An FW made a run at their nose. Bullets slammed into the fuselage on his side. He flinched, but held on. They were low enough now that Jack ripped off his oxygen mask. Mel did, too, relieved to be free of it. At least getting shot down had one upside.
“Ric…” Jack began.
“There’s no time” He half grinned. “Get out of here.”
Jack started to object again.
“Go! I’m done for. Make me…a hero.”
Mel grabbed his arm.
“Let him do this, Jack. He’s earned it.” Mel stared into his agonized gaze, trying to will him to understand when she didn’t. “Let him go.
She must have succeeded, because he nodded and scrambled out of his seat. The plane wobbled wildly, until Ric managed to bring it back under tenuous control.
“Hurry.”
Mel saw his blue lips shape the words and echoed them to Jack. But still he stopped for a moment, gripping Ric’s shoulder, before moving past her, then pulling her toward the rear. The hatch past the waist gunners was the best spot for bailing, though there was also that big hole where the radio had been, as an exit of last resort.
Jack towed her across the bomb bay like it was a mile-wide path but checked at the radio room. He looked back at her, his eyes wide and shocked. She shrugged, surprised she and Norm were still alive, too.
As they passed the gap, Mel saw parachutes bloom from those who had already bailed. One, two, three, four…there should have been six. Who wasn’t there? They were halfway across the radio room when the engines cut out. The vibration just stopped.
“There’s no time,” Jack said. “We’ve got to go now.”
Mel didn’t want to leave without knowing who else was being left behind, but they’d run out of options. And time. This was it. Larsen suddenly stumbled around the ball turret.
“Everyone is out.” He hesitated. “Kennedy didn’t make it.”
It was awful to be relieved, but he’d died before. It was his time.
Larsen dived out the more than man-sized hole. Soon after, his parachute bloomed. Mel grabbed Jack’s arm.
“Wait to pull your rip cord. Maybe they’ll think we’re dead and not track us as closely.” Jack’s brows arched. She smiled. “It’ll work.”
He nodded sharply and then steered her closer to the hole. She hesitated and the plane began to list to one side, the prelim to a spin. No time to think or feel or time to wet her pants.
“Hoo yah!” She dove through the hole, careful to aim low so her chute would clear the jagged metal petals around the edges.
She did a couple of cartwheels, then managed to assume the classic sky diving position. Now she could look for Jack. He was above her. She brought her arms to her side and shot up next to him, then assumed the position again.
Logic told her they were hurtling toward the ground but it felt like flying, not falling. And as they fell, The Time Machine cart-wheeled past them, spinning once, then again, before hitting the ground with stunning force and exploding. It seemed that the smoke reached up towards them, before the wind whisked it sideways.
Jack looked grim. And worried. He signaled to pull and she shook her head sharply. The ground was closer now. She could see more detail. Off in the distance, the others had landed and were gathering in their chutes. She found her rip cord, her gaze bouncing between terra firma and Jack.
“Now!” She shouted.
She pulled her cord and felt the jerk as the parachute yanked her upwards. She bounced a few times, before it finally settled into a gently swinging drift towards earth. She and Jack were so close their parachutes almost touched, but as they got closer to the ground, the wind caught them, trying to pull them apart.
Mel worked the cords, attempting to stay as close to Jack as possible. The countryside looked rural and mostly deserted. That was good, since they had a few hours until dark. She could see roads cutting through hedges and in the distance, the square tower of a church. An army truck rolled into view a couple of hills away. Most likely a patrol looking for them.
She called out to Jack, “Bend your knees as you hit. Let them absorb the impact. It won’t hurt as much.” Most of the crews of the B-17s didn’t even practice their jumps and broken limbs were a nasty result.
