by Mary Hagen
Unfortunately for the African troops, Rommel returned to Germany for health reasons. General von Arnim took over. Shortages of fuel became a real problem for the new general, but he persisted, planning to stop the Allies with his strong defensive line. Penn was not certain von Arnim would reach his goal.
Penn watched his mechanic ready his plane for take-off. He couldn’t help but think what a stupid mistake Hitler had made, ordering his pilots to protect the retreating troops with what air power they had left. For every plane they had, the British had five, and the Luftwaffe was short of pilots. Although the odds were stacked against them, he would do what he could.
He uncrossed his legs and trotted to his plane, wanting to say goodbye to the best mechanic in the squadron. Josh had informed him earlier, he intended to turn himself over to the British should they break through Rommel’s line. Penn would miss him if the Allies broke through their defenses. Penn stopped short of his goal. The wind carried a rumble he recognized and dreaded, the hum of airplanes. Three bursts of anti-aircraft exploded at the edge of the airfield confirming the air raid.
Penn raced to his tent, grabbed his life preserver in one hand and his flight helmet in the other, and sprinted across the runway toward his plane. The droning grew louder. He glanced up and saw the tell-tale white crosses on the underside of the wings of British Spitfires flying toward him. Slipping into his life preserver as he ran, he found Josh waiting with the starter handle ready to crank his plane.
Penn climbed into the cockpit as a red flare arched across the sky. Penn signaled Josh to crank the plane to life. With a cough, and a wheeze the engine caught and purred to life. He taxied down to the runway, revved his engine, and streaked down the runway leaving the doomed camp behind. Before taking off, he caught sight of bomb bays opening. Lifting off the runway, his plane settled into a familiar powerful hum. He took a chance and turned the nose of his plane straight up passing through the bombers.
Leveling out, he turned his machine gun on the tail of one of the bombers and let loose. The bomber slid sideways, shook, and struggled to maneuver under and way from Penn. Below him, bombs exploded sending brilliant fire flashes upward. Fighters that could not get off the ground evaporated in bursts of flame. The big bombers with four motors, dropped bomb after bomb, pounding the airfield.
He caught sight of a Spitfire diving toward him, and he did a roll to meet the fighter head on. The Spitfire dropped below him out of sight. Penn looked back in time to observe one of the pilots who had made it off the airfield burst into flame and plummet toward the ground. Which friend had just lost his life?
He didn’t stand a chance against the Spitfires diving toward him without support from his fellow pilots. The bombers continued their run. They were so numerous, it seemed the bombing would never end as they blew up planes on the ground, turned tents into furnaces, and the runway into pockets of holes. Penn despaired the bombing would never end. Eventually, they exhausted their pay loads and turned back to their airbases. Penn held his breath praying the Spitfires would follow. They did not.
Because his plane had a narrow undercarriage, it could be difficult to maneuver but he learned to overcome the shortcoming. With the plane’s fuel-injected engine, it could climb faster than the Spitfire and dive without fear of the engine cutting out. Penn weighed his options and put the plane into a dive, pulling out underneath the Spitfires. Heading out to sea, he stayed low and flew fast hoping to outrun any pursuers. Suddenly his plane jolted as bullets peppered the skin of his plane. He had been hit.
He made a quick check of his gauges. They passed his inspection. Another burst of fire and his plane rocked violently. Smoke billowed out of his motor. Just then, he felt a sharp, burning pain in his right arm. A brief glance at his arm revealed blood oozing through his sleeve. He attempted to lift it but could not. His plane lost altitude. Without hesitation, he pushed open his cockpit with his good arm, pulled the valve on his life raft, and threw it out of his plane. As soon as his plane was a few feet from crashing, he jumped abandoning his aircraft.
He hit the water hard. Blood colored the area around him. He fought the blackness threatening to overpower him and searched for his raft. It bobbed gently on the waves not far from him. Collecting his willpower and his strength, he side-stroked to the raft, and pulled himself into it. Looking up, he watched the one lone Spitfire fly over his raft, wave his wings, turn, and head for land.
