War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 22
Colin approached the gatehouse to the base, giving a wave and not intending to slow, but the guard stepped in front of him and blocked his route.
“Whoa there, buddy. I need you to stop,” said the private. “Let me let them know you’re here.” He picked up his radio.
“What it is, sir? I’m Colin Clarke. I’m usually with Hugo and they always wave us through. They know us here. Is something wrong? Is Lieutenant Philip okay?”
“He is son. He’s coming right now.”
Jack strode toward the guardhouse, uniform cap low on his brow, cigarette clenched tight in his teeth. He signed the visitor’s log and tilted his head toward his barracks, signaling for Colin to follow. Colin walked his bicycle to the Nissen hut, his worry accelerating with each sympathetic look he earned from the airmen they passed on the way.
“What is it, Jack?” he implored. “What’s happened?”
They sat on Jack’s cot, side by side, Jack placing his broad hand on the boy’s neck. Colin saw a series of deep red gashes across his forearm, along with several large bandages. “Colin, buddy. We lost Buck,” he said, staring straight ahead.
Colin felt his throat constrict, bile moving up from his stomach. “What do you mean? He didn’t make it home? Did he bail? What happened?”
“We got hit over Dresden. Artillery fire came right through the windshield and got him. Lost one of the waist gunners too when the engine came apart. He was all cut up. We couldn’t save either of them. We tried but… no idea how the rest of us made it back.” He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one.
Not Buck, who had taught them so much about flight and modern avionics—who explained things so clearly, so patiently. With whom they had laughed and joked during so many Saturday meals, hearing about Chicago and his family there and how he couldn’t wait to return to write for the Tribune. Colin heaved a deep, guttural breath and began to cry the tears he had not been able to shed for his own father. Jack pulled him close.
“Purple heart corner?” Colin asked.
“No, it wasn’t even that. It was just a vicious defense of the target and one we didn’t completely expect. The Luftwaffe is limited now. They don’t have the planes and pilots they had three years ago, so they’ve consolidated their defenses over some key strategic areas. They’re not going to let this thing end easily. Never experienced anti-aircraft fire like that—just ruthless pounding. Tells me they’re on the ropes. But it’s still costing us. In a big way.”
“How’d you get back? You got all the way home with a bad engine?”
Jack gave a sad smile. “It’s what Boeing built these rigs to do. And after twenty-three missions with ole Buck Myers, there ain’t much I don’t know about handling a Fortress. I think Buck ran me through just about every set of variables we could face, so we’d be prepared for anything, have the best chance to get back. The Gator’s shot up to hell, but she’ll fly again once the engine’s replaced. And the windshield. And, well, there’s a lot of interior cleanup to do.” He paused, lifting his eyes to Colin’s. “We made it back because Buck was a stubborn cuss who made sure we were prepared, that I would always know what to do. And wanna know the worst part? I’m getting promoted over this, for making it back with the aircraft and saving seven lives. They’re awarding me a Distinguished Flying Cross. All I can think about is the two buddies we lost, but the Army Air Corps sees it differently. It’s really Buck, not me, who deserves the credit for gettin’ us back to Kimbolton.”
“Captain Jack Philip,” Colin said, rubbing the heels of his hands under his eyes, trying in vain to erase the tears that continued to fall.
“Yeah. Captain Philip. Helluva way to get promoted.”
“I can’t believe this. Hugo and the twins—this will break their hearts. But I want to tell you… I am so glad you survived. So very thankful. For myself… and my mum.”
“Well, that’s mighty kind of you to say, Colin,” said Jack, his voice husky. “It’s a generous thing for you to say. I’m glad I made it. And I’m glad you’re glad. I guess we’ll have to stick together to get through the rest of this mess, huh? Deal?”
They shook on it, clasping hands then embracing before Colin turned to leave. At the door, he had a sudden thought. “Does my mother know?”
“Calling her tonight.”
Colin nodded. “Who will tell his parents, Jack? You?”
“The army sends a couple of officers to the house but yes, I’ll be writing them a letter about what happened.”
