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

by Terri Wangard

  His fingers clenched. Taking a deep breath, he forcibly relaxed. Even after eight years, even after learning of Father’s situation, the hurt still festered.

  “Don’t hold it against him for being a fallible human being. ‘All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.’ Isaiah, chapter fifty-three, verse six. We have all sinned, Rafe. You, me, your father.”

  A bird landed overhead in the tree and began to sing. Many times Rafe had walked in the park near their apartment with Father. Not a bird flew near them that Father couldn’t identify. He’d recognize this bird by its song without looking up.

  Why couldn’t you love me enough, Father?

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  “Let go of your hurt and anger. Put them in God’s hands. He invites you to do so. And forgive your father. As Christ said, when he taught the disciples how to pray, ‘If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ That’s in the sixth chapter of Matthew. Don’t let your father’s failing lead to failings of your own.”

  A pat on the shoulder, and the chaplain was gone. How many times had his father placed his hand on his shoulder?

  He must have sat mourning the lost relationship all day. Distant rumbling became louder. The planes were returning from the day’s mission. Time to head back. He picked up the tarp and Brenda’s bouquet, and trudged through the field.

  #

  Alan and Cal looked up at his entrance to their Quonset hut. A uniform tunic lay on his cot. His own still hung from the peg where he’d left it. He turned to his crewmates.

  Alan answered his unasked question. “Judgment Day went down. Chutes came out of it, but they’re not coming back. They were deep in Germany.”

  Rafe swung around to Paul’s cot. It had been stripped.

  “Soon as we heard, we put all his gear together, ready to ship home. His, and Floyd’s, and Tony’s, and Roger’s.” Cal heaved a sigh. “We set aside Paul’s tunic since the 381st doesn’t issue replacement clothes and yours has a tear.”

  Paul was gone. Rafe stared at his new tunic. He’d rather have his friend.

  Southern Sweden

  Saturday, May 13, 1944

  Fifty-nine large sandstone boulders stood in the outline of a ship. Jennie circled the boulder at the bow. Such settings usually served as burial monuments, but one theory held that Ale’s Stones honored the crew of a ship lost at sea. That one sounded appropriate. Among the stones on the top of a bluff, she had a sweeping panorama of the Baltic Sea. Countless ships, maybe in sight of land, had sunk in that placid-looking water.

  Today the sea was more likely to swallow airplanes. How many American planes, damaged in battle with the Germans, sought safety here in neutral Sweden but hadn’t made it? How many men had disappeared beneath the waves without a trace? Their loved ones back home waited with hope that couldn’t be fulfilled.

  She heaved a sigh, and pressed a hand against the nearest boulder. This rock had stood here for centuries. Her exhibit would be a brief showing. And not to the dead airmen, but to those who survived. She sketched a quick drawing of the stones with plans to add a smoking bomber low on the horizon, desperate to reach a safe haven.

  “Ready to go, Jennie?” Dad straightened from the boulder he’d been leaning against. “We should be on our way.”

  This southernmost county of Sweden featured more gently rolling farmland and less forest than the rest of the country. As they continued on to Malmö, Jennie watched the passing landscape. They could have been in the Illinois countryside. What were the flight crews’ first impressions of their haven? Or maybe they didn’t even notice, too preoccupied with keeping their damaged planes in the air or keeping wounded crewmembers alive.

  Malmö looked a lot like Stockholm. Not only did the city occupy the waterfront along the Öresund strait, but a canal encircled the old city center. The restored remnants of a centuries-old castle graced a spacious park. Too bad they didn’t have time to explore.

  She and Dad arrived at Bulltofta Airfield, the home of a Swedish Air Force Fighter Wing in Malmö, in the early afternoon. The fighters spent their time in patrol duty, flying coastal reconnaissance flights to guard their neutrality, and guiding damaged aircraft of the belligerents to the airfield.

  Jennie’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of three parked heavy bombers, a Flying Fortress and two Liberators, and then sank. The planes looked ready to fly. “Oh, Dad, they don’t look like they’re in bad shape.”