He tried to find the paddle, but his arm hurt and he screamed. Where was he? How far from land? His last thought as he fell against the side of the raft was of Hannah as he called out to her, “Be careful, my love. Remember me. Survive for us.”
~ ~ ~
A gentle but warm breeze ruffled the white curtains at the small window. The smell of iodine and the high squawks of birds penetrated the blue painted room. Penn tried to push through the dense fog enveloping him with his arm that was impossible to lift. As he opened his eyes, he caught sight of Hannah saying something to him he could not hear. He reached out to touch her, but his hand was strapped against a heavy object. Struggling against the weight was of no use. He turned his head to ask her for help. There was no one. He cried out her name but she was gone.
He rotated toward a window trying to clear his foggy brain and determine where he was. Again, he attempted to lift his right arm, and realized it was bound against his chest. Was he a prisoner?
With effort, he raised his head off the hard pillow, then fell back as dizziness overcame him. He lay still to control the nauseous feeling in his stomach. The sickness passed. Moving his head away from the wall, he surveyed the room as best he could, and searched for Hannah. His uniform hung from a hook, washed and pressed. His flight boots rested under them, toes pointed toward the wall, but no Hannah. Had he imagined her? A small table with a wash basin and pitcher stood under the window. One chair sat in the corner, next to a scratched and chipped door.
He pressed his chin into his chest and examined his arm. White bandages ran from his knuckles to his shoulder but left his elbow free to bend. There were no chains anchoring him to the bed. His arm was in a sling. Slowly, his mind cleared and the memory of what had happened came to him. He remembered making it into his life raft, and seeing the last Spitfire, but after that nothing. He must have floated to land and been rescued, but in what country? Was he in Africa? On an island? Possibly Sicily, Greece, or the toe of Italy?
Penn wanted to get to his feet and look out the window, to see the land around him, and figure out where he was. With his lips pressed tight, he struggled to sit up again. Lifting his head, he pushed against the headboard with his back, but could not keep the position. His head was woozy and swarmed with flies, his stomach unsettled, and his legs numb. Sharp knives stabbed at his arm, and he gratefully gave in to the blackness overcoming him.
When he woke, it was dark. He called out in a husky voice unfamiliar to his ears, “Anyone here? Can you help me?” Lying still, he listened for footsteps, a voice answering his call. His heart raced in his chest and sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he alone? Left behind as the Germans fled Tunisia? Left to end up in the hands of the Allies who could at this very moment be mopping up after the end of the battle.
The sound of feet scuffling outside the window and a door opening filtered into the room. He held his breath, anticipating the worse, hoping for the best. The knob rattled and as the door slid inward, it scraped on the floor. Penn turned his head. A man dressed in baggy wool pants held up with a rope around his waist, a worn blue shirt, and shabby leather boots stood in the doorway. He carried a candle. Penn tipped his head back and saw a kind face framed by a bushy gray beard, equally bushy eyebrows, and hair that reached to his shoulders. Deep wrinkles on his face were crisscrossed with knotted veins, and blackheads covered his large nose
Penn said in a hoarse voice, “Hello.” Then he coughed out a laugh at how ridiculous his hello sounded
.
“You back in the world,” the old man said in broken German.
“Where am I?”
“Sicily.” He handed Penn a cup of water. “Haven’t got medicine, but this might help clear your head.”
“What else can you tell me?” Penn sipped the tepid water. It settled his stomach and he pushed up on his good elbow.
“The Germans getting ready to pull out by way of El Alamein.”
“How can I get to Messina? I can’t stay here.”
“Well, if you can get yourself dressed, I’ll hitch my donkey to my cart and take you.”
“Don’t you want to evacuate with the Germans, the Italians?”
“The Italian forces have lost stomach for the war. The Germans will be here soon enough. I’m staying. This is my home.”
