Message For Hitler

by Cate M. Ruane

  “I have to report for duty, I’m afraid,” said Geraldine. “I’ll check back soon as I have a break.”

  “Jolly good,” said Kennard, clapping his hands and trying hard to cheer us up. “Back in a jiffy, then.”

  “A fella couldn’t ask for a better commander,” said Jack, once Kennard was gone. Then he moaned, “Oh Daphne! Daphne!” Anyone could tell he was in agony. “When I get my hands on that base chef—”

  I said, “When I get my hands on that chef!”

  But I knew Daphne hadn’t touched the base food. We’d been put off the stuff the second Geraldine vomited up her Marmite breakfast the morning we arrived.

  Figuring I’d take Jack’s mind off of our current problems, I said, “Get any Nazis today?” Jack always liked to talk about dogfights.

  “We went on a Rhubarb over the Netherlands,” he said. “Just Kennard and me. Gee wiz, that man knows how to fly a kite. I learn a lot going out with him. We were strafing minesweepers near Flushing. Peppered the heck out of several before we ran out of ammo and had to turn back. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a couple of those boats are at the bottom of the sea right now, the crew swimming toward Amsterdam.”

  “See any enemy aircraft out there?” I asked. I loved to hear about aerial combat. Some of Jack’s adventures made the hair stand up on my head. More than usual, that is.

  “Boy oh boy, did we!” said Jack, smiling. “Had a whole squadron on our tails all the way back to England. Caught a few bullets in my aileron—no worse than that. Shame of it is, we had no ammo left to take them on—not one bullet—unless you counted the ones in our service revolvers.” He patted his holster. “But I wasn’t about to let them get close enough for me to use it. Once again, our Spits got us out of a nasty scrape. Boy, that baby can boogie when she has to.” He smiled but then his face dropped, thinking about Daphne, and that he might never dance the boogie-woogie with her again. Just when they were becoming expert jitterbuggers, too. They’d recently entered their first contest, winning third prize: two tickets to a London play. The winners got orchestra seats and back stage passes. Second place got mezzanine and a coupon for the bar. Daphne and Jack were in the rafters getting nosebleeds. It was me who taught Daphne her first move: the rock-step.

  “Say,” said Jack. “Let’s ask the nurse if we can sit in the room with Daphne.”

  The answer was a big fat no. “No visitors,” said the nurse. “Not until the doctor allows.”

  We stepped outside and Jack bummed a cigarette off an airman who was going into the hospital carrying a bunch of flowers. I wondered if he was visiting a sick person, or dating one of the nurses. My money was on the nurse. Jack had quit cigarettes, all because Daphne didn’t like the smell on his breath or the taste on his lips when they kissed. “I shouldn’t,” he said, striking the match. “But it calms my nerves.” His hand shook as he touched the match to the end of the cigarette. “Gee, I don’t get this rattled in a dogfight.”

  That made me think of something I’d been meaning to ask him. “How’d your Spitfire go down, anyway? Geraldine told us you said something like: The Germans didn’t get me.”

  Jack took the cigarette from his mouth after one drag, threw it on to the pavement and pulverized the thing with the toe of his flight boot. “Aw—I don’t want to break my promise to Daphne,” he said, choked up. He reached into his pocket and took out a pack of chewing gum, offering me a piece. Once we both had the gum chewed up soft in our mouths, the conversation flowed again.

  “Funny thing is, I wasn’t shot down by the Messerschmitt chasing me. I’d bet my life on it. I had just gained altitude and was about to flip the Spit over, so as I could come up on his tail, when the engine began misfiring. I saw the speedometer needle jolt. Then: chug, chug. I thought, What bad timing! I remembered Wilson telling me that he’d just changed all the spark plugs. Heck—I saw him doing it with my own eyes.

  “Then the Spit began losing speed and I heard a small explosion—from inside the engine. By then, I was out of firing range of enemy aircraft.” Jack chewed his gum with his mouth open. I did the same. “Before I knew what had happened, the engine was in flames. Kennard came along side of me and saw the fire. He radioed, ordering me to gain enough altitude for a bailout. The Spit had just enough life left in her to take one last climb. I took Daphne’s photo from the instrument panel, kissed the throttle goodbye and jumped. I was sure sorry to see her fly off without me.”

