Hellsbaene

by Aeryn Leigh

  "Thirty seconds to target," said Tom. He ignored his right leg, which started to cramp. "Twenty." He hummed a dance hall number, which somehow had stuck in his head the last three weeks, giving no musical mercy. "Ten."

  The bomber flew through the night sky some more, and those ugly metal eggs Skippy had seen, finally dropped, thirteen falling away into the clutches of gravity. A few of those bombs had crude white lettering on them, painted messages of ill-will. All except one. 'To Hitler, with love' remained in the bomb bay.

  "Christ," said Thorfinn, "we've got another passenger sir. Looks like the release mechanism broke." He looked at the one thousand pound HE bomb, hanging just off its guide rails. Thorfinn stood braced against the fuselage above the open bomb bay.

  Laurie swore.

  Just another perfect day.

  He swung the bomber around to Andrew's directions and started the journey home. He looked at his watch. 1:20am. They'd been flying for four hours now. "Do what you can, Thorfinn?"

  Now Thorfinn swore. "I'll do my best." The open doors below let the winds rip into the bomber's interior with fury. Buffeted this way and that, Thorfinn crawled along the metalwork. With the clear moonlight, Thorfinn noticed the metal release housing had indeed broken, and now jammed the mechanism.

  He couldn't see a way to dislodge it from above. “Laurie,” he said, eyes downcast, "it's not coming out until we land. The only access is from below."

  "Is there enough clearance to close the bomb doors?"

  Flight Engineer Thorfinn Hay looked down. "Yes," he replied.

  "Well, let's close them and pray we don't have to crash-land gentlemen. Can you check on Skippy on your way back?"

  "Yes sir.” The metal doors swung closed beneath him, and the air around returned to rarefied normal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Roar Of Liberty

  SS Colonel Grieg insisted on reading an entire chapter of the book to Amelia, in perfect English, making Ella translate at the end of each paragraph for her daughter's benefit. Ella sat there, in complete and utter terror, in the tiny bedroom, her panic spreading to Amelia, sitting motionless.

  Where was Victoria? How could he just 'send her away'?

  She stank of fear.

  In what felt like an ice age, they reached the end of the chapter.

  "Detective Tracy answered the telephone that rang when he got back to the office. 'Hello', said a voice, sweet as pie. 'I have some information about the murder tonight. Meet me at the diner on the corner of Twenty-Third and Sixth at midnight. Come alone.' Detective Tracy placed the receiver back down. As sweet as apple pie and as syrupy as a death wish by molasses, he mused. He'd be there, all right, sure as night after day. Toughened hands placed one more gun in his trouser holster. He grabbed his coat back off the hook, and left the building."

  The colonel stopped for Ella to translate, smiling at them both, whilst she talked, just out of reach of Amelia. She wanted to hold her hand so very much. Ella finished the last paragraph.

  "Goodnight Amelia," said Grieg, placing her on the bed as she stood up. His leather trench-coat creaked. "Your mother and I need to talk. Sweet dreams, little one." He gestured to Ella to leave the room, placing his body between her and Amelia, that she couldn't hug her, touch her.

  "It'll be okay," said Ella, as best as she could manage. Amelia nodded, holding Message Bear tightly, and Ella walked out, the colonel following her, down to the dark kitchen. Ella lit the main lamp that hung below the centre roof beam.

  She then sat on the kitchen stool. The fire was dead, the oven hearth cold. The colonel leant against the doorway. The sun was far over the horizon.

  "I know about Hamburg," he said, with about much warmth as the cold iron to Ella's left. "Do you think you could get away with it? Only your contribution to the war effort keeps you alive, Miss Gruder. That and my debt to you."

  "Hamburg?" said Ella, looking at the colonel, who had taken out his pistol, and placed it on the bench in front of him. Out of the corner of her eye there were a number of things she could use as a weapon, but she'd be dead long before she could get within striking distance.

  "We know about your Uncle," he said. That threw her.

  "My Uncle?" she said, confusion written on her face. "What about him?" Her Uncle Hahndorf had died in 1942, in an alleged car accident in Berlin. It was the last relative she had, after her parents died in '34.