  Dad chuckled. “Those ships have been repaired. They’re waiting to be ferried to the storage field in Västerås, near Stockholm, to keep the airfield here from being congested.” He pointed to three more Flying Fortresses in a beehive of activity. “Those planes arrived last weekend. The crewmembers won’t be here, but the mechanics are internees from earlier arrivals. I’m sure you’ll find someone glad to talk to you.”

  Scaffolding had been rolled up to the wing of one Fortress, and the nose cowl removed from the inboard engine. Perched on the platform with his sleeves rolled up and an arm deep in the back of the engine, a mechanic didn’t look around at their arrival.

  “How’s it coming, Sergeant?”

  The man glanced down, and his eyes widened to see an unknown officer addressing him. “The push rod tube and ignition lines were sliced up. We’re replacing them with cannibalized parts, and this engine will be top notch in an hour, sir, and ready to go to Västerås.”

  “Very good.” Dad turned to Jennie. “I’ll be in the office.”

  With his departure, Jennie looked up at the sergeant. “Can you work and talk at the same time?” Stupid thing to say. Insult him right off the bat. “I mean, I don’t want to distract you into hooking up your tubes into the carburetor or something.”

  Engines had carburetors. Her brother always had trouble with the carburetor in his car during high school.

  The mechanic leaned away from the engine to study her. “That’d be a neat trick.” He wiped his hands on a filthy rag hanging out of his back pocket. “You’re American. What are you doing here?”

  “I came with my dad.” She nodded in the direction of the office. “I do office work for the interned aircrews, but right now I’m working on putting together a Swedish art exhibit from the internees’ prospective, for after the war.”

  “Is the major your father?” At her nod, he added, “Of course he is.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and a wink. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Oh, your name, where you’re from, what base you were at, how long you’ve been here, why you ended up here. That sort of thing. I’m Jennie, by the way. Do you mind if I take your picture?”

  Selecting a wrench from the tools at his feet, he laughed. “You sound like a reporter. I’m Hal Neuser from Bismarck, North Dakota. I’m from the 388th Bomb Group based at Knettishall. I’ve been here since February after a mission to Rostock. One engine got knocked out and we were leaking fuel like a sieve. Never would have made it back to England. Thought we’d have to ditch in the North Sea. In winter, that would have been a death sentence, unless the Germans picked us up. They’re nearby, you know. Denmark’s only about twenty miles from here, across the Öresund Strait. Copenhagen’s within spitting distance.”

  His hands disappeared back behind the engine. Jennie set down her notepad and snapped a photo.

  “And you’ve been working on the planes ever since you arrived here?”

  “Pretty much. They quizzed us about what service schools we attended to find out if we had technical skills. We work five days a week maintaining all the American planes. The pilots get to take them up to test the repairs and keep their skills sharp.”

  Another airman crawled up on the repair stand, paying more attention to Jennie than to what he was doing. He nearly dropped the gizmo he carried.

  “Hey, careful with that tube, Stu. They don’t stock ‘em at the corner store, you know.” Hal tugged something
free from the engine and examined it. “Here you go, miss. A piece of German flak.”

  Jennie gingerly accepted the tangled shard of metal. Had it been flat, it would measure two inches by three inches. The bomber sported several holes in its fuselage. She waved a hand toward them. “Pieces like this made those holes?”

  “Yep,” Stu answered. “They tear right through the planes and the soft bodies inside the planes.”

  “This is Stu Luellwitz, by the way. He arrived in March in a B-24 Liberator bomber.” Hal raised a hand to hide his mouth from Stu. “And he actually thinks the Libs are better than the Forts, if you can imagine that.”

  Jennie turned the shard around. Little pieces of flak like this were capable of inflicting so much damage. Unbelievable. She looked up at Stu’s retort.

  “May I point out that the B-24s provide our rides out of here?”

  “That’s because they can’t spare the B-17s from combat.”

  Jennie interrupted before the friendly argument could escalate. “Do you know when you’ll leave?”