She thought he understood, hoped he did anyway. The ground came at them in a sudden rush. Mel bent her knees, hit, absorbed the blow, and then rolled with it. Her shoulders dug into soft mud and then she bounced upright, quickly pressing the release as her parachute tried to drag her along the ground. A nearly perfect landing. Rockman would have been proud of her. The field where they’d landed was mostly muddy, with a few patches of snow, and surrounded by high hedges, possibly the famous Normandy hedgerows? It smelled of earth and cold and something burning in the distance. She wasn’t sure if it was their plane or a fireplace. Not yet anyway.
Mel pulled on the cords and began bundling the parachute. Larsen already had his under control and was prowling the perimeter of the field as Jack worked on subduing his.
She drew a deep, unsteady breath. They were on the ground in enemy territory. Not good.
“We’ve got company,” Larsen called, from the far edge of the field.
Mel looked around. There wasn’t even a weed high enough to hide behind.
Jack arched a brow in her direction. “I guess you’ll get a chance to try out your German.”
* * * * *
Herr Oberst Eugen Thorhaus sat in the front of his command vehicle, trying not to shiver as his men inspected the wreckage of the fallen American bomber—and wondering what had possessed him to supervise the search today. His office was warm and coffee was delivered at regular intervals, even if it were the Ersatzkaffee made from grain, not beans, it was at least warm. Yes, there was paperwork, but there was always paperwork. It was as inevitable as—he looked soberly at the body tumbled partly in, partly outside the wreckage—as death in war.
It would have been good to get their hands on one of the new bomb sites, rumored to be very accurate, but his aide-de-camp, Leutnant Kass, shook his head as he approached. He had a hard, cold face and barked orders at the men like the Fuehrer.
Thorhaus sighed. It was because of Kass that he’d decided to observe the search. Kass was more Nazi than soldier. He had no respect for the men under him, and less than that for their adversary. His POW’s always arrived bruised and sometimes broken—injuries Kass blandly claimed happened prior to their apprehension.
He didn’t like Kass and Kass didn’t like him. At least they agreed on something in this war. Thorhaus was a soldier and he hated this war. True soldiers did not glory in war. They did their duty, served their country, learned to fight effectively, and hoped they wouldn’t have to fight. True soldiers respected all soldiers, even the ones who fought for the other side. All had to do their duty. Only fate and borders determined which side you fought on.
These were not popular ideas in the Third Reich. They stayed inside his head and he wasn’t sure that thinking them was safe. He knew the Gestapo commandant didn’t trust him. So far Thorhaus had managed to appear to be rigorously enforcing the ridiculous rules of occupation, without crossing the line into brutality. He recognized that Herr Werner Ullstein’s patience was going to wear out before the war ended.
He wouldn’t be marching home from this war, but he hoped he died with honor. His only real sorrow was for his wife. She’d already lost one son during the invasion of France. The other was still too young to fight, but if the war dragged on too long, could catch him, too. It was not fair for his Maria to lose everything, but Hitler and his New Germany didn’t care about the heart and soul of the German people.
He noticed one of his men carrying a piece of the plane away from the site and clambered out. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t sound particularly harsh, but the soldier dropped the piece of fuselage on the ground and snapped to attention. The artwork on the metal drew his attention.
“The Time Machine,” Thorhaus read the
English words, translating them to German automatically. Next to the words was a shining, silver object that he supposed would be spinning if it were real. “What do you suppose that is?”
“It does not look like a machine,” the man said doubtfully. Behind him, Kass shifted irritably.
“We have reports of downed fliers not far from here Herr Oberst. Our glorious Luftwaffe reports seven chutes scattered across the fields between here and Lisieux.” With clear satisfaction, he added, “They appear to be trapped in the hedgerows.”
With some reluctance, Thorhaus looked at his aide. Kass did not like the hedgerows and had once suggested they be cut down. In his opinion, they hid and anything that hid or concealed was necessarily bad for the Germans and good for the French.
“If we split the patrol, we should be able to get them all, mein Herr.”
Thorhaus shook his head. “If they are caught in the hedgerows, where will they go?”
He looked at the piece of fuselage again. In the Luftwaffe, the pilots also painted things of meaning on the fuselage of their planes. Thorhaus had read the novel of the same name, but could not understand what this would mean to a pilot.
