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

by Terri Wangard

  They strolled downstairs and outside to a vantage point to look out over the city. Jennie leaned on a balustrade. “What’s it like, living in Sweden? And how did you meet your husband?”

  They talked until Mom and Astrid’s grandmother emerged from the tower. The ladies hugged before Mormor waved to them and headed in the opposite direction. Mom joined them.

  Mom’s eyes sparkled with her smile. “Astrid, I would have pegged you for our relative even if we didn’t have roots in Uppsala. Your grandmother invited us for dinner tomorrow. Can you recommend a good place to eat for now? And please do us the honor of joining us.”

  Astrid led them to a cozy café down the street. The day’s specials were chalked on a board at the door. Jennie’s stomach rumbled as she studied the list.

  “Mmm. Köttfärs. That’s a meatloaf frosted with mashed potatoes, isn’t it?”

  A teasing smile tilted Astrid’s lips as they sat at a table. “Are you aware that a meat dish not requiring a ration coupon is likely badger, or seagull, or squirrel, or rabbit?”

  “Um.” Jennie’s stomach stopped it’s growling. Meat was meat. She shouldn’t care if she ate cow or badger, but she did. She looked back at the list. “I think I’ll have the perch.”

  Mom sipped the coffee placed before her. “I suspect some substitution has been made here as well.”

  Astrid nodded. “I read in the paper over one hundred fifty types of coffee substitutes have been approved by the Food Commission.” She sipped her own coffee and wrinkled her nose. “This is not one of the better ones.”

  Jennie sat back when the waitress delivered her perch and rotmos. “At least we know the fish and mashed turnips and potatoes are natural.”

  “Actually, the war has made us healthier.” Astrid raised her fork like a teacher making a point. “The dietary restrictions have been beneficial, with greater consumption of fruits and vegetables and less of fat and sugar. And most people are bicycling with the lack of gasoline. That was in the paper, too.”

  Mom had ordered the köttkärs. Her face looked a bit strained. Some odd meat must have been used. “It’s good that you can look at the bright side.”

  Astrid shrugged. “Mormor’s always said, ‘Be grateful for your blessings. Not everyone is so blessed.’”

  #

  Two days were hardly adequate to get acquainted. By the time Jennie and Mom returned to Stockholm, she and Astrid had plans to get together when Astrid visited Stockholm in the summer. Jennie would never meet Lily, but her newfound look-alike cousin more than made up for that. And the only reason they met was because she worked for the Office of Special Services. Bless Ed for sending her to meet the contact.

  Ridgewell Air Base

  Tuesday, April 18, 1944

  “Why’d the general give us Air Medals? We get Air Medals after five missions. There’s nothing special about ‘em.” Rusty groused up a storm as the crew assembled at Claptrap for a mission to Oranienburg, near Berlin.

  “The general didn’t have to give us any medals, Rusty.” Rafe slid him a glance before resuming his watch of the distant horizon for the first glow of sunrise. “He could have given us a simple pat on the back for our so-called heroics.”

  “I looked up the criteria for the Air Medal.” Harold pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, cleared his throat, and recited the conditions. “The Air Medal recipient distinguishes himself by meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight. The medals are primarily to recognize those personnel on flying status which requires them to participate in aerial flight on a regular and frequent basis in the performance of their primary duties. That’s the fifth mission award, with oak clusters for every subsequent fifth mission.” He nodded to Rusty. “But this one’s for our discernible contribution in keeping a general out of Nazi hands.”

  “Hear, hear.” Dan’s cheer garnered everyone’s laughter.

  Everyone’s except Rusty’s. “Yeah, yeah, nothing special. Throw the dog a bone. The Air Medal’s the lowest award possible.”

  Rafe smiled as he tossed his briefcase up into the front hatch. “They save the big medals for the brass.”

  “Is that so, Martell?”

  Colonel Leber’s voice. Rafe could have cheerfully kicked himself in the backside. Turning, he spotted the twinkle in the colonel’s eyes and saluted briskly. “Yes, sir, like the general we heard about at High Wycombe who got a paper cut and awarded himself the Purple Heart.”

