Across a War-Tossed Sea (15 page)

A
bout eight o'clock that evening, Sheriff Bailey knocked on the Ratcliffs' door.

“Sorry to bother you, Andy, but two POWs in your work crew have run off. I was wondering if you might have some idea where they'd head.”

“What? No. Come on in, Matthew.” Mr. Ratcliff opened the screened door. The men stood in the hallway while all the boys crowded the living room doorway to listen.

“The POWs out on work details do this sometimes,” explained the sheriff. “Mostly they just go for a stroll and turn themselves in after a few hours of playing hooky. Like they were tourists or something. It's the dangdest thing. But I don't think that's what happened with these two.”

Wesley felt a sudden cold river of anxiety flush through him as he eavesdropped. What if that bully Nazi had found Freddy's map? He might be on his way to sabotage an important air force secret project! And it'd be his fault! He tugged on his brother's sleeve. “Charles, I may have done a bad thing.”

Charles waved him off, listening to the sheriff.

“After leaving your farm, the driver pulled into Mike's station for gas. The guard let the POWs go inside while he bought himself a candy bar.” He laughed in a snort. “I wouldn't want to be in that fellow's shoes tonight. The camp CO is pretty riled. Anyhoo, they all got back into the truck, except one.”

Mr. Ratcliff nodded. “One of them was real trouble, Matthew, a Hitler diehard. Massive guy, stupid grin, nasty attitude. I can see him lighting out just to cause trouble. Know the one I mean?”

“I do. He caused quite a ruckus there at the station when the guard realized he'd lost one. The guy you're describing, a Corporal Krautwald, knocked the guard over and ran into the woods and got away.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Nope,” the sheriff said. “Like I said, I think that guard's going to be on KP duty the rest of his life. No, the one who'd run off first was a little fellow.” The sheriff opened up his notebook. “Hmmmm. A boy named Günter Schmitt.”

“You don't say?” Mr. Ratcliff stuck out his lower lip out, thinking. “That boy's no Nazi, Matthew. He saved my youngest two today, and the pilot, when that trainee plane crash-landed in our fields. Fact is, I worried that fanatical Nazi corporal would jump on the chance to beat up that kid as fast as a duck jumps a june bug.”

“Yup, I know. There's been some trouble at the camps with Hitler true-believers terrorizing regular German soldiers. Plus, a few so-called suicides I wonder about.”

Mr. Ratcliff let out a low whistle. “I wonder if that's why Günter ran off to begin with.”

“Well.” The sheriff put his hat back on. “I need to locate them both, fast. Got some boys helping me comb the woods. Like to come?”

“Let me get my rifle,” Mr. Ratcliff answered.

“I'll come too,” Bobby volunteered.

“No way, son.” Mr. Ratcliff put his hand on Bobby's shoulder and pulled him aside so the sheriff couldn't hear. “They'll be a bunch of trigger-happy old-timers out to prove they're still patriots. I'm more worried about them than the POWs. You stay here and watch after your mama and Patsy. There was a Nazi who got away from Camp Pickett and attacked a woman in Burkeville before they caught him. Like I said, I can't imagine that boy Günter doing anything bad. But that other one?” He shook his head. “That one's full of hate.”

“All right, troops.” Bobby took over as soon as his father left. “Johnny, you stand post on the back porch with Ron. Jamie, you come up the drive with me to watch the road. Chuck, you and Wes patrol the barns.” He took a shotgun from the closet and handed one to Charles and one to Ron. “Okay, men…”

“Hold on, boys!” Patsy stopped them. “You're overreacting a bit, aren't you? Two runaway POWs don't exactly make up an invasion force.”

That finally gave Wesley the chance to speak up. “I think I know where one of them will go.”

“Where's that?” asked Charles and Bobby at the same time.

