by Ellen Butler
His inhalations were loud in the tiny vehicle. The engine roared to life, he shifted into gear, and we lumbered up the road. Due to strict fuel rationing, very few personal vehicles were on the roads. We passed Wehrmacht vehicles but only one other non-military car. As a matter of fact, I’d argued for the use of a horse and carriage instead of a car, but our time to fetch the injured pilot was severely limited by the train schedule, and I finally agreed a vehicle would be best. I prayed it wouldn’t be reported as stolen before we’d finished the mission.
An hour and a half later, we followed the road along the Albstausee, into the outskirts of Sankt Blasien, when the car began making a strange whining noise. The sergeant coaxed the vehicle to the promontory by the lake; however, a loud snap rent the air as the engine cut off.
“What do you want me to do first? Check on the engine or come with you?”
This mission required two people because we didn’t know how badly the pilot had been injured, if he was mobile, or if he’d need to be carried. “Stay here, check on the engine. I’ll meet up with the pilot and see what his condition is. If I need your help, I’ll come back. The signal is two whistles.”
My meeting place with the pilot was a little fudgy, represented only by a black splotch on the hiking trail. I’d been shown a photo and given a description of the British lord, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be clean shaven and might look a bit worse for wear.
The snow dampened the sound of footfalls. A twig snapped and my eyes searched the gloomy forest, too reminiscent of my recent past. The hair on the back of my neck rose and I swung around, ready to meet danger head on. A blond man wearing a green Tyrolean fedora, black pants, and tan jacket with a red-banded swastika wrapped around his upper left arm stood a few meters away. It was a style of jacket oft seen worn by the Hitler youth, and though without the beard he looked young enough to possibly fit in with the university crowd, the strawberry-blond beard he’d acquired in the past weeks aged him a good five to ten years. A red-plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, and he leaned heavily on an ivory-headed cane.
“Guten Tag, ob es heute wohl regnet?” Good day, do you think it will rain today? I spoke the words with slow deliberation.
“Nein, es soll Schnee geben.” I think it will snow, he said with a cringe-worthy accent making the reply sound more like, “Nine, ist shole snee geebeen.”
Listening to the ridiculous words come out of the mouth of a man wearing such a uniform had me rolling my eyes. “Kommen, Sie mit.” Come with me.
He waved to our left, and I turned in time to see hunched shoulders and a woman’s dark coat retreating into the forest. I offered my elbow, but we limped along at such a painfully slow pace I ended up pulling his arm over my shoulder to take more weight off the injury. Finally, the car came into sight. My partner was not sitting in the front seat as I had hoped. The rear hatch was up.
I gave the agreed-upon bird whistle.
Nothing.
There were no other vehicles; however, there was a buzz of voices not far away. I whistled again, and to my relief, the hoot of an owl replied.
“Steig ins das Auto.” Get in the car. I helped the pilot climb into the back seat before going round to see what I could do to help the sergeant.
Feinberg had removed his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and was elbow deep in engine parts.
“Was ist los?” What is wrong?
“The belt is shot.” He held up a ragged strip of rubber.
“Can you repair it?”
“I tried. My own belt is too wide and the buckle won’t fit in the space. Are you wearing one?”
I shook my head. The clothes I’d been provided had no belts.
“We need something flexible that will fit around these two components.” He pointed to a set of round engine parts. “Or I’m afraid we’re stuck.”
“Wait here.” I hid behind a clump of brush to remove my stockings. Goose bumps rose as the cold wind bit into my bare legs. “Can you make do with this?”
His faced showed surprise, and I saw him momentarily glance down at my naked legs before retrieving the stockings. “As a matter of fact, I can.”
“I’ll be in the car.” I returned to the front seat to find our passenger had slouched down in the corner and stretched his injured leg along the back seat.
“What is the matter?” he whispered in English.
I shushed him and shook my head. A trio of chattering young bicyclists pedaled by as the back hatch shut with a clunk. Feinberg folded into the front seat, rubbing his hands on a filthy handkerchief, while we watched as the bicycles continued around the corner out of sight.
