No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)

by Terri Wangard

  They’d been at Stone for two weeks when their proposed several weeks of additional training were cancelled. Steve was summoned to the commandant’s office. He returned with a dazed look and his voice pitched higher. “Grab your gear, men. We’re moving out. We’ve been assigned to the 381st Bomb Group in Ridgewell. If we need any more training, we’ll get it there.”

  Another train took the crew to their new base in Essex County, forty miles northeast of London. The afternoon ride gave them a good look at the passing English countryside. Rafe stared out the window. England ― the land Hitler claimed should have united with Germany. Bicycles outnumbered automobiles. Signs advertised “My goodness, my Guinness!”

  “Hey, look.” Dan stabbed a finger at the window. “There’s a red telephone booth. We really are in England now.”

  “Every village has its pub.” Cal smiled over his shoulder. “Anyone in the mood for fish and chips?”

  The train pulled into the Cambridge station. Narrow streets, ancient buildings, and thatched roof cottages gave an impression of a town forgotten by time. An army truck waited to transport them to their new home. Rafe was the last to board. First chance he got, he’d come back and explore.

  The truck wheeled up to an unimpressive base gate, where a guard waved them through. Lots of prefabricated half-round metal buildings were scattered about in the mud. Hallelujah, no tents.

  A major examined their papers. “I’m assigning you to the 534th Squadron. A driver will take you to your quarters. Good luck, men.”

  The runways lay to the northeast of most of the buildings. Their driver explained the layout as he sped along a dirt road, giving them a breezy ride with no canvas covering the truck bed. “We have three runways here. The two main ones are positioned like an X, and each of the four squadrons is based in one of the angles of the X.”

  “Whoa. Wait one minute.” Cal dropped a heavy hand on the driver’s shoulder as they approached the perimeter track around the runway. Parked on its hardstand sat a B-17 like they’d never seen before. The bomber that was supposed to be seventy-five feet long was several feet shorter. Its nose was missing. The chin gun turret remained, and what looked like the bombardier’s chair perched on it. But everything else was gone, leaving only twisted, jagged metal below the cockpit.

  The driver idled beside it. “Hmm, yes. This is one of the 535th’s planes. The pilot managed to bring it home after taking a direct hit by flak.”

  Rafe’s heart clenched. Hard to imagine the fierce wind that would have shrieked in through the holes in the fuselage. The crew must have been frozen by the time they landed. He fought to get air into his lungs. “What…” He licked his lips. “What happened to the bombardier and the navigator?”

  The driver glanced over his shoulder, spotted Rafe’s navigator’s insignia, and winced. “The bombardier disappeared in the blast. The navigator was still in there when they got back.” He hesitated before adding, “The chaplain took him to the American National Cemetery in Cambridge today.”

  “Lord God Almighty, have mercy on us.” Alan’s prayer lingered in the air.

  Rafe would have uttered the prayer if Alan hadn’t beaten him to it.

  So what if the Stone instructors declared Steve’s ability to fly in tight formation at high altitude the best they’d seen in a newly arrived pilot? The best pilot in the world couldn’t avoid flak bursts. And so what if Rafe routinely pinpointed their locations with his brilliant navigating? What good would knowing where they were be if they were dead?

  Numbness fogged his brain as the driver pulled up in front of a Quonset hut that looked like a gigantic tin can had been cut in half and planted in the dirt. “This here’s home sweet home for the officers. Three crews per hut.”

  Rafe followed his crewmates inside. The other occupants present paid them little attention. Four cots had been stripped. He dropped his duffle bag onto one. Hooks hung from a shelf over the cot and he hung up his uniforms. Arranging his belongings on the shelf, he said to Alan, “After seeing that bomber, do we bother unpacking?”

  Behind him, someone asked, “Woher kommen Sie?”

  Rafe’s heart nearly stalled again. Why would someone be speaking his native language to him here? He turned to a man who also wore a navigator’s insignia. “Why do you ask?”

  The man smiled. “My grandparents came from Pomerania. I know a hint of German when I hear it. I’m Paul Braedel. Where’s home now?”