“Help me get to my feet. Then get your cart. I probably don’t have much time.”
“Nope. The Brits and Americans, if they beat us at El Alamein, will march into Messina.”
With the old man’s help, Penn stood. He wobbled on his feet, put his left fist on the cot to steady himself, shook his head to clear it, and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm. “Could you hand me my clothes, please,” Penn stuttered. “Thank you for washing them.”
“My wife. Your money, picture, and papers, what’s left of them after getting wet, are on the table.”
“I’ll leave some money for your effort.”
The man shrugged. “As you like. German Reich mark not going to be worth much if the Allies finish us in Tunisia and they come here. Mussolini fears them reaching Italy.”
Sitting on the edge of the cot, Penn struggled into his clothes, put money into his wallet after leaving some for the man, and picked up Hannah’s picture. It was wrinkled and the corners curled from the water. Her beautiful face with its half smile urged him to get to safety. He touched it to his lips before straightening the bends as best he could with the back of his hand and putting the precious photo in the pocket of his shirt.
Stepping out of the door, he reached for the low wall that ran between the houses for support to steady himself. The old man pulled alongside the wall. Penn managed to step over it without passing out and climb into the seat of the two-wheel cart. He gritted his teeth as the cart rattled and bounced over a narrow track, shooting daggers up and down his arm.
Fortunately, the distance to Messina was short. When the old man reached the evacuation location for the wounded, he reigned his mule to a halt. Penn thanked him profusely for his care and help.
“Good luck to you. If you don’t know, you ought to. We’ve lost the war. Don’t like the thought. Sicily won't last long. I expect the next battleground will be Italy. You Germans, you’d do well to surrender along with the Italians, and stop the killing. Mussolini has been ousted.”
No surprise registered in Penn’s thoughts at the man’s words. He believed what he said about the war was true, but until he had Hannah in his arms, he had to continue with his role in the death and destruction. He would live to find her.
“I’ll be given leave until my arm is better, so I’ll go to Berlin and my home.” Penn climbed from the cart by hanging on to the rim of the wheel. He hit the ground swayed on his feet, shook his head to clear the dizziness, and left the old man after a quick handshake.
Weaving his way to the clerk taking roll of the evacuees to be sent to Italy, he used whatever he could grab for balance. A corporal who appeared too young to be a soldier offered to help him.
“Need an arm to lean on, Captain?” he asked. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Nasty business, this running like scared rabbits, but I guess we haven’t much choice.”
“Thank you,” Penn said. “You’re in the tank division?”
“Yes. Too bad Rommel got sick. He’s one fine general.”
Penn made no comment. He did not disagree with the corporal. Rommel did not receive replacement tanks, supplies, and fuel he needed to win against the allies. These shortcomings, all thanks to Hitler who would listen to no one, made their fight impossible. To utter any words against him was certain death so he kept his opinions to himself. He glanced at the corporal leading him to the ship with pity for him and what he faced. After checking with the sergeant who added his name to the list of wounded, the corporal helped him board the ship.
Once Penn was aboard and settled in a seat between two ambulatory injured men like himself, the corporal said his goodbye. “Good luck to you, sir. Keep the bastard allies out of the sky. We’ll win this war yet. The Fuehrer knows what he’s doing. Heil Hitler.” He clicked his heels together and gave Penn a salute.
The men on either side of him did not lift their chins out of their collars to respond to the corporal with “Heil Hitler” nor did they glance at him. Both men wore the tank insignia and were bloodied presumably from the last battle they had fought. The skull of the man on his left was bandaged and his arm hung limp. To his right, the soldier’s face was streaked with blood and his hands were covered with dirt mixed with blood. From their state, Penn figured their medical care must have been performed quickly. That meant the Allies were advancing and gaining ground.