  “You’re digging yourself in deep, Martell. Maybe you’d like a shovel.”

  “Yes, sir. That’d make it easier.” Open mouth, insert foot. Had he just talked himself out of a trip to see Christoph?

  Leber put him at ease about that. “Tomorrow this squadron’s on stand down. You and Braedel plan on going to Camp Hill Hall.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

  #

  Tomorrow almost didn’t come.

  Intense flak over the target riddled the airplanes. One plane lost two engines and went down.

  “No one’s bailing out.” Dan watched it from the tail. “Of course, you can’t expect to bail out in all this flak and reach the ground alive.”

  The flight for home provided excess excitement for the men in Claptrap.

  “Two FW-190s coming in at twelve o’clock level for a game of chicken.” Mickey sounded pleased with the chance to fight back.

  The enemy fighters belched fire from their wing guns. Rafe flinched. Surely the bullets would slam through the Plexiglas nose again. How could they miss? Only Mickey and Alan had forward facing guns. They poured a hail of lead into the fighters’ path, but still they came.

  The lead fighter rolled left and barely avoided sideswiping them. Rafe could make out the line of bolts on the fighter’s belly.

  The wingman waited too long to roll away. Or maybe he was dead. His fighter slashed into the bomber’s fuselage between the waist gunner’s window and the dorsal fin. The jarring impact flung Rafe and Alan to the floor. Rafe’s parachute landed nearby, and he grabbed it.

  Above the roar of the engines could be heard the banshee screech of metal tearing through metal as the fighter ripped free of Claptrap and tumbled to earth. The bomber shuddered and groaned. The machine guns swung from the ceiling. Any moment, the Fortress would drop into a fatal spiral.

  But it didn’t. Claptrap continued to fly as the engines’ pitch changed at the pilots’ request for maximum power. Rafe and Alan stared at each other, not moving lest they upset the Claptrap’s equilibrium. The plane wobbled and lurched as it fought to stay airborne.

  Carlo’s voice trembled in their earphones. “Lord, have mercy.”

  “What’s the situation back there?” Steve sounded stressed, like he was straining to keep their nose up.

  “The whole tail section’s nearly severed. It’s cut through from top almost to the bottom.”

  A severed tail? Rafe pushed himself up. “Where’s Dan?”

  “He’s still in there. His intercom must be cut, and his oxygen. He’s using the walk-around bottle.”

  “Can he come forward?” As the engineer, Mickey could correct a lot of in-flight problems, but this would be beyond his ability to fix.

  As long as Dan was still with them, it made no difference where he was. If the tail broke off, they were all in trouble no matter which section they were in. Still, better to all be together.

  “The ball turret’s not working. I can’t get outa here.”

  “Harold, crank open the ball. Carlo, can you help Dan come forward? If we manage to get back to England, his bottled oxygen won’t last that long. Rafe, what’s our ETA?” Steve issued orders like a drill sergeant.

  “We could use one of the cut cables as a rope if Dan can tie it around his waist.” Carlo assessed their situation. “If George were still here, we could reel him in.”

  With the decision to eliminate one waist gunner from each crew, George had been transferred to a pickup crew.

  “Ha
rold and Rusty, hurry up and help Carlo.”

  The gap between the Claptrap and the rest of the formation widened as they fell behind, dropping down five hundred feet per minute to maintain their flying speed. They had a long way to go, and now they were alone over Germany.

  “We’ve still got hours to go and more as we lose speed. Harold, can you raise any Little Friends to escort us? We’re just south of Bremen and likely to encounter enemy fighters eager for an easy kill.” Despite the frigid temperature aboard the B-17, sweat trickled down Rafe’s face. “And Mickey, be ready with the red flares to get some friendly attention.”

  Dan sprawled into the nose compartment, bumping into Rafe’s chair.

  Rafe pulled away his oxygen mask and leaned close to Dan. “Glad to see you’re out of the tail. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d see what life’s like up in the front of the bus.” Dan curled up against the plywood box holding the belts of ammunition. “Kind of crowded in here.”