  Rafe sank down onto the cot. “I’m Rafe Martell, from Milwaukee.”

  “Really? So am I.” Paul’s smile bloomed. “How long were you in Milwaukee?”

  “Seven years.”

  Paul nodded slowly. “So you left before Hitler laid down the law. A high school friend returned to Germany about five years ago. She wrote to my wife that she couldn’t find an elderly Jewish couple, and feared for them.”

  “If they didn’t get out, they’re dead.” Rafe studied Paul’s eyes. This man might be a good friend. First, he’d see if he could shock him. Find out how Paul felt about Jews.

  “My blue-eyed, blonde, Christian mother is Jewish and my father divorced her a week after we learned the Gestapo was on to us. Without his protection, we would have been deported to a concentration camp. Getting out of Germany was still relatively easy and my grandparents got us all to Milwaukee.”

  Paul stared at Rafe. “That’s unbelievable that things could be like that. I can’t imagine living there. Or Heidi being there.”

  A knock sounded at their door, and a sergeant entered. He glanced around at the officers present. “Which is Lieutenant Kressle’s bunk?”

  Paul pointed at the cot by the door and the sergeant began stripping it.

  “The lieutenant had an accident with a bicycle. His spine was injured and he might not walk again. At any rate, he won’t be flying again.” Gathering the unfortunate man’s belongings, he turned and left.

  An accident with a bicycle? Rafe looked down at what he held. Mother, Rita, Albert, Oma, and Opa smiled up at him from the photograph. He traced a finger over each family member. The chances of seeing them again seemed more unlikely than ever.

  Leuchars, Scotland

  Thursday, March 23, 1944

  “Be at the air field by seven. No later.”

  Jennie returned the telephone to its cradle. Tonight. She’d leave for Sweden tonight aboard a secret courier flight. At least one flight had disappeared completely, likely shot down over water, everyone killed.

  The warrant officer who had greeted her upon her arrival at Leuchars explained the clandestine route she’d take. “You’ll be heading north a bit and fly over Norway before turning south to Stockholm. We don’t stay with a regular schedule. That’d be too predictable for the Germans. The Krauts like to monitor our flights with their radar and interfere if they get the chance, but not to worry. You’ll be fine.”

  Had anyone said that to the folks on the plane that vanished?

  “Everyone boarding the flights must be dressed as civilians, so we don’t violate Sweden’s neutrality. ‘Course, you’re not military, so that’s no problem. Lots of diplomats go in. On the return flights, we get lots of resistance people coming out, mostly from Norway.”

  Now, the time had come. At this hour tomorrow, she’d be in Sweden. Her belongings were ready to go, so Jennie left the hotel for a last walk along the winding roads of Leuchars. Maybe she could walk off the jitters coiling in her abdomen. Too bad Rafe wasn’t here to help her deal with the nervous anticipation of the unknown.

  Sweden. Think about Sweden.

  Dad had told her a lot about the country. The Swedes supplied the Germans with iron ore which they used to make war on the Allies. Now that the war was turning against the Germans, the Swedes looked with greater favor on the Allies. Dad had cautioned against judging the Swedes with disfavor. They were hemmed in by the Nazis. If they hadn’t cooperated with German demands, they would have faced invasion and occupation like all their neighbors.

  Soon, she would liv
e among them. Stockholm teemed with spies from the warring nations. How much wartime intrigue would she witness? What would Rafe say if he knew what she’d be doing in Sweden? She’d told him the truth when she said she’d be working at the legation, just not the full truth.

  Instead of journeying with her parents in January, she’d spent time in the Washington DC area at secret schools. The Office of Strategic Services had her on their payroll. She’d trained in cryptography to code and decode messages. Classes in propaganda and rumor campaigns proved more interesting, but in a neutral nation, she may not have much opportunity in the Morale Operations branch of the Office of Special Services.

  She walked past ancient buildings sprouting multi-flued chimneys that had so fascinated her earlier in the week. Today, they held no interest. Her jitters were doing jumping jacks. She hurried back to Ye Old Hotel for her luggage. It might be too early to show up at the air base, but that was better than being late.

