Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Eddie glanced around at the nine-man crew as they prepared for their third mission, and he realized how much he’d grown to appreciate them in the short time they’d been together—through flight training at the Overseas Training Unit in Kearney, Nebraska, and now the real thing.

  In the dim glow of the shaded lights, Lt. Martin DeBorgia, the twenty-seven-year-old pilot and “old man” of their group, circled the plane for the preflight check and gabbed with the mechanics as if he were preparing for a Sunday drive. He was the most experienced of the group, having flown B-24s before being transferred to the 17s. Low-key and rugged, he was their calming factor, and despite his It’ll be fine attitude, or maybe because of it, Eddie was grateful that Marty was leading them into battle.

  Lt. Adam Haugan, the copilot, followed Marty around the plane, mimicking his every move to the stifled belly laughs of the rest of the crew. This boy-next-door nineteen-year-old with the peach-fuzz beard reminded Eddie of Mickey Rooney, which meant it was very hard to take him seriously.

  Adam caught Eddie’s gaze. Grinning under the attention, he continued to tail Marty, overemphasizing every gesture. As Marty stepped back to observe the patch job on the body of the plane, Adam did the same, shielding his face against the nonexistent sunlight and silently counting the patched shrapnel and bullet holes. Adam’s eyes widened as the number increased.

  Eddie couldn’t hold back any longer, and let go a loud burst of laughter.

  Marty turned and playfully punched his copilot’s shoulder. “And this is what we have for second-in-command?” He grabbed Adam in a headlock.

  Not far from their horseplay, Lt. José Garcia, their bombardier, climbed up to get a closer look at the engine. Eddie noted the jiggle of the ladder and hurried over, grabbing hold to steady it.

  Trained as an airplane mechanic before the war, José was warm and outgoing. And his most prized possession, a photo of his wife, Maria, and their son, Manuel, peeked out of the top of José’s jacket pocket as it did every mission.

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” he called out to anyone who cared to listen, “that such a huge hunk of metal could ever get us airborne. What a beautiful machine.”

  As Eddie steadied the ladder, T. Sgt. Carter Taft, the second youngest of the group, sidled up beside him, taking hold of the other leg of the ladder. If any of them could be considered a loner, it would be Carter. While others played cards or wrote letters home on their days off, Carter read English novels and jotted notes for the book he one day hoped to write.

  A tough nut to crack, Eddie thought.

  Yet during their missions, Carter was a different person. He came to life monitoring the power instruments and fuel consumption and operating the top turret with boyish enthusiasm. Even now his coal-black eyes brightened as the mechanics rolled the stands away from the plane.

  José climbed down, and Eddie, shivering in the cold morning air, retrieved his briefcase. Inside were the tools of his trade, including a Weems plotter, pencils, and E-6B computer. Made of aluminum, the E-6B was small enough to slip into his jacket pocket, yet with it he could compute fuel consumption, distance-rate-time calculations, the effect of altitude and temperature upon indicated airspeed, and the effect of wind on the flight path of the airplane.

  “Time to load up, boys.” DeBorgia pointed to the craft as if he were a tour guide, and the guys lined up next to the hatch.

  “Look, we’re a chorus line,” Sergeant Vinny Rosario called out, swinging his arms over the shoulders of the two guys closest to him.

  Eddie chuckled as Vinny twirled around with a sway of his hips, emulating the dancing girls at the local pub.

  When his turn came, Eddie swung his briefcase into the open nose hatch, then paused. A pink dawn now cast a warm glow over the air base, and just beyond the black asphalt strip of runway a herd of cattle grazed on lush, green grass.

  Not far beyond that, a small English cottage sat seemingly undisturbed by the bombers preparing for flight. A single line of smoke wafted from the chimney, and Eddie knew that soon the farmwife would be out to milk the goat and gather eggs. It was one of the quaintest sights Eddie had ever seen, and he wished he could impress the image into his mind, just in case….

