d see to that. Black smoke streamed out of the FW 190. Yes!

  His mother’s face popped into his mind. Chaplain Hogan ought to sit him down and give him a talking to.

  The next day, they went to France in an attempt to destroy the German airfield at St. Dizier. After a day off, they went to Luxembourg on Thursday. His mouth twisted sardonically. The grand tour of Europe. Friday featured another long flight over Germany. Roger was lucky. He got to doze when fighters weren’t around. Paul would, too, if he didn’t need to track their course.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Saturday, May 27, 1944

  Paul dragged himself out of bed on the last Saturday morning of May. Wars ought to take the weekend off. This was their fifth mission of the week, and the last for several members of his new crew. He sat next to Tony at the briefing.

  The copilot nudged him. “Wake me if I nod off, will you?”

  “Not if I fall asleep first,” he whispered back. The thought might be humorous if he wasn’t so tired. One benefit of being chronically tired was the deadening of his emotional pain. Whispers of memories from his lost crewmates and his wife failed to penetrate his consciousness.

  At the navigators’ meeting, he wrote down their course. Fly south over France, then almost due east to Ludwigshafen, where the target was an instrument-bearing plant, and head northwest to return over France. On his way out, Paul grabbed an extra map covering western Germany.

  The cloud cover thickened as they approached Germany. Luftwaffe fighters buzzed around them like furious wasps as they approached Ludwigshafen. A nearby Fort came under attack. An inboard engine exploded and tore off the wing. The bombardier leaped back from the nose window, but he didn’t make it to the escape hatch before the Fort fell away and exploded. Debris reached out to Judgment Day. A clang sounded as something hit them. The ball turret gunner yelled a warning that they were leaking hydraulic fluid.

  “Here they come!”

  Paul searched the sky. From which direction were “they” coming?

  It didn’t matter. Judgment Day had apparently been selected as the next target as four FW-190s bore in for the attack. Where were their Little Friends when they needed them?

  Voices filled his headphones. “Engine three’s hit!”

  “Get ‘im. Get ‘im!”

  “They just took a chunk out of our tail!”

  “We got a fire here!”

  Where was the fire? Paul inhaled sharply and tried to jot notations in his log with a shaky hand.

  The fighters disappeared as they entered the flak field, but the intercom stayed busy with everyone reporting problems and Floyd trying to assess their situation.

  More bad news came when Roger attempted to open the bomb bay doors and they wouldn’t budge. The radio operator rushed to hand-crank them down while other planes dropped their bombs. Paul almost laughed. Their squadron mates bounced upward as they lost the twelve hundred pounds of their bombs and turned for the rally point. The heavily-loaded Judgment Day soon lagged behind.

  Finally, someone yelled, “Doors are open. Get those bombs outa here!”

  No sooner had Roger released them when another voice exclaimed, “Those bombs took one of the doors with them.”

  Paul did laugh then. It was either laugh or cry. They still had to contend with the fighters on the outbound journey, and they were straggling. Straggling and struggling on three engines.

  “Here they come for a head-on attack.” Floyd sounded annoyed. “Hang on.” The plane lurched as he tried evasive maneuvers.

  Paul and Roger fired the nose guns at the fighters coming at them one after the other. A slug ripped through their Plexiglas nose and thudded somewhere behind Paul. Frigid air engulfed them. Paul took a moment to fix their position. He pressed his nose to the window. That looked like Mainz below them. “We’re too far north. We need to head west-northwest.”

  As he tried to calculate a precise heading, another slug smashed into the nose. Roger staggered back as blood gushed from his mouth. He dropped to the floor, his eyes staring sightlessly. Paul froze in place. Oh, Roger. Not you, too. The plane shuddered violently as another hit found its mark.

  “Engine one is ablaze!”

  “We’re losing engine two!”

  “We’re gonna lose the wing!”

  They wouldn’t make it back to England this time. Paul’s heart sank as the bailout alarm rang. He grabbed his map of Germany, and stuffed it inside his jacket before he snapped on his parachute and hooked his GI shoes to his belt. He scrambled for the escape hatch.

  “Good luck, men.” Floyd said as Paul yanked out his cables and leaped into the thin air.

  Bickenbach, Germany

  Same Day

  A wagon pulled into the Ziemers’ yard, and Konrad jumped down, turning back to help Lieselotte. Together with the driver, he removed several boxes from the wagon bed, stacking them neatly on the ground.

  Gretchen gasped. “What in the world?”

  The sisters hurried from the porch with the Ziemers. Up close, Heidi slowed. Lieselotte’s pallor rivaled the sheets hanging on the line. Her sister-in-law smiled wanly, tugging her cardigan close. The spring day was too warm for extra clothing.

  “Good morning. It’s good to see you, too. Yes, thank you, we had a pleasant trip.” Konrad nudged her and ruffled Gretchen’s hair.

  Heidi opened her mouth, but words failed her. She cleared her throat. “Hi. Welcome. What’s going on?”

