None of the Americans said anything about the shootings to their Spanish comrades. It wasn’t as if Sanjurjo’s men didn’t do the same thing. The machine gun also turned out to be surplus from the last war: a water-cooled German Maxim. Once in position, it was as good as any more modern weapon. Getting it there, however, was less than half the fun. It was more portable than an anvil, but only slightly. And the mount from which it fired was massive enough to let somebody preach a sermon on it.
Chaim said as much to Izzy, and got the groan he deserved. When he tried to translate the joke for one of the Spaniards, he discovered it worked in his language but not in theirs.
There were other things to worry about. Going on with the advance, for instance. He hadn’t had any particular rank when this attack started. He still didn’t, come to that. But both Americans and Spaniards seemed to expect him to tell them what to do next. He’d given an order before. It had worked. Not so surprising, then, that they expected more of the same.
He wanted to be a de facto officer the way he wanted a second head. His new order consisted of, “Well, let’s go, goddammit.”
They went. They drove everything before them. The Nationalists fled all the way to Valladolid, eighty miles west of Madrid. Marshal Sanjurjo was so dismayed, he hopped in a plane and flew back to Portugal. The Fascist cause in Spain collapsed. In Rome, Mussolini ground his teeth in fury. In Berlin, so did Hitler. Because of Chaim’s brilliant command, the progressive powers won the war.
Well… no. It wasn’t like that. Easier to dream of La Martellita going down on him than to look for so much from one grudged order. But the Abe Lincolns did capture that machine gun and go on to gain several hundred more meters of ground. Somebody must have put in a good word for Chaim, because a Republican major general (who wore overalls like a factory worker-and like La Martellita, though he didn’t fill them out so well) came up to the new front line, shook his hand, and kissed him on both cheeks.
The major general had been eating garlic. “You did some political indoctrination in the city, si?” he asked. Chaim admitted it. “Why did you leave that post?” the officer inquired. Chaim only shrugged. Taking that for modesty, the general said, “Would you like to go back?” Chaim nodded, hoping he didn’t seem too eager. La Martellita would be furious. Aww-wasn’t that too bad? he airport outside Stockholm. A tall, blond Swedish foreign-ministry official stamping her passport. “I don’t believe this,” Peggy Druce said dazedly. “It can’t be true.”
“If you like, Madame, I will pinch you.” The official spoke almost perfect English. If he had a slight singsong Scandinavian accent, so did plenty of people from Minneapolis.
“But… But…” Only a few days before, Peggy had been thinking about Warsaw as a stepping stone to Hungary and, eventually, to Romania or Greece. Even though one of their staff members had suggested it, everybody at the American embassy was sure she was nuts for wanting to try it. That didn’t mean the people there weren’t helping her. Maybe they didn’t care if she got blown up. Maybe they were glad to send her on her way even if the odds of that were pretty good. She didn’t endear herself to everyone, not if people stood in the way of what she wanted. More than a few Nazis would have agreed with the embassy personnel about that.
Now, though, a big, beautiful Swissair DC-3 sat on the runway outside the terminal. It was going to fly from Stockholm to London, and she had a seat on it. The foreign-ministry official’s gaze clouded, ever so slightly. “Now that Denmark and southern Norway are no longer considered a war zone, air traffic by neutrals has resumed,” the man said, no expression in his voice or on his face.
Now that the Germans have sat on the Danes and Norwegians and driven the English and French way the hell up into the frozen north. That was what he meant. How did he feel about it? Swedes, Norwegians, and Danes might as well have been brothers. This fellow probably wasn’t happy about being the only brother left free and independent. Then again, Sweden did a lot of business with Germany. Quite a few Swedes admired Hitler-one of Peggy’s more alarming discoveries in what otherwise seemed a civilized country. So she didn’t ask the official what he thought of the foreign situation. He could think whatever he damn well pleased. She was getting out of here…
Wasn’t she? He handed back her passport. Nervously, she asked, “Is there anything else?”