  Alan swiveled his seat around. “Why don’t you head back to the radio room, lie down and take a nap, Dan. We’ll be back to base before you know it.”

  With a flick of his hand, Dan crawled back into the passageway, his movement shaky.

  Claptrap held together all the way back to England. As they crossed the coast, the enlisted men sang a rousing rendition of “Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer.” Rafe leaned back in his chair. The Dover cliffs never looked so beautiful.

  Steve punctured their relief. “We’ve been ordered not to attempt to land. We’ll fly over the base, you’ll all bail out through the forward hatch, and Lieutenant Ellerbee and I will head back to the North Sea, bail out at the coast, and let the Claptrap ditch. Be ready to go when I ring the bailout bell.”

  Rafe dumped his instruments into his briefcase and hooked it to his belt along with his GI shoes. He snapped his parachute to his harness.

  Ridgewell came into view. Word must have spread around the base. It looked like everyone was out to watch the show. As senior officer to jump over the base, Rafe waited to count heads before jumping from the forward escape hatch.

  Steve banked to circle the base, and the bell rang.

  “Go, go, go.” Rafe slapped each man on the shoulder in turn. Dan sat on the edge of the hatch and peered out. Rafe put his boot against Dan’s backside and pushed.

  “Yooowwww.”

  Rafe watched until Dan’s chute popped open, hiding him from view. He keyed his mike. “Six are away and here I go. Good luck.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply from Steve or Cal before unplugging his communication cable. He swung through the hatch and let go.

  Arms extended, back arched, toes together and pointed. Perfect swan dive form. Skydiving was fun. Rafe tucked and rotated to heads up. And fell past Dan.

  “Open your chute, lieutenant.” Dan’s call faded away as Rafe plummeted past.

  Chuckling, he tugged his ripcord.

  Whomp!

  That hurt. They’d been told the sudden deceleration could cause quite a jolt, but that was ridiculous. Why didn’t they practice parachute jumps from planes instead of towers? A trainee had suffered a compound fracture from a tower jump in basic training. As long as there would be training accidents, they may as well have jumped from planes. A little experience in the heat of a dangerous emergency would be good. Some guys managed to land like they were stepping off a train. Now what had their instructor said?

  Keep his legs tightly together. No, that was before pulling the ripcord, to reduce the opening shock. Too late for that. Now, keep his feet together and slightly bend his knees to land on the balls of his feet, and keep his hands on the risers. At the moment of impact, fall forward or to the side in a tumbling roll to absorb the shock. Stay relaxed, not rigid or limp. Rafe flexed his knees, ready to spring. Relax, flex, roll. Relax, flex, roll.

  His descent brought him close to the barracks. No obstacles to hinder his landing. Good. He wouldn’t need to hike through a maze of wheat fields trying to find the base. Lots of guys watched him, pointing. Why point at him? He looked around for his crewmates, floating down beyond the base. They were the ones everyone should be concentrating on. Shrugging off the mystery, he continued practicing his landing technique. Relax, flex, roll.

  Paul Braedel lounged against a jeep, his arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other, watching him. Rafe would land right by him. Except he wasn’t facing the direction of his drift. He needed to turn to his right. To turn his body to his right, let’s see, right hand behind his head, grasp the left risers. Left hand in front of his head, grasp the right risers. Pull simultaneously and, it worked. He turned right. Just in time.

  He landed upright but before he could roll, the billowing parachute threatened to drag him off his feet until it snagged on a light post and collapsed. A few running paces secured his balance.

  Paul inclined his head. “Afternoon, Rafe.” Like tumbling out of the sky under a silk sheet was an everyday occurrence. “I understand we’re going visiting tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be something out of the routine.” He tried to match his friend’s nonchalant attitude.

  “No kidding.” Paul straightened up. “Interested in a bike ride to the local village?”

  “That sounds good. I could use a little physical activity after being cramped in the nose all morning.”

  Paul grinned. “That was quite the physical activity you had going on the way down.”

  He brought up one knee, then scissored his foot back and forth.