“Could I, do you think, write them too? Just to tell them how much better Buck made everything for us here. All the things I learned from him about flying. So they know that he was our American and everything?”
“Absolutely. You’d be doing them a kindness. Maybe I can put your note in with mine.”
. . .
Colin would not share the news about Buck with his Elsworth family yet. Hugo and Ivy had a right to joyfully celebrate Lieutenant Hughes’ homecoming, so he resolved to put a smile on his face and bear up for the welcome tonight and the next number of days as needed. He pulled his bicycle up to the house as dusk settled in and looked at the dark house, the interior light hidden by the blackout curtains. What joy must be taking place inside right now, he thought. He entered and there, seated on the sofa, he saw an older version of Hugo. Marigold was ensconced in his lap while Margaret and Patsy perched on either side of him, explaining the plot of Margaret’s latest story. (It was a wartime adventure featuring twins who were spies.) Wills rose, his hand extended.
“My other son, is it? Colin, I’m Hugo’s dad,” he said, an utterly superfluous statement.
“Yes, sir.” They shook hands. “Hello and welcome back, sir. Are you well, then? They’ve treated you alright in all of this?”
“Surprisingly so, yes. I’m in one piece. As are Hugo and my wife, thanks in large measure, I believe to you. They say you’ve been a champ here, helping with the two young ones.”
“We’re not awfully young now,” said Patsy, scooping the cat to her side.
“I hope I’ve done my part, sir,” said Colin, chuckling a bit, “keeping them in line, you know,” evincing loud protestations from both girls.
“Indeed, you have. More than ought to be asked of you.”
Hugo emerged from the kitchen with a tray holding whiskey for his father and mother and Coca-Colas for the rest of them. “Colin! We’re having a toast to Dad,” he said. “Tried to talk mom into letting us have a spot of whiskey to celebrate but, well, she said no.”
Ivy followed, bearing a basket of salted crackers and a wedge of cheese. Already, Colin saw, there was a different aspect to her face, to Hugo’s. The worry that had knotted their foreheads, dulled the light in their eyes, had been chased away by Wills’ return. In its place, Colin saw hope and relief, bliss wrought by the miracle that stood before them. Even on this day, when he had learned of Buck’s fate, it seemed possible, just slightly possible, for there to be happy moments once more in the world. It was not the unbounded, limitless joy that he had once believed, as a little boy, life to be—one adventure after another, more exciting than the last, the sky’s the limit—but it was enough. There could still be bursts of pleasure.
A knock at the door heralded the vicar and Dorothy Dowd, delivering the promised biscuits for after dinner. At the sight of Elsworth’s butcher, Reverend Dowd laid a hand on each shoulder, his booming voice lifting in a prayer of thanksgiving, the rest of them freezing in place as he did so, Margaret with one eye opened, peeking to take in the scene. The vicar’s voice grew weak and whispery and the tears dropped down his face and off his mutton chops as he thanked God and William himself for his role in seeing the vicar’s grandson to safety. As he finished, he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and offered apologies.
“Took me by surprise, that one,” he said, as Patsy sidled up and took his hand.
“Quite alright, Reverend,” she assured him. “You’re entitled to be a bit weepy these days, just like the rest of us. Jesus wept, you know. It’s in the Bible.”
“Yes, I’m rather aware, Patsy. But I do so appreciate the reminder,” said the vicar, bowing officiously, allowing her to reach up and give his wet beard a pat.
The Dowds declined to stay for dinner, but did raise a toast to Wills before they departed. Over their meal, the succulent roast surprising Wills utterly in its competent preparation, he recounted what he could about his work in France, general truths that would not give too much away about particular methods as there were still plenty of people behind the lines in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and elsewhere whom partisans were still passing through the network. He shared details of his own accidental escape, of his time with Albert and his family, of Sylvi’s bravery and finding Gilles in Paris. He left out, on this night of nights, how Albert and Ginette had met their end. The children were enthralled, Hugo saying again and again “just WAIT ‘til the mates hear this” while Ivy sat chin in hand, gazing at her long-lost husband. She was proud of him, certainly, but she was still weighing the cost of his protracted absence, his choosing to stay in the most dangerous kind of work. How had he not grown desperate to get to them—his own family? It was almost unbelievable to her, this man with whom she shared a child and a simple, unremarkable life, becoming a spy, his clandestine activities spanning years.