  “What could’a gone wrong?” I asked.

  Jack took off his leather flight helmet and scratched his head. I scratched my head too. Obviously, he had no idea: “As soon as I got back to the base, I went to have a talk with Wilson. He showed me the log—where he’d recorded the maintenance. Sure enough, he’d replaced the plugs the day before and had gone over everything with a fine-toothed comb. He’s good at his job—darn good, even if it’s one he doesn’t want.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “He wants to be a pilot is why. Heck, he is a pilot. Had more hours in before the war than any of the Americans in the squadron. Between you and me, most of us cooked our flight logs before we headed up to Canada to enlist. Some of us had barely soloed. But Wilson—now, he’d logged over 100 hours in solo flight. Some of that on Hurricanes! But the RAF was short of expert mechanics and Wilson had been working for Hawker Aviation as a maintenance mechanic. He knew a Hurricane left and right, inside and out. They needed Wilson to train up others to be aviation mechanics. Had him training lorry drivers and London cabbies. Meanwhile, us wet-behind-the-ear Yank kids are going up to Canada and jumping into flight school.”

  “Does seem like a rotten deal,” I said.

  “That’s just it. Now that we have the Spits, Wilson wants his shot and who can blame him? I don’t know what I’d do if I had to watch us taking off everyday and having to hear our glory stories at the end of every op. The whole time being stuck on the ground with a wrench in my hand, knowing that I was just as qualified—no, better qualified—than anyone. Like you said, it ain’t fair. A lot of the other fellas feel the same. We think he should have a shot at flying.”

  Jack stopped talking long enough to blow a huge bubble. When it popped, there was gum plastered all over his face. I gave a hoot, scaring a nurse who was walking into the building. Jack, with gum still stuck to his cheek, opened the door. The nurse giggled, batting her eyelashes. “Why, thank you, Lieutenant. How thoughtful.” Jack was having none of it and turned his attention to me.

  “Let’s go bug the head nurse into letting us see Daphne,” he said. “And if she has the nerve to turn us down again—”

  “We’ll sneak in,” I said, finishing his thought.

  “Thatta boy. Thinking just like a Mooney, you are.”

  I chewed my gum and tried to make a bubble the way Jack had, but it was a no go. I’d have to practice.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A CURTAIN BLOCKED our view of the nurse’s station, where a few minutes before we’d been ordered to leave the hospital. Our backs were pressed to the wall.

  “That’s the best thing about being an officer,” my brother said, “I don’t have to take orders from that nurse, no siree. I outrank her.”

  “Then why are we hiding behind this door?” I whispered. Jack didn’t answer my question. He just shrugged.

  It was time to create a diversion: one of my specialities. It was as simple as going outside, finding an unlocked window leading into an unoccupied room, and start moaning and groaning. Then I leapt out the window, sprinted back into the front entrance and motioned for my brother to join me in the dash past the nurse’s station. Before you could say Stop!, we were looking at Daphne. All sorts of monitors were connected to her. One showed her heartbeat, zigzag lines, all the same size, a pulse of 95 beats a minute. We were happy to see that.

  “Thank God her ticker’s working,” I said. “But as for the rest of her—”

  Daphne was always neat as a pin, but now her hair was a rat’s nest and her skin pasty
white. Without lipstick on, she looked anemic.

  Jack, a brave man in most circumstances, was a train wreck. He steadied himself by gripping the metal bed frame, covering his embarrassment by grabbing a clipboard hanging from the bedpost. I ducked under his arm so that I could read the doctor’s notes and hold him up at the same time.

  “Suspected poisoning!” I said, a little too loudly.

  “And do you notice that it doesn’t say food poisoning,” said Jack. He dropped the clipboard and it slammed against the bedframe. Just has he took Daphne’s hand in his, the duty nurse came running into the room squawking like a goose and threatening to call the MPs. Those are the dreaded military police—the English equivalent of the Gestapo. We knew it was time to leave.