He didn’t say anything, and I think we both held our breath as he fired up the engine. A new squeaking noise had been added to our already loud vehicle, but the sergeant was able to engage the gears and pull out of the parking space. The “people’s car” could use a better muffler system.
Once we were toddling along the road from whence we’d come, I turned to our pilot and spoke in low tones. “Here are your papers. Memorize them. Keep them handy in one of your front pockets.”
“So, you do speak English! By gads, it’s good to see you. I’m Nigel—”
I cut him off. “No. Check your papers. Your name is Jean Degarmo. Learn it. Answer to it. The name Nigel will get you killed. My name is Gisele Sandmeier; this is Johann Kraus. If we get stopped, put on a blank face, and for goodness sakes, don’t open your mouth to say anything. Your German is atrocious.” Considering his utter lack of understanding and speaking the language, he’d been lucky I was the first one to find him wandering the hiking path. “Your file said you speak French, oui?”
“Oui.”
“Good. Speak nothing else. Johann is a Swiss banker and I am his assistant. He speaks only German; I speak both French and German. You are an intermediary for a steel company in Switzerland, your leg was injured in the recent bombing of Zurich. We are giving you a ride. Once we get back to the train station we will have to ditch the car and walk a bit. I hope you can manage.” I glanced at his leg. “Understand?”
“Oui.” He gave a boyish grin, but the car hit a pothole, jarring Nigel’s leg, and the smile disappeared to be replaced with a wince.
We passed another bicyclist before I continued in a muted voice. “There’s a package on the floor with new clothes befitting your cover. Change out of that kit immediately.”
Nigel wrestled into the new clothes with a liberal smattering of moans and groans. “What do you want me to do with the old clothes?” he panted.
“Stuff them under the seat for now,” I replied. “We’ll dump them in a bit.”
For the next half hour, we traveled in silence as John expertly drove us through the hilly region, pausing briefly for a herd of goats to cross the road and occasionally pulling around bicyclists or a farm cart. Nigel said no more. At one point, I glanced back to find his eyes closed and his head lolling against the window. I didn’t bother to wake him. The poor thing probably hadn’t slept well since his plane went down, and it was clear it took a lot of effort to walk any sort of distance. We were running ahead of schedule, and the idyllic vista of the snow-covered trees and hummocks had my shoulders relaxing. I turned to thoughts beyond the mission.
♠♠♠♠
I’d dressed in the dark as Charlie slept in my bed, his cheek pillowed in the palm of his hand and his face peaceful in the repose of sleep. I memorized the placid lines of his profile—patrician nose, black eyelashes brushing his cheek, the curve of his ear—before waking him with a kiss.
The brass compass, too recognizable, couldn’t go on the mission with me, and I folded his fingers around the talisman with a promise to retrieve it when I returned. He balked at my leaving the compass behind and recommended a variety of hiding places, going so far as to tuck it into my bra. In the end, I knew there was no place safe enough to hide the precious piece. It was an unusual pendant for a woman to wear, and a description of it might have passed around. Should I be ca
ught with the item, there would be no talking myself out of the situation, and it would put my comrades in the line of fire as well.
Charlie offered to give the St. Christopher medal back, but I declined. My clothes and accoutrements were strictly chosen for this mission, and deviating from the plan just to carry a good luck charm would be foolhardy.
♠♠♠♠
“Scheisse.” The quiet expletive roused me from my daydreams and had our pilot echoing the sentiment in English.
John slowed the car, for ahead of us was a sight that had me tensing with unease. A camouflage-painted German Kübelwagen had rammed a carriage. The cart was on its side, a red spoke wheel rotated slowly on its axle. The limp form of a woman in a skirt lay in the center of the road, obviously thrown from the impact. Blood matted her hair and her legs sprawled at odd angles. The horse gave a whinnied scream as it tried to dislodge itself from the traces, but its front forelock was clearly injured, and he couldn’t push himself into a standing position.