Colin cleared his throat. “I’ve another question,” he said. “You knew my dad at Calais.”
The room grew very quiet. “I did, in fact, yes, Colin. We had no idea that you’d come to Elsworth, of course, but I remember your father as a very brave sort. The battle at Calais was buggered up from the start.” Patsy’s eyes grew wide at his profanity, and she leaned into Margaret’s shoulder, stifling a giggle as Ivy swatted her husband’s arm. “Yes, sorry. My apologies. Anyway, our forces were no match for the Germans, but your dad, Colin, even as things were getting worse and worse, he remained steady and calm. He stayed on the front lines protecting the garrison when, I’m a bit ashamed to say, some members of the French army and even some Brits managed to sneak away and head inland. No telling what happened to them because we surely didn’t have any escape routes in play then. But your dad, when he could have hung back behind all the privates, stayed up with them. He never quit until the Nazis charged our location.”
“What about after you were captured?”
“I was with him about a month after that, as we were marched into northern France and then Germany. We learned pretty quickly that the enemy was brutal, unsparing. But the men looked up to your father, him being a bit older and having a reassuring way about him.”
“That does sound like dad,” agreed Colin. “Something trustworthy about him, I’d say.”
“Sounds like you, Colin,” said Ivy. “I’d say you’re much the same way.”
“I know, I know. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that.” Colin waggled a finger at Ivy. “We all see what you’re doing here.” He smiled.
. . .
That night, Ivy laughed as she entered her bedroom, seeing that the girls had relocated their palettes to the boys’ room to afford her and her husband some privacy. The moment the door was closed, Wills swept her up into his arms, his chin resting on her head, taking in her scent, so warm, familiar. Feeling just the slightest bit of resistance, he pulled back and she stood primly before him. Was she feeling shy after all this time? Reluctant to give herself to him?
“What is it?” he asked. “Ivy?”
“I’m sorry, Wills. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to act this way. I told myself not to. But before… before we go on, I need to understand. Because,” and here the tears came unbidden, “I could never abandon you for so long and leave you to wonder and worry as I’ve had to do. I am proud of you, my husband, so proud. But knowing I was less important than the excitement you found in France…”
“Ivy. Oh, Ivy. It was never that. Never the thrill of it. I didn’t do it because I felt a lesser commitment to you and Hugo. I did it because the only way you and our son will be free is if we beat these bastards. If we do not prevail, our way of life is over and to not fight in the best way I could would be consigning our boy to a life run by tyrants. I wanted to come home to you, take a respite from the war, but I was so grateful to have my life, grateful to the strangers who sacrificed everything for me, that I had to stay and do what I could. Albert and Ginette? The couple who saved me? What I didn’t tell the children is that the Nazis executed them, caught them with evidence they’d been passing people through the lines.”
Ivy’s hands covered to her mouth. She leaned her head heavily into his chest. “God bless them,” she whispered.
Wills’ voice grew quiet. “Every man I got out of France was one who could return to battle—fliers, mostly, far more skilled in warfare than I was at my capture. These are the men who will win the war. And the families, Ivy, the hunted, forsaken families who came to us because they had no other hope. It’s because of what we have here, because of our precious family and the safe and happy life we’ve known—I had to give others a chance to have that too. The Nazis have no regard for anyone but themselves. It was my duty—to my country, yes, but also to you and Hugo—to stay in France and fight. Not because I didn’t love you well enough, but because I had to do everything in my power to make the world safe for you. Because I love you that much.”
She pulled back from his embrace to look him in the eye. And because of her practical nature, cultivated and sustained by the people of Elsworth, and the steadfast optimism that had attracted him to her in the first place and had carried her through the worst moments of this war, she pronounced her questions answered. She would not spend another minute wondering. Because if she had learned anything, it was that time was limited; the future was not promised. Best to make the most of the present.