“Well, you see…” He stalled, knowing his big brother would be furious at him for letting a Jerry capture a secret map. “Well, it's like this. Freddy told me about some hush-hush military project just east of the air base, at Elko. The army took over acres and acres of land to build
something
. We thought it might be a secret rocket project or something exciting, like in
Flash
Gordon
.” He shrugged. “We just wanted to see.”

“Wesley, honey,” Patsy interrupted gently. “What does that have to do with the POWs?”

“Oh, right-o. Well…” Wesley looked nervously from face to face. “Well, earlier today Freddy traced the route on a map to show me how to get there. But this afternoon, after all the hubbub, he couldn't find it. And…and…that POW Günter might have heard us talking about it.”

“
God's teeth
, Wes!” Charles exploded. “You know the dangers of being a busybody! What if ninny-gnat gossips had snooped around the D-day troops hiding at Southampton? The invasion might have been completely spoilt. What if there's something really important being made at Elko and you've just handed that information to the Jerries?”

Wesley felt like he might burst into tears.

“Why didn't you tell the sheriff about this?” Bobby asked.

“I…I…I was too embarrassed.”

“Well, it's too late now anyway,” Bobby said, holding up his hand to stop Charles from exploding again. “They're gone. What do you think we should do, Chuck?”

Charles turned to Patsy. “When we were plane watching, didn't the Civilian Air Defense tell us we might see aircraft heading in that direction?”

She thought a moment. “You're right, they did. Mr. Ewell said there was something around Elko the air force would use for diversion in case of an attack on Richmond.”

“We've got to head up there,” Charles announced. “We've got to go right now. We've got to catch those Nazis. Come on! We'll be heroes!”

“Right!” Bobby clapped his hands together, like he did in a football huddle once he set the next play. “Wait a minute.” He hesitated. “I promised Daddy that I'd guard the house and the womenfolk.” He frowned with obvious disappointment.

“Humph.”
Patsy retreated into the kitchen and re-emerged holding a heavy cast-iron frying pan. She held it up with some menace. “As if Mama and I can't handle ourselves. She's a better shot with the rifle than you are, Bobby. I'll tell the twins I need their protection so they stay here out of trouble. Go on now. Shoo!”

“Lean over! I can't see!” Ron pushed Freddy to one side.

Freddy clung to the handlebars of Ron's bike as he sat on it and rested his back against Ron to keep from falling off. His legs dangled on either side of the front wheel. Wesley and Charles followed on another bike, with Bobby bringing up the rear, three rifles strapped to his back.

“Take this turn.” Freddy pointed.

The boys leaned and swerved, top-heavy, onto White Oak Road.

“Almost there,” he shouted.

Thank God, thought Wesley. He was sitting on handlebars too, and his butt was falling asleep, tingling with painful pinpricks. But he wasn't about to ask Charles to stop. His brother was pedaling like a madman. Even Bobby was starting to lag, but Charles pushed him on.

“Hurry! We've got to hurry,” Charles urged, fighting against the burning pain in his own legs.

Finally, he had the chance to do something to avenge his homeland, his school chums, his neighbors. Finally, he had a way to make up for his stupidity in running away and then getting so sick. He'd catch those accursed German POWs and bring them to justice. The Ratcliffs would be seen as heroes. He'd bring honor, not embarrassment, to them.

Just like the night he'd run away, a silvery full moon glittered in the black sky. But unlike that disastrous night, no clouds were gathering. The stars shone brightly, like a heavenly candelabra of light. The boys could see easily up the dirt road.

“Train tracks ahead,” Freddy called. “Stop here.”

Bobby, Charles, and Ron skidded to a halt. Freddy and Wesley climbed off the bars, rubbing their butts.

“There was a guard over the tracks last time I was here,” Freddy whispered. “But I don't see anyone now.”

“We better split up,” said Bobby, “to cover ground faster. Isn't there a swamp and a creek over the other side of the tracks?”

Freddy nodded. “The soldiers put down a log bridge over the creek.”

“Okay, men,” ordered Bobby. “We'll cross and then fan out. Let's go!”