“No, Madame. May you have a safe and pleasant journey.” He opened the door that led out from the terminal. Freezing air rushed in. Would winter never give up? He continued, “You are still very early, but you may board the airplane if you wish.”
“Yippee!” Peggy said, and charged toward the American-built airliner. There was an expression the fluent diplomat likely hadn’t heard before. Or did they show cowboy movies here? The mere idea was plenty to set Peggy giggling.
Speaking of accents, she could barely follow the Swiss steward’s German when he asked for her ticket and passport. Seeing that he was talking to an American, though, he switched to pretty good English: “Yes, everything seems to be in order. You may be seated. We will take off in about an hour.”
“You bet I’ll be seated, Charlie!” Peggy said. The steward blinked. She didn’t care. The DC-3 had two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other. Peggy discovered hers was on the single side. She didn’t care.
More passengers boarded, speaking several different languages. She recognized English, Swedish, French, and the Swiss dialect of German. And two young Oriental men took the pair of seats across from her and jabbered at each other. Japanese? Chinese? Something else altogether? There she had no idea. When the steward tried German on them, they answered readily enough.
The steward closed the door and dogged it tight. The twin engines rumbled to life. The DC-3’s cabin was soundproofed, but they were noisy even so. They got noisier, too, as the airliner sped down the runway and took off. Clunking noises from under the fuselage were the landing gear retracting. The wheels didn’t stay down through the whole flight. A DC-3 was modern.
Flying through clouds was bumpy. It also made looking out the window a waste of time. She had a copy of Gone with the Wind a secretary at the embassy had given her. She’d read it back in the States, of course, but it was fine for a flight-nice and thick. They’d made a movie of it while she was stuck in Europe! That, she wanted to see. Would anybody still be running it by the time she got home?
Bump, bump… bump. She was glad she wasn’t afraid of flying. She was also glad she had a strong stomach. If you got seasick, you could also get airsick, especially when the plane bounced all over the sky like this. Somebody noisily lost whatever he’d eaten before takeoff. He must have used the bag, because the stink wasn’t bad.
Food on the plane proved as good as what Peggy’d had on dining cars in trains. Drinks flowed freely. If you needed not to think about flying, or about the war, they would lubricate your brain.
And then, out of nowhere, the lean shark shape of a Messerschmitt fighter all but filled Peggy’s window. “Mon Dieu!” a French speaker said. “Merde alors!” another added. The 109 could have hacked the airliner out of the sky with the greatest of ease. Instead, the fighter pilot waved, waggled his wings, and zoomed away.
“This is the captain speaking.” A voice came out of the DC-3’s intercom, first in German, then in French, and finally in English. “The plane was confirming that we are who we claim to be. We may, I am told, expect the same reception as we near Great Britain.”
Sure enough, a Hurricane came out and looked them over. It seemed less deadly than the Messerschmitt, though by all accounts it was a match for the German fighter-one of the few planes that were. As the 109’s pilot had before, the Englishman in the cockpit waved when he was satisfied and flew off.
That snow-dappled brown and green ahead-that was England. Tears filled Peggy’s eyes. She’d made it! Well, almost. She still had to cross the Atlantic without getting torpedoed. If you were going to worry about every little thing…
More clunks from below said the
wheels were going down again. The plane descended toward London. Peggy looked for bomb craters. The Nazis had boasted about blasting the British capital back to the stone age. One more lie from Goebbels, because she saw little damage.
And then she was down. The DC-3 came in with hardly a bounce. She felt like yelling Yippee! again, but she didn’t. No point to making all the other people on the plane sure she was a lunatic. If she was, she could claim she was out of her mind with joy. At last-at sweet last!-she’d got to a place from which she could go straight to the States. She didn’t care if she booked the fastest liner or some wallowing scow. She’d still get there.
Barring U-boats, of course. The Nazis still claimed England had sunk the Athenia to enrage America and drag her into the war. Maybe they believed that in Germany. Peggy didn’t think it was good for anything but making flowers grow.
But the odds were still with her. Most ships traveling between England and the USA got where they were going. She really did figure hers would, too. She had every intention of taking the chance.