  We were escorted back to the waiting room, the nurse threatening us with a hypodermic needle. The waiting room smelled like a fish and chip shop. Squadron Leader Kennard waited with two greasy bags, beer bottles sticking from his trouser pockets. When he saw me, he turned around. And there, peeking from his back pocket, was a bottle of Strike Cola.

  “You’re okay, sir,” said Jack. I seconded the motion.

  “My pleasure,” said Kennard, as I removed the soda bottle, opening the top by hitting it against a metal chair. Jack took the two beer bottles and opened the caps against each other. The nurse came rushing at us, waving her arms wildly—all hell’s bells. Like one man, we made a dash out the front entrance, where we could sit on the steps and eat our supper in peace.

  “Poisoning,” said Jack to Squadron Leader Kennard. “Who would poison Daphne?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I said. They both stared at me, each with a chip in his hand. “A Nazi agent. Maybe the same Nazi who killed Lady Sheffield’s son Reginald. I bet he died of poisoning too. Maybe the same Nazi who threw me into the Frigidaire yesterday, and the same one who poisoned the mess food, and the same one who tripped Sel and the other pilots.”

  “You don’t say?” said Kennard, snickering. “Any suspects?”

  “Yonkers, for one,” I said. “Ever notice his lighter?”

  My voice was drowned out by the sound of an air-raid siren. Jack and Kennard stuffed fish and chips into their mouths, not knowing when their next meal might come. I’d already finished mine.

  “Tommy, get into the shelter,” said Jack, pointing to an Anderson shelter just outside the building. It looked like a dog kennel. I didn’t mind putting Ringo in there but not myself. Already there were too many people cramming into it. “Now!” he yelled, giving me the heave-ho. Before I could explain about Yonkers and the lighter, Kennard hopped onto a motorbike and was kicking the starter with the rubber heel of his flight boot. Jack put his flight helmet back onto his head and jumped on the back. Bomber engines grinded overhead, ready to make mincemeat of us.

  “Daphne!” said Jack, getting off the motorbike. “Sir, I’ll follow you.”

  “Don’t be daft, Mooney! They have orderlies and an evacuation procedure. You’ll be a better help to her up there.” He pointed to the sky. Jack hesitated. Kennard said, “That’s an order, pilot!” We heard the first of several explosions, too close for comfort. “Get on, this moment!” said Kennard. Jack had to obey.

  As they rode off toward the airfield, I yelled, “Don’t worry Jack! I’ll take care of her!” But I don’t think he heard me over the ruckus.

  A German bomber flew so low the hospital windows rattled. I took three stairs at a time and then ran down the long corridor headed to Daphne’s room. The corridor seemed twice the length as it had been. A bomb hit the far side of the building, not close enough to kill me, but near enough that asbestos tiles dropped from the ceiling onto my head. My ears started ringing and then went quiet, same as what happens when you drive down a Adirondack mountain pass. When I got to Daphne’s room, she was still laid out in the bed. Lucky for me, the bed was on wheels. I began rolling it to the door. The problem was they’d attached her to machines and tanks and I was scared. If I pulled the wrong plug, that would be the end of her.

  I started bawling, with no one around to see me. I didn’t want to let Daphne or my brother down. But the truth was, I didn’t have first-aid training beyond the basics needed to earn a Boy Scout badge. I could make a splint, staunch bleeding by pressing down on the wound and raising the limb above the heart. I could wrap an ACE bandage around an arm until it looked like a mummy. But Daphne’s situation was way more specialized than anything I’d faced in Cub Scouts.

  “Help!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  Two medics came into the room, along with the duty nurse. I stood there while they unhooked Daphne and then wheeled her—along with the oxygen tank—out the door. They’d turned the bed into a stretcher by folding the legs under. In that way, they carried Daphne down a flight of stairs and into a basement shelter. I followed close behind. Already there were other patients down there, all wearing matching green muumuus.

  A pilot from Jack’s squadron saw me right away. He turned around and bent over so that his muumuu opened at the back. Then he wiggled his hairy backside at me. That took the tears right out of my eyes. The basement walls shook when another bomb fell somewhere close. I stopped laughing and grabbed hold of Daphne’s hand. In all the confusion, I’d grabbed her big toe. It did the trick though, or maybe it was the sound of the bomb detonating. In any case, she came to.