  #

  A man lugging a suitcase and a portable typewriter took a paternal interest in Jennie as they dressed for their flight. “Quite a bother, all this. Blimey! To think, this is how the poor blokes have to dress every time they fly.”

  Jennie paused in pulling on the heavy jacket. “The poor blokes? You mean the air force fliers?”

  This was how Rafe had to dress each time he flew? The flying clothes were like snow suits. Loaded down with fur-lined boots, gloves, and a helmet, she was ready for an arctic expedition. She eyed her parachute and life preserver. With no instruction in the art of parachuting, how would she manage should the need arise? In the dark, over water? Rafe’s comments about the unlikelihood of surviving in the Atlantic rang like a death knell. She joined the other passengers waddling out to the plane.

  A Liberator aircraft, painted black to blend into the moonless night sky, waited for them. Even the windows were blacked out. Jennie climbed the rickety stairs, gripping tightly to the railing. This flight probably wasn’t the best introduction to flying. Daylight would be preferable, and with a view. Most especially, no one who would want to shoot them down. How in the world did the airmen do this day after day?

  The airplane’s bomb bay had been modified to carry people instead of bombs. Two benches lined the length of the bay on either side, with two more in the middle. Their heavy clothing wouldn’t provide much cushioning on a flight lasting several hours.

  An aircraft crewman presented brief instruction on how to use the oxygen mask when they reached ten thousand feet. “We’ll let you know when these are needed.”

  The friendly Brit sat beside her, tucking his typewriter under the bench. “This will make quite a story, what?”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “Oh, my, yes. With the Daily Mail for the past twenty-four years, I’ve been. Ever since the Great War. Most of the young blokes want to follow the army in France but, at my age, I enjoy a few of the comforts of life. In Stockholm, telephone contact with Berlin still exists, you know. A bit limited, it is, but the Swedes also have their own reporters in Berlin. And I’ll scrounge up the odd contact, and be able to file stories about what’s happening in the enemy’s own lair.”

  The plane roared down the runway and rose steeply into the air. Jennie’s heart rate soared with it. Even with all the warm clothes, she shivered in the penetrating cold. Too soon, a crewman instructed them to don the oxygen masks. The mask pressed hard against the bridge of her nose. She pulled it off and fiddled with the straps, trying to loosen it.

  The dour-faced crewman loomed over her. “Fasten your mask. We can’t be watching for you to pass out from asphyxia.”

  The reporter helped her adjust the mask. “You probably have the straps too high up on your crown. If you get the straps around the back of your head even with your nose, the mask will sit proper-like.”

  The mask became more comfortable, although it probably wasn’t much different than having her face clutched by a cold, clammy hand.

  The cabin lights were turned off, plunging them into pitch blackness. Jennie gripped the edge of the bench. Deep breaths might help, but not with the face mask in place. Rough air bounced the aircraft and her stomach. She leaned back against the fuselage and prayed for sleep to obliterate her surroundings.

  The lights came back on when the Liberator flew over Sweden, but they could see nothing through the blackened windows. After landing at Stockholm’s Bromma Airport, Jennie rose stiffly. A crick in her neck throbbed. She queued for the exit, and turned to the reporter. “I wouldn’t care to do that every day.”

  “No, indeed. Not without a pillow to sit on, and one behind the head.”

  Jennie paused while descending the stairs. Across the tarmac sat a plane with ‘Lufthansa’ painted on the fuselage and a bold swastika on the tail fin.

  “Ah, yes.” The reporter chuckled behind her. “I heard Lufthansa runs a daily flight from Berlin to Stockholm. Full of spies, no doubt, but also the odd contact we newsmen dearly love to cultivate. You can bet their flights are in warm, pressurized cabins with proper seats. Well, come along. We now have the tedious task of getting through customs. They treat us all like we’re saboteurs instead of common folk interested in making an honest living. I say, have you a way to get into the city?”

  Before she could answer, someone called, “Jennie.”

  She turned at the familiar voice. “Mom!”

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Thursday, March 23, 1944

  Activity in the officers’ Quonset hut had finally quieted down, but then a knock sounded at the door. The officers all looked up. Normal procedure was to barge right in.