“Why did you want this?” Thorhaus asked the man.
He shrugged, unable or unwilling to explain. For some reason the art intrigued him. “Put it in the trunk,” he ordered his driver. He avoided looking at the man. It was unlike him to pilfer, let alone pilfer from his men.
With an impatient snort, Kass spread his map on the hood of Thorhaus’s command car. “Four of them are trying to get out of a field about here. The other three were just coming down around this area. I don’t think these daylight bombings will prove as successful as the Americans hoped.”
“No,” Thorhaus agreed, because it wasn’t wise not to, even when the evidence of his own eyes said otherwise. Only two planes down out of how many? And they’d all reached the target and unloaded their bombs. A failure indeed, he thought wryly. With a last oddly regretful look at the remains of the plane, Thorhaus turned to Kass. “Let’s move out.”
* * * * *
Thorhaus stood on the running board of his command vehicle and scanned the horizon with his binoculars. With men spreading out in all directions, his participation was redundant, but it was better than sitting and shivering in the cold vehicle. He was glad for his heavy greatcoat and the scarf his Maria had knitted for him, as the wind was both cold and clever. Above them the FW wagged its wings and then sped off in the direction of the base, its work done for the moment.
As he scanned the winter barren countryside, he found himself wondering what it must be like for the three fliers still unaccounted for. He’d hunted game in pre-war Germany, but this was hardly sporting. There was no refuge for them, no place to go to ground in a country mostly pacified by terror and oppression. And yet still they tried. Where did they think they could hide? If it were him, what would he do?
Standing here, surrounded by his heavily armed men, it wasn’t easy to put himself in their place. Maria claimed he had no imagination. In these times, that was probably a good thing, he thought wryly, as his visual survey brought him back to where Kass stood, his hands on his hips and, as usual, shouting orders. He seemed to think the whole world were deaf and dumb.
“What’s the problem, Kass?” Thorhaus took quiet satisfaction in cutting into the diatribe.
Kass spun around and snapped out an exaggerated salute. “There is no sign of the fliers, Herr Oberst.”
That was interesting. “Is this the right field?” He was quite sure it was, but the game must be played, the questions asked.
Kass looked annoyed, though not overtly so. “I believed so, Herr Oberst.” He didn’t say he was wrong. In the Third Reich, one didn’t.
Thorhaus lifted the glasses again and studied the field. “And yet they are not here. Perhaps you should broaden your search to nearby fields.” He held Kass’s cold gaze with his, knowing his words infuriated Kass. Just about everything did. He was only happy when he was kicking someone around.
The men around Kass were stamping their feet, white clouds of expelled air almost obscuring their chilled faces as they waited for new orders.
“Of course, Herr Oberst,” Kass gritted out, then spun on his heels and took his spleen out on the cold patrol. They looked happy enough to leave Kass’s immediate vicinity. Thorhaus wished he could, too, and was granted his wish when Kass took a small group of men down the road, his voice sounding harsh even when the words could no longer be distinguished.
Suddenly semi-isolated from his men, Thorhaus studied the field again. He was sure this was the field the FW pilot had tried to mark. Where could they have gone? Had it taken them longer than it seemed to arrive here? He saw the church spire in the distance. In the old times, a church was considered sanctuary. If they’d made it that far, they’d find this wasn’t the old times. The old priest might want to help them, but the church wanted them to remain neutral. Thorhaus sometimes stopped by for a visit with the old man. He was interesting, polite and peaceful. Yes, that was the main attraction. He expected nothing and if he judged, it was well hidden.
The missing fliers could, he supposed, have gotten other help. Despite Kass’s assertion that no local would dare, Thorhaus knew there was an active underground in the region. So far the group hadn’t managed to do much and the Gestapo was slowly arresting the members, thanks to a strategically placed informant. If the men had gotten help from a local, they’d find it only delayed their inevitable capture.