  “Jack?” she said, looking at me. I was the spitting image of my brother.

  “Calm yourself, Daphne,” I said, taking her hand this time. It was a very British thing to say. She shut her eyes and didn’t respond, even when I shook her and shouted in her ear. I didn’t mean to shout, it was just that the Germans were making a real mess of the hospital above us and it was the only way to be heard. “Daphne! Wake up!”

  A nurse came over and took Daphne’s hand from me, feeling for a pulse. Then she wrapped a blood pressure monitor around Daphne’s arm and pumped the rubber ball, looking at the needle as it moved around a small dial. “She’ll be fine,” said the nurse.

  “Really? You’re not just saying that to cheer me up?”

  “I’d say your friend has as much chance of surviving this night as any of us. That’s my considered opinion, for what it’s worth.”

  Another bomb hit. Dust and dirt fell from the low ceiling, onto our heads. Two rats scurried out from under a cabinet. A few of the nurses saw them and began wailing like banshees. They were more terrified of the rats than of the Germans, if you ask me. People started coughing because of all the dust.

  Then things settled down a bit. Before long, we heard an all-clear siren. A man shouted down: “Everyone tip-top down there?”

  The head nurse swung her flashlight around the space, taking an account. That was when I realized the lights had gone out: a blackout—I loved blackouts. The nurse cupped her hands around her mouth, making a megaphone: “All present and accounted for, sir!”

  “Remain where you are,” said the man, who I figured was with the Home Guard. “Must assess the damage first, make sure things are safe up here.”

  “There are rats!” cried one of the nurses. “Let us up!”

  “Now, now,” said the head nurse. “No need to go off the rails. They don’t like you any more than you like them. Please get control of yourself, sister.”

  Sister? I didn’t know the nurses were nuns. That explained a lot of things.

  Some of the nurses stood on wooden-crates, not realizing that a rat can climb a ten story apartment building if it wants. I took a seat on the floor, hoping a rat would jump out. Being from New York, I wasn’t the least afraid of them. More rats in New York than people, and some of them bigger than cats.

  “When will this war end?” said one of the nurses standing on the crate. “It’s one thing after another. I’m fed up to here.” She made a motion against her neck.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” repeated the head nurse, slapping the younger one across the face when she began wailing again.

  “Clear to come up,” said the Hom
e Guard man, who came down the stairs carrying a lantern. “One at a time, and no rushing, mind you. We’ve cleared a path to the exit. Single file, if you would.”

  All the English folks stepped in line, queuing up as they say, in as orderly a line as was possible in the cramped basement. The American pilot cut in front, but the nurse made sure Daphne’s stretcher went up first. She ordered the pilot to take one end of the stretcher, even with his plaster cast leg.

  What a mess. Part of the roof had caved in and there was rubble everywhere you looked. We were instructed to watch our steps, the Home Guard pointing out obstacles in our path. A fireman pointed a hose through a broken window and gave us a good soaking.

  “The hospital experienced a near miss. A direct hit on one of the outbuildings,” said the Home Guard man, waving his fist in the air. “They’re not supposed to drop bombs on a hospital. It’s against the rules. Hague Convention and all.”

  “But how can they tell a hospital from any other building?” I asked, not that I wanted to defend the Luftwaffe.

  “Why, it’s got a big red cross painted on the roof, laddy.”

  “But it’s nighttime, sir. And besides, Nazis don’t follow the rules.”

  “You got it right there,” said a nurse, stepping over a fallen beam.

  We made it out to the front where two ambulances waited. “We’re taking your friend to the public hospital,” said the head nurse, looking at me. “You’ll inform your brother, Lieutenant Mooney?”

  I asked if I could come along, but she refused. When the ambulance pulled away, I had a sudden realization that something was missing.

  Ringo!

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time I seen Ringo, the squadron mascot. I knotted my eyebrows, hoping that would jar my memory. When that didn’t work, I rubbed at the bridge of my nose like Lord Sopwith. That worked: I seen her yelping and running around in circles—right after Daphne passed out. Hours ago. Did she follow us back to the base? I didn’t think so.