We coasted to a stop before the accident, and I flinched as a Waffen SS trooper shot the horse, silencing its cries and putting it out of its misery. An officer stomped around the back of the Kübelwagen, yelling and waving his arms. He pointed at the wreck, then the lifeless form in the center of the road.
“What should I do? Offer to help?” Feinberg muttered.
“Nein, wait.” I laid a cautioning hand on his forearm.
The officer said something to the trooper that we couldn’t hear, then he turned to our vehicle. “Komm aus dem Auto raus. Hilf mit.” Get out of the car. Come help, he commanded, waving us over.
“Stay here.” John opened the door and stepped out.
The officer turned and continued to berate the trooper; it sounded like he was accusing his subordinate of being drunk. What happened next had fear sluicing through my veins like an electric current. The trooper raised his weapon and shot the officer at point-blank range.
“Reinkommen!” Get in, I screamed as the trooper again shot his superior, this time in the head, before turning his weapon on us.
Two shots rang out. One of them pierced the windshield just above my skull and had me slinking down below the glass as John dived back into the car.
Luckily, he’d left the engine running. Releasing the brake and jamming it into gear, he slung his arm across my seat and glared over his shoulder out the miniscule rear window.
“Get down,” he barked at our pilot and barreled down the hill in reverse. Shots twanged off the fender and front bonnet as we made our wild escape. Finally, Feinberg rounded a corner and whipped the car into a dizzying spin. He removed his arm from the back of the seat, rammed the gears, and we jerked forward.
“Are you okay?” I asked in German, peering over my seat to find Nigel crumpled onto the floorboards. When I didn’t get an answer, I repeated myself in English.
His head popped up. “Is he gone?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“What the devil was that?” He winced, climbing back onto the seat.
“Drunk, disgruntled employee, I suspect.” I returned my attention to John. “Excellent driving, sergeant.”
It was then that I realized he was driving with one hand. His right hand gripped his left arm so tightly the knuckles had turned white. He stared forward, unblinking, with a painful grimace marring his pointed features.
Chapter Twenty-two
Nurse Nightingale
“Bloody hell, you’re hit,” Nigel exclaimed.
“I’ll be fine,” John said through clenched teeth.
We zipped over a hill that had me coming off my seat and my stomach performing a flip-flop.
“Do you know how to use a stick shift?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I need you to shift when I clutch. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course.”
We approached a long curve. Feinberg clutched. “Third,” he ordered and I downshifted.
“Nigel, dig up that scarf you were wearing. See if you can wrap it around his arm.”
Once we hit a straightaway, John held his left arm above his head while driving with the right, and Nigel did the best he could to wrap up the injury from the back seat. For the next bit of time, the sergeant and I worked as a team—clutching and shifting. He took several turnings to get us off the main route and as far from the accident as possible. However, it wasn’t long before his shoulders drooped and energy began to flag. Blood seeped through the scarf, and even though every fiber in my body urged us onward, I knew we needed to stop to take care of the injury.
“Pull off at the next turning.” I pointed to a break in the trees, and soon we bumped to a stop along a goat track.
Feinberg’s head fell forward onto the steering wheel.
“Sergeant?” I shook his good shoulder but received no answer. “Nigel, pull out those clothes you were wearing earlier. We’re going to need them.”
When I opened the driver’s side door, John slid toward me and his weight almost had us both falling to the ground. With Nigel’s help, I pushed John across the seat, untied the bloody scarf, and set about removing his overcoat and suit jacket to finally get down to the white shirt, also covered in blood. A little hole stood out among the stains. The bullet hole. Using two fingers, I ripped the shirt apart to reveal a gruesome gash where the gunshot had left behind a jagged trench, about three inches long, burrowing across the flesh of his bicep. Blood pumped out of the injury.