  “Since we’re gainfully employed, we may have to stay for the duration. Those who don’t work go back to England after a few months.”

  “Lucky devils,” Stu interjected.

  “Lucky nothing. They’re probably headed for the Pacific now. I’ll stay here. We even get our flight pay, for crying out loud.” Hal gave the replacement valve a final twist. “The Swedes used to repatriate the Brits and the Krauts one for one. But they can’t do that with us because there are so many of us. So they sneak us out during the darkest nights in a B-24 painted black and stripped of all guns. Non-military, supposedly. The Krauts would love to shoot ‘em down if they catch ‘em.”

  Before Jennie could tell him she’d arrived on one, sudden activity near the office interrupted them. Several men, including Dad, came outside. All eyes turned skyward.

  “Another bomber must be coming in.” Stu shaded his eyes as he searched the sky.

  Jennie began adjusting her camera for distance. Here was her chance to get a real action shot. Signs of damage would be good. Maybe a little smoke trailing from an engine.

  What was she thinking? Damage meant danger to the crew. How awful of her.

  “There!” Hal spotted the plane first. “It’s a Fort with three Swedish fighters escorting it. No! One’s a Kraut and he’s still firing on the Fort. The Swedes are firing at him. That Fort’s in big trouble.”

  The B-17 wasn’t flying straight. It wanted to roll to the left. And there was smoke. Lots of smoke coming from both wings. If it couldn’t straighten out, it wouldn’t land on the airfield.

  The German fighter turned away, chased by the two Swedes.

  The Fort was out of control. It was going to crash in the farmland adjacent to the airfield. The sound of its struggling engines rolled across the land, ragged and popping. One wing dipped low. It scraped the ground and tore free with a screech. Fire burst from an engine.

  The rest of the plane slapped down, throwing up waves of dirt. The remaining wing dug in and snapped off, tearing away a large section of the fuselage. Various other parts broke off as the main body jerked sideways to a stop against an embankment.

  Men ran toward cars and trucks. Hal and Stu jumped down and headed for a nearby truck. Jennie ran with them. She might not be welcome at the crash site, but she was going along. Hal assisted her into the cab before leaping onto the bed. Stu gunned the motor and they bounced across the field.

  “Spare parts is all that bird’s good for now.”

  Stu’s assessment had to be correct. The devastation was astonishing. Debris littered the field for hundreds of yards. Fires burned at the wings, but not the fuselage. Still, could anyone have survived?

  A Swedish rescue team rushed to the fuselage. From the hole torn open by the missing wing, they reached into the plane and guided the airmen out. Two men dressed in heavy leather jackets staggered out with dazed expressions. Three more carried one of their crewmates, his clothes stained with blood. Two more supported another man.

  Jennie photographed the rescue. She framed them gently laying down the wounded man and snapped away. She focused on the walking wounded man who collapsed beside him, reaching for him. How could they have survived this wreck?

  Over Germany

  Saturday, May 13, 1944

  “Bombs away!”

  With the loss of four thousand pounds of bombs over Stettin, the plane should have bounced upward. Instead, it threatened to roll over. From his position standing behind Alan, Rafe stumbled back and his head hit the cheek gun suspended overhead. He grabbed the bombing control panel and staggered back to his desk.

  Rusty’s voice yelled through the intercom. “We just lost three or four feet off the left wingtip.”

  Harold added to the confusion. “One of the bomb doors didn’t close. It’s loose on one end.”

  “Engine one is starting to smoke.” Rusty amended his report with another yell. “Fire in engine one.”

  Cal could be heard in the cockpit. “Fuel shut-off on one, and feathered.”

  A B-17 could fly nicely on three engines, but they were deep in Germany and they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the formation. Tension coiled in the pit of Rafe’s stomach. He noted the time and recorded their position and problems in his log.

  Whump! Another shell burst right in front of them. Rafe and Alan were showered by fragments of Plexiglas. Rafe brushed away the bits on his log. Engine three began to cough and spit. The vibrations rattled the nose.