  He climbed in, pushing that thought away, and went about setting up the navigator’s station. Through the window he noted S. Sgt. Wallace English, their ball turret operator, still outside pacing their staging area and rubbing his hands together.

  Wally studied their B-17 as if checking off a mental list, and Eddie’s stomach churned as he watched him. The belly-gunner’s job was the most dangerous of all, his life depending on the ball-turret’s overly intricate mechanism. Eddie was glad he wasn’t the one hanging from the bottom of the aircraft in a plastic bubble.

  Each man had a different way of handling the fear that greeted them at the hardstand. Some, like Marty, acted as if it weren’t a big deal. Then there were those like Vinny and Adam, who ignored the gnawing fear by clowning around. Then there were others who refused to hide it. No mask could shield the apprehension in their eyes.

  Eddie placed his logbook on the small workstation as Vinny’s rendition of an English chorus loudly flowed out of the radio room. Always eager to help, Vinny had already assembled and checked Eddie’s 50-caliber machine gun and brought along Eddie’s parachute and helmet, saving him a trip to the equipment room.

  In contrast to Vinny’s singing, the three gunners filed past Eddie stone-faced and silent. Chancey Buckston, Glen Cromwell, and Reggie Mullans were the veterans of the group, having been part of a previous crew in the Mississippi Maiden, which was lost over France. They’d been assigned to a different crew that day—and had witnessed their plane being shot down.

  Though four months had passed without word of their friends’ fate, they still hoped the others would surface—Eddie saw it in their eyes whenever a new jeepload of men arrived at the base. But on days like today, those hopeful faces solidified into looks of resolve. If they didn’t do their job, someone else would have to. Besides, each mission meant one less they’d have to do before reaching the required thirty.

  Throughout the plane, the rest of the crew had finished setting up and checking their equipment, including guns, radio gear, ammo belts, and oxygen. Eddie did the same, finally donning his final layer of gear: the flak vest, two pair of gloves, helmet, oxygen mask, and throat mic.

  As usual, Vinny had also laid out Eddie’s seat-pack parachute on the 50-caliber ammunition box that served as his chair in front of the navigator’s table. As he secured the chute’s system of straps and snapped the helmet strap under his chin, Eddie’s mind couldn’t help but flash back to the previous raid.

  Their fighter escort had barely gotten them across the Channel when their aircraft was forced to return to base due to a mechanical problem. As they retreated, instead of spotting a neat formation of planes out the tail window, cruising their way over France, they instead witnessed scattered scores of parachutes floating downward—evidence of a slaughter they’d barely missed.

  The crews who’d left Bassingbourn that day full of expectation, and part of a trusted team, had been left to fend for themselves. And if it weren’t for a sputtering engine, Eddie’s crew would have wound up in the midst of it. Fighting. Falling. And then attempting to somehow make it back across enemy lines.

  That night they’d been the lucky ones sleeping—or at least attempting to sleep—in the comfort of their own barracks with photos of their loved ones peering down at them from the rickety shelves above their beds.

  Who knew what the other guys had faced? Were they still running from the Germans? Had they been captured? Had they even made it to the ground alive?

  At the appointed time, Destiny’s Child taxied out to position in the long line of thirty-seven B-17s waiting to take off. There was one extra plane for the possible abort or early loss. And it was anyone’s guess how many would return that evening.

  They approached the head of the runway, turned onto its
center line, and Eddie felt the brakes set. Even though he couldn’t see the pilots from his position, in his mind he watched them checking gauges once more, an arm reaching out, the hand grasping all four throttles and pushing them all the way to their stops. The engines roared to full power, and he imagined them waving to the guys at the tower and closing the cowl flaps to reduce drag.

  He scooted the ammunition-box chair forward as the brakes released and the aircraft started to roll, slowly at first, then picking up speed, hurling down the runway. His hands gripped the edge of the navigation table, which was fastened to the wall of the plane. As they approached their minimum airspeed, the tail wheel lifted off the runway, and soon the entire aircraft was no longer earthbound.