The sound of their footsteps on the rough log bridge was completely covered by the high-pitched chorus of spring peepers in the swamp's inky waters. There must be thousands of them, thought Wesley. He waved his arms against the mosquitoes that whined in swarms around his ears, accidentally whacking Ron.

“Move over!” Ron elbowed him.

“Shhhhhh!”
Bobby and Charles shushed him.

Once on the other side, Bobby and Ron turned right to search east. Charles, Wesley, and Freddy split off and headed west.

Within minutes, Charles could see a clearing ahead through the forest. He signaled Wesley and Freddy to creep forward, tree by tree. The boys came to a wide, open field. In the middle of it were two flat, long, dirt lanes. Runways!

“I told you so!” Freddy said.

Across the landing field were the silhouettes of fifteen fighter-size planes. But everything was still and silent, like a ghost town.

“This is weird,” Charles whispered. “Where are the airmen? The ground crew?”

Wesley pointed to several barrack huts and a fleet of trucks. Netting covered what looked like mounted machine guns. “Maybe over there?”

“Let's go see,” Charles answered. The three boys snuck along the edge of the clearing. Suddenly Wesley gasped and pointed.

Dashing across the field toward the planes was the shadow of a person.

Oh yes!
Charles's heart pounded with excitement. He raised his rifle and tracked the runner's path. “Slow down, Nazi!” he muttered. “Slow down enough that I can take a good shot.”

“What are you doing?” Wesley cried. “It could be an American.”

Charles kept his eye to the rifle sight. “Running like that? Not likely.” He cocked the rifle, centering the racing figure in his crosshairs. Is this what Nazi Stuka pilots felt, Charles wondered, as they strafed civilians running away in panic along the ground? Is this what Luftwaffe bomber crews felt as they pulled the lever to drop death on a sleeping city?

Charles's hands started to shake.

Wesley tugged on his sleeve. “Charles, don't!”

Charles hesitated. Bringing the POWs back was the plan, he argued with himself. Bringing them back so the Ratcliff family would get credit for capturing them. That would mean
alive
. Biting his lip, Charles lowered the gun. “He's gotten to the planes. Come on!”

The boys darted across the runways and threw themselves behind a truck. Crouching, Charles crawled to its bumper to peep around its front. He could hear the POW yanking and tugging, the slip and slide of camouflage netting being pulled off a plane.

He turned back to Wesley to say he was going to rush the bum, and put his hand on the truck to push himself into standing upright. The truck wobbled at his touch. Startled, Charles looked closer. The truck had no headlights. He tapped it. It rattled. Good grief! The truck was made of plywood! It was a…

“Falschung!”
the German cried out in despair.
“Nein, Nein!
Verdammt. Das Flugzeug ist eine Falschung? Was soll ich tun?”

“Guess the planes are fake, too.” Charles muttered, judging the disappointment in the POW's voice. He must have thought he could fly out of Virginia. Charles laughed ruefully, recognizing the whole airfield had to be a decoy—a trick to confuse enemy aircrew and lure them away from Richmond's bases and war plants. Well, it'd certainly fooled one German and a bunch of kids, hadn't it?

“Stay here,” Charles told Wesley and Freddy. He stepped out from behind the make-believe truck and, holding his rifle high, slowly approached the German runaway.

The POW was bent over, hands on his knees, crying. He didn't seem to know Charles was there.

“Hands up, mate,” Charles ordered.

The German jumped back in surprise. It was Günter. For a moment he just stared at Charles.

“Hands up!” Charles repeated.

Günter shook his head, his blond hair shining in the moonlight. “
Nein
. I cannot go back. They will kill me at the camp.”

“Can't say I care, mate,” Charles answered, ice in his voice.

Günter shook his head again. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, “but I cannot surrender.”

He bolted.

“Stop!” Charles bellowed after him.

But Günter didn't. He raced back toward the swamp.

Charles ran after him. Wesley and Freddy followed. Soon Charles was way ahead, all those runs he'd made on the football field making him far faster than the younger boys. Come on, he urged himself.