With sadness in his heart, Penn half-heartedly returned the corporal’s salute. His heart ached at the waste of lives in the battles to come. When he found Hannah, they would make their way to Spain, apply for asylum, and wait out the war away from Berlin and the hate that had taken over Germany. He snorted in frustration.
He glanced left and right to observe reactions from the soldiers at his unexpected snort. Penn attempted to get to his feet. He didn’t belong here. He had to get out, away from the smell of blood, urine, body sweat, and the groans carrying through the dark interior of the ship. His legs couldn’t support him, and he sat down hard on the bench. Sweat broke out on his forehead as thoughts of a torpedo from a British or American submarine patrolling the seas, blew a hole into the ship even if the distance to Italy was short.
He attempted to stand to find a life preserver. He had to find Hannah. A harsh laugh erupted deep from within him at his absurd situation. How stupid to make plans that collapsed into piles of dust as fast as they formed in the mind.
Chapter 16
Penn did not leave for Germany as he assumed. When he checked in with Squadron 7, new Bf109’s hidden in the shade of olive trees, were lined up. Mechanics in oil-stained T-shirts and short baggy khakis worked on the planes. Josh, he noted, was nowhere to be seen. Penn hoped he had not been killed in the bombing raid and would change his mind about surrendering to the Allies.
Italy was like the desert in one way, hot, but instead of sand there were trees and flowers. High scrub bushes grew next to small streams. Penn paused to check out the new planes. He heard one of the pilots say, “She’s still running hot.”
The mechanic leaned into the cockpit. “You’re imagining things. The gauges look good.”
“May I remind you, Buch died flying this plane. The new Daimler-Benz engine is prone to failure. It overheats.” The pilot shut down the plane that resembled a shark with its white belly and gray flanks and wings
“I’ll check it again,” the mechanic said.
Josh, Penn thought, would have the problem solved in a day at the most. He missed him and didn’t look forward to working with a new mechanic. In the meantime, he wondered what his orders would be. He was limited to what he could accomplish with his injured arm. His fingers curled into his palm, and he couldn’t straighten them.
They had been forced out of Milo, a small village with houses covered with flat roofs that lay to the north of the airfield. Mount Erice, a dusty massive peak with an ancient abandoned Norman castle, rose beyond the town.
As the sun rose over the Adriatic Sea, Penn caught a ride in a kubelwagen to the new Head Quarters near the small Italian airfield of San Vito. Only half of t
heir fighters remained, and they were camouflaged under netting. They continued to offer support to troops now in Sicily where the war went from bad to worse for the Germans. Before entering the office of the commander, Penn took a deep breath, attempted once again to straighten his arm. He took in the view from the airfield to the scattered farms around him.
His new commander was not much older than he. A handsome man, he had penetrating blue eyes, a firm no nonsense mouth, short, straight brown hair combed back from his forehead, and clear skin tanned by hours in the sun. When he stood, Penn was surprised at how short the man was. He had a well-muscled compact body as rigid as a newly cut board. When the commander spoke, his voice was deep and firm.
“Rudolf Bosch,” he said. “I have a report your stitches are out and you’re healing well. I’ll assign you to work with the mechanics until you’re ready to fly.” He shook Penn’s left hand with the strength of a bulldog. “I need you here. We’re short of pilots.”
“Yes, sir.” Disappointed, Penn left the tent. How could he return to Berlin and Hannah if he couldn’t go home for rehabilitation? Delusion overwhelmed him filling his stomach with acid making the order hard to swallow. He sniffed to stifle a sneeze. His muscles locked and he walked stiff-legged toward the planes. He needed a break but it wasn’t in the cards unless he deserted, and he didn’t know the country well enough to do so.
Over the next several days, Penn worked his fingers but they refused to straighten no matter how often he exercised with the tennis ball provided by his physician. Slowly, Penn came to the realization his fingers on his right hand might never straighten, might never again become strong enough to grip anything. His morale dropped to zero. He hated being grounded and working on the fast 109’s he longed to fly.