  Colonel Grieg gave a nasty little laugh. "Come now, Ella, don't take me for a fool. A union boss, and a major one too, still trying to organise better rights for his working men."

  "Uncle Hahndorf was no unionist. He stopped when the decree came out banning Unions. You must have the wrong man," said Ella, now confusion adding to terror.

  "You didn't know he fed information to the British about manufacturing output? That he ran a smuggling ring getting filthy Jews out of the country with false papers?"

  Ella's face was in genuine shock. Uncle Hahndorf? A sympathiser? He was a kind, generous man, and as far as she knew, loyal to Germany. And he stopped unionising in the late 1930's, when it was no longer safe, was futile, in the face of the Nazi Party tsunami.

  "But he was a patriot."

  "Oh yes," he said, "right to the end." He picked up his weapon, and placed it back in its holster.

  "Even with your little stunt today, I will be seeing you again soon. My — debt to you from Spain is paid. In full. You and that sham marriage of yours is now open for other critical eyes.” Grieg gazed right at her. Smiled. “Oh, and you won't need your nanny any more, I'm afraid." He turned, and stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "Till next time, Miss Gruder. I cannot wait to see what Detective Tracy does next. Now I must leave, my son's birthday is today, and I have delayed too much as it is. Goodbye." He left the room, and Ella listened to his footsteps down the hall. Heard the front door creak, the staff car door open and shut, the engine fire up, tyres crunching on the gravel path as he drove off.

  Ella ran to Amelia's bedroom.

  "Are you ok?" she said into her daughter’s soft hair. Amelia sat up and was engulfed by her mother’s hug.

  "I'm ok. He kind of smelt funny, like burnt tar."

  "And Victoria, what happened to Victoria?"

  "I heard their voices in the hallway. Victoria came in and said she had to go, it was an emergency. She gave me a hug," said Amelia.

  "And then what happened?"

  "They walked outside and were gone for a while. Mummy, are we in trouble? The man when he came back said you'd been naughty. Are you?" Amelia said in quiet, thoughtful tones.

  "I don't know," said Ella, trying not to cry. "It will be ok, it will be ok." She tucked Amelia into bed, and curled up beside her, cuddling Amelia to sleep as her heart raced.

  When she was sure Amelia was asleep, she crept out of the room, feet trying not to make the floorboards creak, and went back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. There was no firewood next to the stove. She sighed. She craved after a white pill to calm her nerves, but there were no more.

  Cold, hungry, and upset, she went to her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the bed, still wearing her clothes, and lay there, looking at the ceiling.

  Far away rumblings and explosions in the distance jolted her awake. She must have fallen asleep, because it was now just after midnight by the clock on the dresser.

  Food. She really needed food. Her stomach twisted. Firewood, that's right. Her left-hand shaking, she made her way to the front door, put on her boots, and went outside. The pebble stone path crunched as she walked, and in the moonlight, she made her way around to the rear of the house. The little wood hut stood there, its firewood contents protected from rain.

  A whim told her to go down to the little creek that ran past the rear of the property, surrounded by farmland. She'd gone down there with Amelia when they had first moved in, the child making flower chains as they sat on the river banks, but she hadn't had the time of late.

  A quick splash of running water would wake her up. Sh
e walked past the firewood hut and down the bank, the moon making long shadows of the trees that lined the waterway. Ella reached the water's edge, and knelt. She cupped some water, and splashed her face. The faraway explosions continued, insistent now. Louder.

  She knelt, reached her hands out to get a second, and screamed. Victoria looked at her with open, expressionless eyes. Under the water, snagged under a fallen tree branch, lay the body of the nanny. Ella pulled her out, and laid her on the grass bank. There was no pulse. Only then did Ella notice the bruising on the right temple, the ripped skirt, the torn panties.

  You fucking bastard. The rage swelled up. Swallowed her.

  Go, said a voice in her head. Go now.

  She closed Victoria's eyelids, shaking, and ran back to the house. A fighter screamed overhead, heading back to base.

  Yes, that's it.

  Ella burst through the doorway and ran to her room. She grabbed a small sack and threw her possessions into it, which weren't much, save for her priceless scrap-book. She opened the silver box and took out the jewellery piece in it, and fastened it around her neck. Breathing hard, she went to Amelia's room.