Stuffing Gone with the Wind into her purse, she stood up and headed back toward the door at the left rear of the cabin. Down a few steps after that, and then her own personal feet touched English soil. That, too, seemed just about good enough for a Yippee! Again, though, she refrained. Herb would have admired her restraint.
Herb! My God! She’d have to get used to having a husband around again. And she was going to have to keep her big mouth shut forever about a drunken night in Berlin. She’d guessed Constantine Jenkins was a fairy. Wrong! So wrong!
After she got her suitcase, she had to clear customs. The inspector frowned at all the stamps that bore the German eagle and swastika. “You’ve had a busy time of it, what?” he said.
“Buddy, you don’t know the half of it!” Peggy exclaimed.
Something in her voice brought a thin smile out on his face-the only kind he had, she suspected. “I daresay I ought to give you to the matrons for a strip search and slit the lining of your bag here,” he remarked. “I ought to, but I shan’t.” He plied his rubber stamp with might and main. “Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mrs. Druce. Welcome to freedom.”
“Freedom!” Peggy echoed dreamily. “I remember that-I think.” The customs inspector laughed, for all the world as if she were joking.
Now that Alistair Walsh had got to know him, Dr. Murdoch turned out to be a good source of information. “They’re going to extract us,” he told Walsh one freezing night-as if Namsos came equipped with any other kind. “Sounds like dentistry, eh?”
Walsh’s shiver had nothing to do with the weather. He remembered-painfully remembered-wisdom teeth with which he’d parted company. Army dentists had never heard of the Geneva Convention. Turn them loose on the Fritzes and they’d likely win the war in a fortnight.
“Have you got another fag on you?” the staff sergeant asked. That was the other thing Murdoch was good for: the man was a tobacco magnet. In a place like this, where everything was always in short supply, that made him someone to reckon with. Sure enough, he handed Walsh a packet. Walsh took one-what he’d asked for-and gave it back. He didn’t want the sawbones to think he was greedy. After a long, reverent drag, he asked, “Extracted? How?”
“Ships,” Murdoch answered. “Get in under cover of darkness, be well away by the time the Germans realize we’ve flown the coop. That’s the plan, at any rate-so they tell me.”
What they told him was usually the straight goods. “What happens next?” Walsh wondered out loud. He answered his own question: “The Luftwaffe starts looking for our bloody ships, that’s what. I don’t suppose we’ve got air cover laid on?” He answered himself again: “Too much to hope for. Too far off for fighters to reach.”
“I haven’t heard anything about air cover,” Beverly Murdoch admitted.
“When they find us, then, we’re sitting ducks,” Walsh said.
“Would you sooner be taken prisoner?”
“No-o-o,” Walsh said slowly. “I’d also sooner not drown, though, if it’s all the same to you. And I’d sooner not be blown to smithereens.”
“What the deuce are you doing in the Army, then?”
That was another good question, no doubt about it. Walsh gave a rueful shrug. “I was in in 1918. Didn’t seem to be much work on the civilian side when the last war ended, so I stayed in. They won’t turn loose of me now till I do get blown up, or till I’m too old to soldier any more.”
“The more fool you,” Murdoch said, and Walsh was in a poor position to tell him he was wrong.
Thanks to the doctor’s warning, he had a couple of extra days to ready his men for the planned withdrawal to the harbor. Everything had to seem as normal as possible, so the Germans wouldn’t pursue with all their strength. That would be what the withdrawal needed, wouldn’t it? Machine guns and maybe tanks banging away as Tommies and poilus and Norwegians tried to board ship? Walsh had been thinking what juicy targets they’d make on the water. They’d be even juicier if they got caught like that.
And a few men-volunteers all, and mostly Norwegians- would stay behind, to man Allied machine guns and try to create the impression that everybody was still in the lines. Walsh admired them without wanting to be one of their number. He aimed to go on fighting the war till the enemy was licked. Mooching around behind barbed wire, eating slop and hoping for Red Cross packages, held no appeal. The Norwegians had a chance of getting away and blending in with the scenery. He didn’t.