  “How very quaint.” A bombardier heaved himself off his cot and opened the door.

  Dan, their tail gunner, stood in the doorway, and tightness gripped Rafe’s chest when Dan’s eyes settled on him.

  “Begging your pardon, sirs.” Dan nodded to the room at large and stepped toward Rafe. “We’re flying tomorrow, sir. You and Lieutenant Ellerbee and me.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Alan looked both relieved and slighted not to be named.

  “No, sir. The three of us are filling in with a crew where our counterparts got killed or wounded today. We’ll be flying on Jumping Jiminy.” Dan grimaced and cracked his knuckles. “The major says he wants the crew to get right back in the saddle. He says we’re ready to join ‘em till they get their permanent replacements.”

  Hot prickles swept Rafe, immediately followed by icy tingles in the pit of his stomach. This was it. He exchanged glances with Cal. After little time in flying practice missions, tomorrow they would go to war against Germany. He dragged in a deep breath. A phrase he’d heard often on the Queen Mary around the card games described the gamble they’d be taking: “Winner take all. Winner take all.” Now, lives were at stake rather than a few dollars.

  At the cot beside him, Alan scooped up their checkers and folded the board. “I guess you’ll want to try and get some rest.”

  Try. That was the important word. How was he supposed to sleep, not knowing what tomorrow would bring? Long after lights out, he stared up at the ceiling. What was his father doing these days? Did Father ever think about him? About Mother? One thing he knew for sure: she was praying for her eldest child.

  He shifted restlessly. Tomorrow he’d be replacing a guy who’d been wounded, maybe killed. Chances were good he might be killed, too. At least he wouldn’t be going up against his old friends. They’d be in the navy, unless, like him, they switched to another branch of the military. What about Christoph? Did his cousin still live? What about Bertil, Johan, and Ludwig? Jennie was right. He missed them.

  Around him rose snores from the slumbering men, their cots creaking as they shifted in sleep. Most of these fellows had no close ties with Germany. They harbored no hatred for Germans. They fought because Germany had declared war on them. And the air war, fought miles above the ground, was impersonal. They didn’t see the people on whom the bombs fell.

  For a German, it was
all personal.

  Just before he’d left for basic training, Oma had shared some Bible verses with him. Something about God being the Father of the fatherless and, even though his parents might forsake him, God never would. Oma said whenever he wished he could talk to Dad, remember his Heavenly Father was always ready to listen to him. Rafe sighed. Angry as he was with Dad, he’d give anything to feel Dad’s hand on his shoulder. He flipped over and bunched up his pillow. God, I really need You now.

  “Think of God reaching down from heaven and laying His hand on your shoulder,” Oma had said.

  Rafe’s tension drained away, and sleep claimed him.

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Friday, March 24, 1944

  A hand nudged his shoulder and a flashlight shone in his face. “Sir, it’s time to get up.”

  “Wha time zit?” He couldn’t have slept for more than a minute.

  “It’s one o’clock. The truck will be here to take you to chow in about fifteen minutes.”

  Rafe swung his legs off his cot in time to hear Cal’s disgruntled mutter. “This means war.”

  A huff of silent laughter was all Rafe could manage. He pulled on his woolen underwear, necessary for a job at five miles above the earth where the temperature was typically thirty degrees below zero, before dressing in his uniform and heavy GI shoes. The rest of their combat gear could wait. He and Cal stumbled out to wait for the truck.

  “What gives? It’s the middle of the night.” Cal pulled up his collar and tucked his head down like a turtle. “I thought the Brits did the nighttime bombing and we flew in daylight.”

  Someone behind them piped up. “The earlier the start, the farther we have to go. By the time we get there, it’ll be daylight.”

  Germany. The target had to be in Germany. Rafe’s shoulders rose and fell with his sigh.

  His stomach wasn’t awake yet, but he loaded his plate with fresh sunny-side-up eggs, fried potatoes, ham, and canned pears in red gelatin. They likely wouldn’t see their next meal until late afternoon at the earliest. He’d like to wash the food down with coffee and juice, but didn’t care to use the relief tubes aboard the aircraft any more than absolutely necessary.