  "Honey," she said, rousing the child awake. "We must leave."

  Amelia, sleepy still, could only manage a yawn. Ella grabbed the emergency canvas bag that always laid at the foot of the bed, and put her sacks inside.

  "Amelia," she said even louder. "We must go." She picked Amelia up, holding her teddy bear, and slung her over one shoulder, with the canvas bag in the other, walked to the front door.

  "Zia, Zia" exclaimed Amelia. "We can't leave without her." Ella stopped.

  "Where is she?"

  "In the hen house, where she normally sleeps?" said Amelia, awake now.

  Ella put her on the ground. "Okay, go get her. I'll get the bike. Go." She went and got the motorcycle, and brought it around, the BMW purring. Amelia came back with a protesting cat. "Get in. I'll hold her." Amelia passed her Zia, and hopped into the sidecar.

  "Put her in the bag then and hold onto her," said Ella, handing back the cat.

  "Ready?" said Ella, and then gunned the throttle, towards the village. The moonlight made it easy to see as they travelled along the dirt path. Up and down hills they went, until a red glow was in front of them. The village again was in flames, an enemy bomber crashed right into the city square. The Stirling tail section stuck up at an angle, the double-story building on fire. Fire-trucks sprayed water onto the scene.

  Ella thought hard, in her rage. They needed something better than a motor-bike for what she planned.

  When they had reached the edge of the village, Ella twisted the throttle open, and rode towards the airbase, the skies above full of fire and explosions, the horizon full of flames as well, no matter where they looked.

  Luftwaffe Airbase Magdeburg looked no better, Ella saw, when they were about one mile away. She stopped the bike. "Amelia?” she said, looking at the sky. A head appeared up through the sacks. She turned to her daughter.

  "Yes Mummy?" said Amelia, stroking Zia, keeping her sounds down to a quite purr that were inaudible under the sacks.

  "You know how you wanted to see where Mummy works? Well we are going there. I know you are frightened, but I love you so very much. Can you be strong for us?"

  Amelia nodded. "Victoria told me I was a strong girl," she said. "I will be."

  Ella sagged hearing Victoria's name.

  "Ok, hide under the covers until I say it's safe to come out okay, no matter what? Good girl."

  They rode towards the airbase. Sweden, she thought. That's it. Neutral territory. Commandeer a little reconnaissance plane and get to Sweden, or Switzerland, hug the treetops, and seek asylum. The security side-gate got closer. Aircraft flew overhead constantly, both landing and taking off. An air-raid siren started, piercing the night.

  Ella smiled, a thin smile. The gods were with her tonight, this was an omen. It was a sign. Go, go said the voice again. She spurred the BMW faster down the track and stopped at the security gate. A soldier came out of the guardhouse.

  "Corporal, I am expected here," she said, saluting. "Here are my papers." She handed them over, shouting over the siren, thrusting them at him.

  The soldier looked at the papers, then at Ella. And then from above, the sounds of whistling cut through everything else. The sound of falling bombs.

  "Go on," yelled the soldier, running back to the guardhouse. The gate lifted. "Get to the bunker." The boom gate closed behind them, as the soldier joined another in running towards the dugout next to it.

  The bombs struck in the field nearby. It took all of Ella's skill to keep the bike under control, as people ran every which way for cover, including in front of them. The reconnaissance planes were in Hanger Three. The whistling death from above crept forward, the bombs now falling onto the base itself, as the anti-aircraft batteries fired in response.

  She heard Amelia start to cry under the fabric behind her. Ella Gruder urged the motorcycle forward towards the hanger, and stopped next to a steel post. In the darkness of the hanger, she found a flight-suit, and pulled it on. There was one aircraft in there, a little plane indeed. She hesitated. She grabbed two leather flight-helmets, and went back to the BMW sidecar.

  That's your problem right there, she told herself. Always thinking small. Blend in, don't make a scene, always worrying what others think about you. Think bigger.

  The base was under full attack. An explosion to her right made her jump, and then she saw it, out in the distance where the staging area was.

  Yes. Yes, that will do nicely.