  There was very little chatter on the interphone as the plane lifted from the ground and skimmed the trees at the end of the runway. Eddie let out a slow breath as thirty-seven B-17s were airborne in a matter of minutes. Their next task was to form into squadrons. During the briefing, the pilots had been told at what time on an imaginary clock the squadron would form and at what altitude and distance from the field the lead plane would be hovering.

  Today, as they slowly climbed, Eddie and the other crew members watched for flares to be fired from the lead plane as a signal for the others to take their places in the formation. Within a minute, two red flares and one green—the signal of the 324th squadron—burst in the air like shots out of a Roman candle. Destiny’s Child slid into her assigned position on the right wing of Sky Blazer, which was leading the left three-plane element.

  A day’s work was about to begin, and Eddie glanced at his watch, jotting down the assembly time. Right on schedule. It was simply one of the first entries in the day’s logged events.

  When he had finished writing, Eddie prayed a silent prayer that even though they flew through the valley of death, the Lord would be with them. To guide. To protect. To bring them home.

  Hendrick tucked the keys to the flat in his pocket and walked through the living room and down the hall to the first door on the right. He clicked on the lamp. Light flooded the room, and his eyes fell on the oak cradle in the corner. He caressed the smooth wooden frame, remembering his spontaneous trip to the furniture store the day Katrine announced her pregnancy. He’d chosen this cradle above the rest. Appreciated the swastika carved near the head of the bed. Only the finest should rock his child.

  For months it had taken all his self-control to keep this flat a secret from Katrine. A hundred times, as they’d walked down the boulevard arm in arm, he’d wanted to point to the third-story window and confess his gift. See what things are given to those who give their greatest gifts to their country.

  Still he’d waited, wanting everything to be perfect. Just this morning he’d planned on wrapping the key to the front door in a box for her birthday. But now?

  Hendrick pushed the crib violently, knocking it to its side, the image of Katrine’s condemning gaze bearing down on his mind. The horrified look had flashed in her eyes the moment he’d explained the shipment of children. Instead of pride in his work, there’d been distaste—no, revulsion—in her eyes.

  “Does she not realize I do this work for our child?” he shouted, not caring if the neighbors heard him through the walls. “It is my work for all the generations to follow, including the generation of our offspring!”

  Hendrick’s fist slammed into the light-blue painted wall. Pain shot through his knuckles and up his arm. He bared his teeth and shook his hand, the memory of the Reichsführer’s words confirming his righteous task. “One only possesses a land when even the last inhabitant of this territory belongs to his own people.”

  How many times had Himmler said those words? How much time, effort, pain had Hendrick sacrificed to fulfill just that?

  And now? Doesn’t she realize those shipments represent lives redeemed?

  Hendrick shook his hand harder as he strode from the room, slamming the door behind him and refusing to pay attention to the swelling knuckles. The living area was lit with a single lamp, yet the warm glow over the exquisitely furnished room mocked him. Instead of seeing a symbol of his favor, the place proved his stupidity in placing his affection in the hands of someone who lacked understanding.

  Katrine has no idea what sacrifice means, Hendrick thought, striding to the phone. He sank down onto the cushioned wing-back chair, realizing he had work to do still—even at this late hour.

  He lifted the phone and asked the operator to connect him to his office. A smile curled on his lips as Lydia’s soft voice answered.

  “Have they arrived?”

  Lydia’s voice hinted of weariness. “They’re here. But it’s late now, and …”

  Hendrick interrupted. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Tell the guards I wish for the children to await my arrival,” he stated in a commanding tone. “I’ll do the final inspection myself, tonight. Not one of them lies down for the night in the comfort of a state home until I confirm their worth!”

  The brick offices looked different in the light of the moon, Hendrick realized, as he took the front steps two at a time. Even before he opened the doors, the children’s whimpers met him, grating on his nerves.

  One day they will appreciate how I saved them, how I kept their blood from crying from amongst the ashes. They would have no hope, no future, if it weren’t for me.