I’d seen gunshot wounds before but never in such proximity. Bile rose in my throat. I held a hand to my mouth and, pushing Nigel out of the way, staggered off the track but didn’t manage to make it more than a few steps before folding over and vomiting.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. The red armband with the swastika appeared in my line of vision, and I used it to wipe my mouth.
“Knew we’d find a good use for that.” Nigel snorted. His hazel gaze studied me. He was so close I could see the freckles dotted along his nose. “You look pale.”
“I feel better. I’ll be fine now.” Breathing through my mouth, I girded myself to look at the wound again. The second time wasn’t as bad as the first—though still a ghastly sight. The contents in my stomach remained there.
“Do you have field medical training?” I asked Nigel.
“Sorry, no. What about you, any nursing?”
I shook my head.
Luckily, the bullet had not buried itself in his arm, and a visual inspection of his coat showed a secondary tear where it must have exited. I needed to do something the stop the bleeding and try to close the wound. Nigel’s brown shirt came in handy. I used the sleeve to tie a tourniquet above the cut, slowing the blood loss to an anemic ooze.
“Nigel, in my handbag you’ll find what looks like a green coin purse with little flowers embroidered along it.”
“This?” He held up the miniature sewing kit.
“Yes, and check under the hood to see if there is anything else we can use.”
While Nigel searched the bonnet, I used my lighter to sanitize the needle.
“Here’s something that might come in handy.” He hobbled over with a roll of tape, and together we stared at the injury. “Poor sod.”
There was no sulfa or penicillin to give John, not even a shot of medicinal whiskey to disinfect the wound. Truth be told, I could have used a shot of the Dutch courage myself. There were, however, mounds of untouched snow along the banks of the track we’d turned down. My tote bag revealed a forgotten half-full bottle of fizzy lemon drink, which Nigel happily finished while gathering small dry sticks and laying them out for a fire. Unfortunately, John had left the newspaper behind on the train, and I resorted to tearing pages from my book—a sacrilege—to use as kindling.
Eventually, the snow melted and bubbled merrily in the glass. I gave Nigel my gloves to pick up the hot bottle, and we used it to disinfect the thread. Once the water cooled down to a bearable heat, we poured it into the gash, which, unfortunately, jolted John o
ut of his stupor. He proceeded to mutter expletives, and apologies for his language, through gritted teeth as Nigel held the arm steady and I fumbled with my amateur suturing skills. My hands shook as I sewed the appalling laceration, cringing every time I worked the needle in and out of his skin. The stitches ran a bit uneven, reminding me of Frankenstein’s monster, but they held together and stopped the bleeding. I prayed infection wouldn’t set in. We made a pad with my handkerchief, and Nigel held it in place while I wrapped it up with tape. Surgery complete, John flopped across the front seats, his face white and damp with perspiration.
Nigel leaned against the hood, looking a bit green around the gills. “Have you a pack of fags?”
“Check my handbag.” I stared at the blood on my palms and in the cracks of my trembling fingers; it reminded me the downed air force pilot I cut out of the trees. I fell to my knees and buried my hands deep into a snow mound. The wintry crystals turned pink and numbed my hands. I scrubbed, using the pant leg from Nigel’s former outfit, but no matter how hard I wiped, there remained remnants of the blood around my cuticles.
“Give up, love. It won’t wash without soap.” Nigel stared up at the sky. He must have found the cigarettes, for smoke wafted upwards, creating a cloudy halo above his head. “We had best get moving if we are to make the train.”
I brushed a stray wisp of hair from my eyes. “I am afraid that plan is shot. Even if we can get John back into the overcoat and make him presentable, I’ve no idea where we are. We’ll never make the train in time.”
Nigel took another drag as he digested the revelations. “Now that the original plan is buggered, what is the new plan?”
I rose and dusted the snow from my knees. “It will have to be the car. Let’s hope my stocking holds up and the petrol holds out. We’ll have to see if we can find our location on the map.”
With help, John was relegated to the back seat and bundled into his overcoat. I thanked the heavens his overcoat was black, hiding the telltale blood. Nigel and I pored over the map.