  Konrad turned at Herr Ziemer’s welcome and held out his hand. “Herr Ziemer, I hope you will still be pleased to see us when you hear how we will inconvenience you.”

  At everyone’s puzzled looks, Konrad continued. “Typhus is running rampant.” He slipped an arm around his wife. “Lieselotte is recovering. Unfortunately, Grandmama died.”

  Heidi caught her breath. “But, but we’ve heard nothing. What about Mama and Papa? And Grandpapa?”

  “They were not infected.” Lieselotte shuddered. “Grandmama and I helped out at a soup kitchen by the railroad station. We’ve since learned the trains and the stations are ideal places for contagious diseases, what with all the people from all over Europe in close contact. Typhus is spread by lice.”

  Heidi forced herself not to step back. “But you’re fine now?”

  “Getting there.” This time humor lit her smile. “And I’ve been deloused. I’m not contagious.”

  “So you will live here n
ow?” Gretchen rose up on her toes. “What about the factory?”

  “The Gestapo overseer demanded we leave.” Konrad shook his head. “Apparently, he doesn’t trust the doctors, and he was afraid we would infect his laborers. I can’t say I’ll miss him.” He turned back to Herr Ziemer. “Do you have room for us?”

  “We’ll squeeze in tight and make room. With all the young boys here, I could use another man. You may decide you’d rather put up with the overseer.” The farmer grinned and dropped his hands on the heads of Bernd and Hans. The rest of the children pressed in close.

  Reinhard grabbed one of their boxes. “We’ll help you.”

  The other children swarmed around the boxes, squabbling over who could carry what.

  Heidi smiled when Lieselotte winced over a dropped box. “I hope you didn’t bring anything breakable.”

  Over Germany

  Same Day

  After the noisy chaos aboard Judgment Day, only the sound of rushing air filled Paul’s ears. He looked down as he free fell. Dizziness brought his head back up. He blew out his breath. Freefalling was like having a rock in his stomach. Or maybe his heart in his throat. Or both. He inhaled slowly and blew out again. Man up, Braedel. Time’s wasting.

  He looked around. Five other men fell through space with parachutes blossoming above them. His crewmates drifted east toward Wiesbaden, a clear area, where escape was unlikely.

  His ripcord waited to be pulled. He clutched it in his hand. No, not yet. An open parachute would serve as a beacon, making it easy for the Germans to spot him.

  All the guys who had returned to base and lectured on their escape and evasion experiences had stressed one thing. Have a strategy. Plan your moves.

  Sucking in his breath, Paul studied the ground rushing up to meet him. Partly cloudy. That was good. If he came down in clouds, he might not be spotted right away. South of him, the Rhine ran east to west. That was the location of the Pampered Princess’s treetop flight. The cloudy, desolate spot he hurtled toward offered a chance to escape.

  Through breaks in the clouds, the land looked as calm and peaceful as a Wisconsin meadow. When he spotted a forested area, he yanked his ripcord. The parachute burst open, nearly snapping his neck. He shook his head at the cessation of the wind and resultant silence. Maybe his ears had been damaged.

  He landed in a small clearing, found his balance, and froze like a statue. No one was around. He gathered his chute in haste, rolling it into a sloppy, compact wad. Next, he pulled off his helmet, flight jacket and flying boots, and shoved his feet into his GI shoes. He began to walk westward, planning his next move. Ditch his equipment in the first good hiding place. Get away from his landing spot in case he had been noticed. Distinctly American attire would give him away, so find civilian clothes. What else had the evaders said?

  His hands were shaking. He must be feeling a bit of shock, and why not? Alone, deep in enemy territory, possibly hunted. He sat down on a fallen log and breathed deeply. Help is what he needed, and the best help was only a prayer away. Help me, Lord. He needed to find the underground, but how?

  Find Heidi.

  Paul jerked his head up and looked around. Who said that? His gaze traveled heavenward. Had that been a thought from God?

  Where was Heidi? The Steinhorsts had a factory in the Ruhr industrial belt, but where? Rachel had mentioned a farm. Somewhere on the west side of the Rhine. He’d called it Pick-a-Lock and made Rachel laugh. He pulled out his map and estimated his location, west of Wiesbaden. His finger traced westward from there. Bickenbach. Yes, that was it. It lay about thirty miles away. That was doable.

  But would Heidi be there? Would she have evacuated the city? Probably, especially if she had a child now. The Ruhr valley had to be the most heavily bombed region of Germany.

  Crossing the Rhine would be the hardest part. First, he needed a bicycle, German attire, and identification papers. He shifted on the log. That meant stealing. Living off the land, the evaders had called it. It was what armies had done since ancient times.

  He studied his map. He would head for Geisenheim as his first step. That town should be big enough that a stranger wouldn’t stand out. Arriving near sundown might be the best time to find a bicycle. His stomach growled. And maybe some food. Hunger might make him do something stupid. He rummaged in his survival kit and pulled out a chocolate bar.