  Ella ran back to the motorbike, and with a prayer, roared across the field. She passed men on half-tracks heading the other way, soldiers running to man posts, a Me-109 taxiing past her, before a bomb landing in front of it blew a crater wide open into which it fell, nose first, propellers crumpling.

  Christ. Holding her breath, she twisted the throttle wide, and came to the staging area.

  Chaos reigned. A tanker truck had been hit, setting fire to a plane which had in turn set the two-way radio cart on flames. And still the bombs fell, explosions pounding eardrums.

  She skidded to a halt, and looked at the object of her attention fifty yards away, illuminated by the burning tanker.

  The Nachtjagdgeschwader, two seater Me-262B-1a/U1 night fighter sat there, grey and black, alone in the dark. Long metal aerials jutted from its nose section, its radar. All the better to see you with, thought Ella.

  What big teeth you have Grandma.

  She couldn't see the pilot and radar operator. Nor for that matter, the re-fuelling crew, its little tanker sitting next to it, hoses still attached.

  To hell with it.

  Ella ran to the fighter, and unhooked the two hoses, one for each fuel tank. Fuel dribbled out the ends, soaking her gloves. She manhandled the cart to a safe distance. A bomb fell only a hundred-yards away, deafening her. She now operated purely by remote control, watching herself climb up the plane, toggling the master switch to on, seeing the fuel gauges three-quarter full.

  That would have to do. Everything now was happening without much rational input, she'd lost rational control of her mind a long time ago and now her body was along for the joyride. Escape.

  Ella jumped down, running back to the cart.

  "Amelia,” she shouted in the din, rocking her child under the sacks. "Follow me to the plane, and get in." She thrust the other helmet at Amelia. "Go, go, I'll carry the bag." Amelia got out of the sidecar, her tiny figure making shadows in the burning fires all round them. She ran as fast as she could to the jet fighter, and then her Mum lifted her up, onto the wing, and then, into the cockpit, the canvas bag by Amelia's feet, Zia meowing.

  "Quickly, quickly," Ella said, strapping her child in and tightening the helmet around the small head. She then put on her helmet, tucking her long hair underneath. There was a shout behind her. Ella turned and saw a man in a flight-suit waving at her, next to the wing-tip.

  Shit.
/>   She once more jumped down, and approached the pilot.

  "What are you doing?" the officer said, eyes darting around. "Who gave you permission?"

  Ella held up a hand, and in her lowest voice she could muster, said "This is your plane? Breikhart gave me command of this one himself."

  The pilot looked at her. "Identify yourself."

  He reached for his Luger.

  Ella kneed him right in the balls. The man sank to his knees, whimpering. She then smacked him in side of his head with her closed fist, which hurt like hell.

  She dragged the unconscious man away, took his pistol, and survival and emergency kit, and raced to the port engine. The engine covers were already off. Ella pulled on the two-stroke starter cord, the Jumo engine firing right up. She ducked underneath the nose to the other side and repeated the process. Without wheel chocks, and no brakes from the cockpit, the fighter inched forward. She grabbed a handhold and lifted herself onto the port wing, then climbed into the front pilot seat, closing the canopy as she did.

  "We all good back there?" running through the take-off procedures as fast as she dared.

  "Sure am," said Amelia, by this stage excitement overcoming fear.

  "That's my girl," said Ella, bringing the throttles slowly forward, her foot on the brake. All around them the whistle of bombs sang, their detonations a chaotic symphony.

  She was smiling. She couldn't stop smiling. Sanity had left a long time ago.

  And then she saw him.

  Piers stood by the fuel truck, a flare gun in his hand, aimed at them. His other hand gestured across his throat, back and forth.

  Damn him. Damn him.

  They exchanged looks, thirty-yards apart. Piers, the only friend she had. Piers, her drinking companion on many a night at the pub. Piers, her partner in name only, fellow conspirator mired in the muck of lies. She shook her head, continuing to inch the throttles forwards to take off speed, all the while maintaining the gaze.

  "I'm sorry,” she mouthed, as the Jumo engines reached maximum rpm. She released the brake.

  Piers broke the gaze, looked down, and then up again, and fired the flare gun. It streaked across the Me-262's nose. Piers dropped the gun and ran to the unconscious pilot's side.