On the appointed night, he made his way back toward the docks. Engineers often put up white tapes to guide men and machines in the darkness without showing a light. Here, they’d used black ones to stand out against the snow. It was a nice touch. He wondered where they’d got them.
High above the clouds, airplane engines thuttered. Bombs started raining down far behind the German lines. That was another nice touch. Fighters couldn’t make it here from Blighty, but bombers could. And if the RAF pounded the Fritzes, it would make them think the expeditionary force was staying, not going. Walsh hoped like blazes it would, anyhow.
Through the shattered wreckage of Namsos town, a woman’s voice called out, “Good luck, friends! Bonne chance, amis! ” The locals still appreciated what the soldiers from abroad had been doing. That counted for something.
“This way! Step lively! This way!” The authoritative voice could only belong to an MP. Sure enough, the fellow guided traffic with disks on sticks that reminded Walsh of the ones tank crews without radios used to communicate.
He shambled up a gangplank. Only when he was up on deck did he realize he’d boarded another destroyer. It could get in and out faster than a merchantman. It couldn’t carry nearly so many men, though.
Or could it? If they packed people on like sardines going into a tin, maybe it could. They didn’t even have olive oil to grease the works. They did have swearing petty officers. “Keep clear lanes, God damn you!” one of that unpleasant breed shouted. “If the sailors can’t get to the guns, what’re your bloody necks worth?”
That was an interesting question. But the fellows loading the destroyer and the ones trying to keep the ship battleworthy worked at cross purposes. Walsh sympathized with both groups. Everyone was trying to do his own job as well as he could. If everyone succeeded, they might get away yet.
Stranger things had happened. Walsh supposed they must have.
Someone whose watch had survived said they left port at half past two. They’d have several hours of darkness to get well out to sea. Nights were still long, though beginning to shorten. They’d be a small needle in a big haystack. It could work. It really could.
Walsh kept telling himself as much, right up to the point where he fell asleep. He was mostly standing up, with his head and arms resting against something metallic. Even through his greatcoat sleeves, he could feel the cold. He didn’t care. He thought he could have slept upside down.
Someone trod on his toe. Someone else planted an elbow in his ribs. Each indignity half rou
sed him, but no more. Even this was better than life in the trenches. And if that wasn’t a judgment on the war he’d been fighting… He snored on.
He came back to himself with the sky beginning to go gray in the east. Some good Samaritan was shoving his way through the tight-packed soldiers with an enormous pot of tea in each fist. Walsh still had his mess kit. He held out the tin cup, and was rewarded with a weak, lukewarm brew with no milk and not enough sugar. It tasted wonderful.
As day came on, the soldiers looked apprehensively back toward the corrugated coastline from which they’d just fled. The destroyer was going flat out, kicking up an enormous bow wave. But one of the mournful lessons of this war was that ships couldn’t outrun airplanes.
Lots of ocean. Only us here, Walsh thought. The other ships taking the expeditionary force back from Namsos had scattered. The Nazis would have to find them one by one. Walsh thought that made for good tactics. He wished to God he were more certain.
Sailors looked back toward Norway, too. Some of them had field glasses. One who did shouted out a warning. Walsh wondered why he bothered. The antiaircraft guns were already manned. The escaping soldiers couldn’t go anywhere, because their mates already filled the places where they might have gone.
Walsh’s mouth went dry when he recognized the sharkish fuselage with the inverted gull wings. A Stuka. We would get a bloody Stuka, he thought bitterly. He’d seen what they could do. He didn’t want them trying to do it to him… again.
“Only the one bugger,” Dr. Murdoch said beside him. That was something. The Germans must have scattered their planes across the ocean, searching for ships. Of course, the sods up there would have a wireless set…
The Stuka climbed, then dove. Walsh watched in fearful fascination-what else could he do? All the antiaircraft guns on the destroyer went off at once, with a noise like the end of the world. The pilot took his plane down through the shell bursts as if they weren’t there. Fritz or not, he had balls. The bomb fell free. The dive-bomber pulled up almost as sharply as it had plunged.
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