  He’d better start doing all his thinking in German. Last thing he wanted to do was start speaking English to someone. He was never so grateful for his German ancestry and grandparents who encouraged him to learn their native tongue.

  Leaving his helmet and boots wasn’t a concern. He concealed them under a bush, but not his jacket. Maybe he could keep it. He needed a story. Something believable that explained why he, of military age, was wandering around the country on his own. He stood and stretched. His wounded side protested, and he rubbed it. That’s it!

  He was a German soldier on leave after being wounded, with a nice fresh scar to back up that claim. While on leave, he was searching for his fiancée Louisa. She lived in a city that had been bombed, but he was sure she’d evacuated to her grandparents’ home in, uh, in where? He grabbed his map. Cochem! Perfect! He was on his way to Cochem. A head injury left his thinking a bit addled, so if anyone asked questions, he’d offer vague answers. He certainly didn’t want anyone questioning why he wasn’t at the front lines with the German army.

  As he wandered west, he’d come across the wreckage of an American bomber and found useful supplies, including a flying jacket, a parachute, and cigarettes that he could barter for food. That gave him an excuse to keep his jacket and a bit of gear.

  Turning his jacket inside out, he placed the parachute and his meager supplies on it, rolled it up, and tied the sleeves into a handle. Knapsack in hand, he headed west, rehearsing his story as he loped through the woods. The evaders all said to act as if you belonged there. This could work. He could play his role.

  No immediate threat of danger presented itself. Time to plan for contingencies. If he could find Heidi, maybe as soon as two or three days, he might have help. His steps slowed. Roger’s dead, maybe one or two others, and the rest of the crew captured. He couldn’t help them, and they couldn’t help him. Sure would have been nice to have at least one companion, but that might complicate things for Heidi.

  His watch said he’d been walking for ninety minutes. Felt like ninety hours. The trees thinned and he paused before cautiously approaching what appeared to be a lone cottage. No signs of life were apparent. He took his time to circle it. Bingo! A bicycle leaned against the cottage behind some bushes. Just what he needed. Silently slipping up to the windows, he peered inside. No one was around, and a deserted look hung about the place. He held his breath and tried the door. It squeaked open.

  After a brief hesitation, he stepped inside, directly into a small kitchen. The air smelled stale. Dust covered the counter, and he took care not to disturb it. A rapid search of the cupboards uncovered a feast of a jar of pears, another of string beans, and a box of crackers. Leaving them for the moment, Paul hurried to the bedroom and found a well-worn brown plaid shirt. He took that and a ragged gray cardigan, and returned to the kitchen to collect his dinner. He snatched a battered hat off a peg on the back of the door, peered outside, and dashed to the bike. Stuffing his loot in the bike’s basket, he pushed it into the woods. He’d been in and out of the cottage in less than three minutes. His heart took longer to settle down.

  Pushing the bicycle, he trekked through the woods until he came to a creek, where he stopped to dine on his pilfered provisions and put on his new shirt. It fit tolerably well. He tucked in the shirt, hoping his new apparel would help him blend in. What did German soldiers’ shoes look like? He could scuff his own shoes to disguise them, but that would be permanent. He smeared them with dirt. Continuing on until he came across a road, he hopped on the bike and set a brisk pace for Geisenheim.

  On the outskirts of the town, Paul studied another house. Unlike
the cottage, this one was occupied. An old man, close to his size, split logs while his wife poured water from a dishpan on a small garden. The day’s wash hung on a line, including a pair of trousers. He settled down to wait in the gathering gloom. Come on, folks. You’re tired. Go to bed. Finally, pushing aside the guilty feelings, he crept to the clothesline and unpinned the pants, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. He shuffled the other clothes around to fill in the gap before making a fast retreat.

  As he was about to venture through the town, he spotted graffiti scrawled on the side of a building. “Kilroy was here.” The claim showed up scribbled in unlikely places. Kilroy hadn’t been to Ridgewell to mark his presence, but here? In some out-of-the-way German burg? Either another Allied airman had been here or perhaps the graffiti was a trap to lure evading fliers in. Paul didn’t want to find out. He gave the town a wide berth.

  In the waning light, he came to a bluff overlooking the Rhine. Staring across, he reviewed his situation. Conceivably, he could make it to Bickenbach in a day or two of hard riding. But what if he were stopped and asked for papers? That would likely occur when he tried to cross the river. The current looked too strong to swim across, especially towing a bicycle.

  It had been a long, rough day. He needed rest. Paul looked for a safe place to hole up for the night and froze when he spotted someone else on the bluff. Another man must have decided this was a good place to sleep. Paul turned to slink away when the man placed his boots between himself and the edge of the bluff. He removed what appeared to be a wallet from an inner pocket and tucked it into one of the boots.

  Papers! Paul settled down for another wait. When soft snores emanated from the man, he crept forward, pulled out the wallet, and laid the boot on its side close to the edge. With luck, the poor guy would think he’d kicked it over and his wallet had fallen down to the river. Disappearing into a secluded wooded area, he lay down, prayed for angels to guard him, and slept.