  “Reduce the manifold pressure and increase the RPM.” Steve fired the orders. “Enrich the fuel mixture to cool it down.”

  Rafe glanced around the nose for further damage. His heart skipped a beat and he broke out in a sweat. “Ah, Steve? Red fluid is dripping down from the cockpit area.”

  Silence reigned for ten seconds. “Hydraulic brake fluid. We’ve got a broken line here.”

  The formation headed north-northwest to get over the Baltic Sea, cross Denmark, and fly southwest over the North Sea. In theory, the longer route would keep them away from flak. For damaged planes, however, the longer air time allowed problems to multiply. And their next problem didn’t take long to materialize.

  Hanging below the plane in the ball turret, Rusty watched for trouble no one else could see. “Fuel’s gushing out the right wing tank.”

  “Fuel transfer?” As flight engineer, that was Mickey’s job. This was his first mission back with the crew after recovering from Cal’s bucking bronco exhibition. Carlo remained grounded with broken ribs, and George had rejoined the crew in his place.

  “As soon as you’re able, I need to know how much fuel we still have.” The crew didn’t need interruptions now, but Rafe needed an answer to plan their route.

  “Maybe eight hundred gallons.”

  Rafe dropped his pencil. “We’re not going back to England.”

  Cal couldn’t accept that. “Are you sure?”

  “Even if we turned due west right now, we could maybe make it to Holland, but that’s no help.” Rafe sucked in a lungful of cold oxygen. “We’ll either be guests of der Führer tonight, or we can try to make for Sweden.”

  “I vote for Sweden.”

  “Me too.”

  Alan interrupted the gunners’ vote. “Bogies, one o’clock low. Harold, call the fighter escorts for help.”

  Rafe straightened out the cartridge belt for the right cheek gun. At least they still had plenty of ammo.

  The two German FW-190s spotted them and rose. Rusty had the best shot. His gun started firing when the enemy reached within a thousand yards of them. The fighters spread out. Rusty couldn’t shoot at them both. They closed to six hundred yards and the fighter not in Rusty’s aim raked them with his twenty millimeter cannon.

  “We got more trouble,” Harold squawked. “Fire in the radio room.”

  “Put it out,” Steve ordered. “Mickey, help him.”

  The damage to the electrical system rendered the gun turrets inoperab
le.

  “Get me out of here,” Rusty wailed. “My electric suit’s not working and I’m freezing.”

  “Hold your horses.” Mickey’s voice sounded strained. He probably could have used more ground time before returning to flight status. “Harold, give me some help here. We gotta crank it manually.”

  “Here’s a bit of good news for you.” Even in an emergency, Dan sounded cheerful. “Those fighters are skedaddling instead of finishing us off.”

  “Maybe they need to refuel. They may be back. Any more immediate problems?” When no one replied, Steve continued. “We’re on our own. Harold, call group leader and tell him England’s out of our reach. We’ll try for Sweden.”

  A minute later, Cal laughed. He explained. “When Harold reported our plans, he added, ‘Long live the 381st. Triumphant we fly.’”

  Triumphant we fly. The group motto. Too bad it didn’t apply to them right now. Rafe studied his map. They’d be passing Anklam and Peenemunde to the east. Both were guaranteed to have fighter protection. He scanned the driftmeter and altimeter, and fiddled with his G-1 True Airspeed Computer. With their reduced speed, they could expect to reach Sweden in an hour.

  Half an hour dragged by. Steve and Cal discussed what type of airfields Sweden might have and how they’d manage without hydraulics. Rafe strained his eyes watching for the coast. They just might make it after all.

  George delivered the final blow. “Bogies, eight o’clock level. You can bet they’re not our fighters.”

  The ball turret was inoperative. The top turret could only be slowly positioned by hand cranks. That left George with the waist gun, unless the Germans strayed far enough forward into the range of Rafe’s cheek gun. He swung it into position. Alan hurried up to the cockpit to help crank the top turret. He sent Rusty back to the waist, ready to man the opposite gun.