  Rafe groaned. So that’s why everyone had pointed at him. He must have looked like a fool. He tugged his jacket collar with a show of dignity. “Having never jumped before, I tried a few practice maneuvers.”

  “Yeah, we ought to practice parachute jumps. Having a good jump under our belts would be beneficial.” Paul took a big jump and flexed his knees low on landing. “Like shock absorbers, right?”

  Together they jumped and flexed.

  Two ground personnel arrived in a jeep to take Rafe to interrogation. Watching the officers practice their jumps, they shook their heads. One of them muttered, “Crazy flyboys.”

  Essex, England

  Wednesday, April 19, 1944

  Rafe wiped sweaty palms on his trouser legs. “I can’t believe how nervous I am.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll spit in your face?” Paul snapped his fingers. “He’ll punch you in the face. Then the MPs will grab him and throw him in the brig.”

  “You’re not helping, Paul.” The jeep slowed and turned in at a gate. Rafe blew out his breath through pursed lips. “This is it.”

  Their driver stopped in front of a nondescript building. “Here’s the office.”

  The explanation was hardly necessary with ‘Headquarters’ stenciled above the door.

  Paul stretched as he looked around. “Not a whole lot different from base.”

  “No, except for lots of barbed wire and guards with guns,” Rafe agreed. “And not a plane in sight.”

  The sergeant on duty studied Rafe’s papers. “Christoph Bu-cker.”

  “Buecker, rhymes with seeker.” Why did he bother to correct the pronunciation?

  The sergeant shrugged. Whatever. “He’s assigned to barracks four.” He jerked his thumb behind and to the right. He eyed Rafe curiously. “We don’t get many Yanks come to see the Krauts.”

  Rafe shrugged. Whatever.

  Back outside, he and Paul negotiated the muddy pathways. Nissen huts stood in cramped rows. Prisoners stood or sat, singly or in groups. Some read, others talked. Several tossed a ball in a disinterested game of catch. Rafe stopped abruptly. There. The one sitting slumped against the barracks wall, one knee bent up, the other leg straight out.

  Ignoring everyone else, Rafe approached. His cousin didn’t look up when he stopped in front of him. “Chr…” He had to clear his throat. “Christoph.”

  Blue eyes slowly rose. A look of boredom or apathy or weariness changed suddenly into wid
e-eyed disbelief. “Rolf?” Christoph sprang to his feet. “Rolf?”

  “Wie gehts, Vetter?” Rafe’s voice strangled as his throat tightened.

  Christoph swallowed hard. “Rolf!” He grabbed Rafe in a bear hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of him. “Where have you been? You disappeared, what’s it been, eight years now? And never a word.” He stepped back and eyed Paul in an American uniform. His gaze swung back to Rafe, and Rafe’s American uniform. His shoulders slumped. “You’re fighting against us. We figured as much.”

  “Germany didn’t want me. America took me in.” Rafe studied his cousin, waiting for disgust or revulsion. But Christoph nodded.

  “Are you stationed in England? How’d you know I was here?”

  “Did you know there was a general in the lifeboat you were heading for last week?”

  Christoph’s eyes bulged. “You weren’t there, were you?”

  Rafe chose his words carefully. “That general came to our base shortly afterwards. He had photographs taken on the Air-Sea Rescue boat, and I recognized you.”

  Christoph shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. “One of those four motors dropped a load of bombs on us. We were just going to pick up the men in the water.”

  Paul swung around, his lips pressed together. Rafe hid a smile, divining his friend’s thoughts. Like everyone else on base, he’d heard the general’s description of the Keystone Kops act.

  “Yeah, well, the general had visions of being hauled before Goering, or maybe even Hitler, for propaganda photos.”

  Christoph snorted. With a nod of his head, he indicated they should walk. “I don’t doubt that.”

  A vacant playing field offered privacy. Time for some answers.

  “Is my father alive?” Rafe held his breath.

  His cousin nodded. “I saw him five months ago, and Mutter didn’t mention anything happening in her last letter.”

  Rafe’s breath whooshed out of him. He stared up at the clouds, defying the tears that begged for release.

  “Uncle Heinz misses you.”