  Instead of moving down the hall toward his office, Hendrick turned to the left into the reception area. Lydia waited with two transport guards. Over a dozen children lined the wooden benches, yet despite the late hour, none of them slept. Instead they huddled together, filthy from travel, eyes wide with fear. Thankfully, his uniformed presence was enough to halt their cries.

  Hendrick moved to the child closest to the door. One of the guards approached, pulling the boy to his feet and holding him tight.

  “Age?”

  “We assume seven, Officer Schwartz.”

  Hendrick grabbed the boy by the chin and tilted it toward the light.

  Blue eyes. Well spaced.

  He jerked the face to the right, then left, to examine the profile.Hendrick didn’t need to compare the child’s features with the charts hanging on the walls to know the size and shape of this boy’s nose fit well within the specifications.

  “Stretch your arms, boy!” Hendrick lifted his arms in example, knowing the child couldn’t understand his words. The boy’s shoulders trembled, and he muttered something Hendrick couldn’t understand. Yet he mimicked Hendrick’s actions, and his frame appeared strong.

  “Fine, good specimen. Perfect for Nazi Youth,” he stated to Lydia, who was taking notes. With determined steps, he moved to the next child in line.

  An older girl, nearing puberty, clenched a toddler to her chest. The older one’s nose was slightly hooked, and her hair was darker than what he usually saw in shipments.

  “Sisters?” Hendrick asked, noting black-and-blue bruises on the older child’s face.

  “No. Neighbors, we believe.” One of the transport guards poked at her shoulder. “The older child put up quite a fight. She refused to release the younger one to us. We thought it was easier to bring her along.”

  Hendrick squatted to get a look at the toddler. Her face scrunched, and she burst into tears as he neared. But even still he could tell she was as Aryan as they came—in fact, she looked almost as if she could be related to his own Stella.

  “The younger one is good. Send her to the Ardennes home. The older one—well, that’s your problem.”

  Hendrick paused as the words replayed in his mind. Ardennes home … Lebensborn. The place designed for mothers-to-be to be cared for. The place for children to receive the best upbringing under the guidelines of the Nazi state.

  Why didn’t I think of that before?

  Hendrick knew what he had to do, but first he focused his attention back on the work at hand. He continued down the line, scrutinizing with swiftness and skill.

  “Fine shipment. Good work, men.” He gave a straight
-armed salute, then hurried toward his office. Already Hendrick’s mind was calculating which German families on his list should be first to receive a child once the Germanization was complete.

  Herr and Frau Hiedl wish for a third. That first boy might be a good fit.

  And intermingled with those thoughts were plans for his own trip to the beautiful Ardennes home. Wegimont bei Lüttich.

  “Officer Schwartz?” It was Lydia’s voice that halted his steps. “Do you need me for anything else?”

  Hendrick turned and noticed she’d changed her attire since earlier today in the office. Her gray work jacket had been replaced by a red sweater that clung to her curves.

  “Actually, I was hoping you could help me with a few files.” Hendrick unlocked his door and turned the knob. Lydia followed, and his heart pounded at her nearness.

  Sounds of movement drifted down the hall. More cries. The shuffling of feet. Shouts of guards. Then the screams of the older girl and the toddler’s cry.

  “You’d think one girl wouldn’t cause so much commotion.” Hendrick’s voice was husky.

  “They’ll be fine.” Lydia smiled. “See, they have her outside already. They should have her in the van any minute. Then we will not be forced to consider her again.” She took a step toward him.

  Lydia was pretty in a simple way. And though she did not have the stunning beauty of Katrine, there was something about her that intrigued Hendrick. The light of the hall hit her face, and he dared not turn on the office lamps for fear of breaking the trance.

  Yes, that is it. The key to her beauty. Hendrick focused on her blue eyes. Large, round … adoring.

  “Officer Schwartz.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you think we could work on those files tomorrow? I should get home, and I was hoping you would walk me.”

  “You’re right.” He stepped back into the hall, motioning her to follow. Then he allowed the door to click shut behind him. “On one condition.”