He stepped down from the running board and his driver quickly opened the door for him. The inside gave him some protection from the wind, but not from the cold. He directed his driver to follow Kass’s course. It would be wise to keep an eye on the man. As they pulled out, the car bumping over the rough ground, he found himself wondering again, where would he hide if he were the one out there?
* * * * *
After the sound of the truck faded into the distance, Jack made himself count to one hundred before cautiously lifting the edge of the parachute.
“Wait here,” he ordered, careful to keep his voice low. Moving stiffly from the cold, he crouched beside the low snow-filled ditch, listening intently, but there was nothing to hear, except the distant sounds of the search moving away from them.
That had to be a bunch of unhappy Jerries. Jack grinned. Clever idea of Mel’s, using their white parachutes as cover. Lucky for them some snow still lingered in the shallow ditch. Neither he nor Larsen thought it would work, but since they had nothing better to offer, they gave it a try. If the Jerries had come close…but they didn’t and for now they were free—if being down in enemy territory and surrounded by said enemy was freedom.
Keeping low and trying to move quietly, Jack made his way to the edge of the field. The narrow dirt road was empty in both directions, though he couldn’t see a long way. From what he remembered of the area while coming down, the whole area was criss-crossed with these narrow lanes. And there’d been a church spire off to the southwest. What they needed was a barn, he looked up, and the sun to go down.
He quietly crunched his way back to Mel and Larsen.
“It’s all clear for the moment.” He kept his voice to a low murmur and it still sounded loud in the intense quiet. The edge of the parachute folded back.
“I think I’m frozen,” Mel muttered. Jack held out his hand and she took it with a brief smile of thanks.
Once she was upright, she tried out her various limbs. She was a muddy, bedraggled sight and her bulky clothing showed nothing of her figure. So why did he feel his blood warm at the sight of her? He shook his head. He didn’t have time to ponder all the things he wondered about Mel.
Now she turned in a slow circle, examining their surroundings like a tourist at the Grand Canyon.“So…this is…France.”
She didn’t sound impressed. Jack grinned.
“No one is their best in the cold,” he said. Larsen choked back a laugh. Jack looked at Mel and found her looking at
him. Something in her eyes made him wonder if she’d caught his veiled joke. Her lips twitched and he knew she had—a pointed reminder that he underestimated her at his peril.
Larsen fingered his chute. “Hate to leave it. I have a feeling we’re going to need cover again.”
“It’s a bit bulky,” Mel said, also shedding her life vest. She tucked it under her chute, then weighted it all with rocks. “So, what do we do now? We’ve still got an hour or so until dusk.”
The shadows in the field were long, but not long enough for comfort. Still, his instincts told him the Jerries would be back. Their disappearance had to be puzzling. Someone might even figure out where they’d hidden, if they had time to think about it.
“I think we should keep hiding,” Larsen said
“No,” Jack said. “We need to go.”
“It’s still light, we’ll be spotted,” Larsen objected.
“They’ll be back,” Mel said, matter-of-factly. “They knew this was the field. The shouter wasn’t at all happy about our disappearance. It’s better if he doesn’t find us.”
Jack had the same thought about the shouter, even if he hadn’t understood him.
“So,” Mel said, “which way do we want to go? Spain is that way.” She pointed south. “Switzerland is a long way that way.” She pointed in its general direction.
“What’s that way?” Jack asked, pointing west, though he already knew.
“England,” Mel said, her tone neutral, but a slight smile pulling at the edges of her mobile mouth.
“Then we go west,” Jack said without hesitating.
Her smile went from slight to full blown and almost rocked him back on his heels.
“I like the way you think, Captain…most of the time.” She wiped her gloved hands down the sides of her cold suit. “Let’s go west, young men. And keep your eyes peeled for an outhouse. I really need to pee—powder my nose.”
For the first time since they landed, Larsen grinned.
“I saw a farm that direction, as I was coming down.” It was more in the direction of Spain, but that might be a good thing, since the Germans were presently between them and England.
Out of Time Page 17