With a gleam in her eye, she requested that her husband unbutton her dress and remove her underclothes and shoes, as well as his own, and climb into bed with her because it was well-nigh past time they become reacquainted. Her manner—flirty, bossy, direct—would have shocked the children. Always one to fulfill his duty as he saw it, Wills obliged, picking her up in his arms and laying her gently on the faded eiderdown quilt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land,
drawing no dividend from time’s tomorrows.
֪–Siegfried Sassoon
Inside the Reich, 1944
The twin Swastika flags on the Mercedes’ hood grew stiff in the blowing snow, the small rectangles of fabric, the angry slash of black, potential guarantors of safe passage. The escapees took a circuitous route out of Sagan, formulated during Gordon’s many rides to the manor house, aided by maps Clara furnished, information Annalise gathered in her strategic visits to Reinhard’s office, and intelligence provided by paratroopers infiltrating Poland. Gordon wore their one good German officer’s cap and the uniform coat the commandant had no idea he’d donated. The others positioned themselves under blankets and would pretend to doze at the checkpoints ahead. The fallback plan would be to shoot their way through with the two handguns they possessed—hardly a failsafe and an option they hoped not to exercise. Each was equipped with a forged Ausweis that identified them as Heer soldiers, ostensibly members of an engineering battalion headed to the southernmost boundary of the Reich to reconnoiter and recommend the men and resources needed to hold it. It was a flimsy cover that would work only if they lucked up on border guards who lacked imagination or were easily bullied by higher-ranking officers in a luxury sedan.
Fifteen kilometers from town stood the first checkpoint. Well in advance, Gordon pulled the car behind a ramshackle barn so the mission team could make some adjustments, placing Annalise in the car’s boot, along with the smallest British escapee, Sergeant Melvin McGruder. His job was to keep her from screaming or banging a foot on the inside of the boot to draw attention. The sergeant rather liked this assignment, wrapping his arms and legs around a gorgeous, writhing female, climbing on top of her as necessary to keep her quiet. He took readily to the task.
Each man had been selected for this mission based on his skills and background. Graham Fletcher was the BEF private Gordon had served with since Calais, the man who first alerted Lieutenant Colonel Herbert that Gordon had fallen seriously ill with typhus. After four years in the camp, he spoke a serviceable German, and his light-blonde hair and blue eyes could potentially delay the detection of his nationality. The two Americans—a sergeant and a captain—were airmen shot down soon after DeGaulle made his triumphant return to Paris. Captain Floyd Harris was a pilot and wing commander who knew the terrain of the European Theater of Operations better than most. He had completed twenty missions in his B-17, bombing runs on the ordnance depot at Magdeburg, the synthetic oil refinery at Regensburg, the marshaling yards in the Ruhr among them. An aeronautical engineer by training, his navigational instincts had been sharpened in hours of detailed pre- and post-mission briefings. Sergeant Al Balducci, Junior was a waist gunner from Philadelphia who was on his twenty-fifth and final mission when his plane was shot down. Al joked he had the record for the shortest length of evasion from the enemy: a line of Nazi soldiers, rifles raised, had calmly tracked the descent of his parachute as it deposited him into the center of their column. They had cut off his chute, picked him up, and marched him several miles to headquarters, the German platoon sergeant happy to accept Al’s offer of a Camel cigarette. Sergeant Balducci was far more fortunate than the plane’s tail gunner: after parachuting into a wheat field, he was pitchforked to death by a group of infuriated German farmers. A storied sharpshooter, Al carried one of the Lugars.
Gordon approached the checkpoint, the six forged IDs tucked in the visor, gun on his hip. The men pulled their blankets to their chins, eyes scanning for signs of danger, hands gripping the door handles in case they had to move quickly. But as Gordon slowed the staff car and moved to roll down his window, the Nazi guard simply saluted and waved them through. In the cold snow, he was not eager to leave the relative warmth of his guard house to review the travel documents of what appeared to be high-ranking Nazi officers. Gordon gave a quick nod and drove on.