He heard the German youth jump into the water and thrash through it. Now I've got him, Charles thought. The water will slow him down. Charles could see the swampy creek just ahead. Günter was waist-deep in the water.

“St—” he started to shout again, when he heard Günter scream in pain and back up to the shore, thrashing madly.

Charles slid to a stop at the edge of the muddy bank. Günter was writhing on the ground, clutching his leg, as a four-foot-long black shadow of a snake slithered away.

“N
erts,” said Freddy, as he and Wesley caught up, panting, just in time to see the snake slide into the water and swim away. “That's one big-daddy water moccasin. That Nazi boy can die from that bite.”

Günter moaned and rolled on the ground.

Charles stared at him. Just as Wesley's mind had often betrayed him, throwing him back to their nightmare Atlantic crossing, Charles's memories suddenly shoved him back in time, to another scene of someone in pain. Another moment that he had frozen, not knowing what to do. His mind leaped to England, to the aftermath of a Luftwaffe raid, when their neighbor had writhed and sobbed on the ground until the Home Guard carried him away on a stretcher, his legs mangled by his own chimney falling on him.

“Charles! We've got to do something!” Wesley cried. “What's wrong with you? He saved the twins, remember?”

Charles looked up abruptly, as Wesley's voice yanked him out of the nightmare memory. He shook his head ever so slightly to collect himself. “Right. Someone needs to go for help.”

“There's a general store at the crossroad,” said Freddy. “Storekeeper lives in the back. I suspect they have a telephone in the store.”

“Is it close?”

“About two miles.”

“You two take my bike and go,” Charles said.

“Carrying two bodies slows down a bicycle,” Freddy said. “I'll do it alone.”

Wesley caught Freddy's arm. “Didn't you tell me it can be dangerous for you to be out really late on your own?”

“Oh yeah, some places. But I know most people along this stretch of road. They're good folk. I've been jerking your chain some, Wes. Fact is, I've come to trust white men more being around you and the Ratcliffs. Even old Ron's growing on me. I'll just sing out as I come to the store what my errand is, 'cause the storekeeper might suppose a Negro boy on a bike at night is there to rob him. Just like I figured you were trouble when you showed up just as night was falling at Gran's house that first time.

“Plus, here's the main thing. You
limeys
,”—he grinned as he said it—“sure don't know the way.” He straightened up. “If I get to be a hero along with y'all, I gotta do my part.”

He pointed to Günter. “Put that boy's leg below his heart so the poison doesn't travel up to it.” Then Freddy disappeared into the gloom of the trees.

“Come on, Wes, help me lay him out straight.” Charles spoke to Günter: “We've got to move you a bit.”

“Leave me,” Günter protested. “I rather die here. Not hanged in the barrack outhouse by
Lager-Gestapo
.”

“Listen, pops,” Charles snapped. “I don't much care whether you live or die. But if you die, it's not going to be because we stood by and did nothing. It's not how things are done here in America.” He'd learned that much from the Ratcliffs, anyway.

Günter groaned as Charles and Wesley pulled him up the embankment so he lay on an incline, his head and chest higher than his leg.

“Golly, Charles,” murmured Wesley, “his leg is ballooning up fast. Look at it.” Just below his knee, Günter's leg was already the size of a small cantaloupe. “What should we do?”

It wasn't like Charles had a lot of experience with snakebites. “Better get a look at what we're dealing with,” he answered. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut open Günter's pant leg.

They both gasped at how red and swollen Günter's calf was. There were two large holes in the skin where the snake's fangs had punctured it and shot in venom. The holes oozed blood, and the skin surrounding them glowed with yellow bile.

“God's teeth,”
Charles muttered. Remembering that Freddy had warned they shouldn't let the poison travel to Günter's heart, he cut a strip of cloth from Günter's pants and tied it tight, just above his kneecap. The first-aid training all British children received during the Blitz told him to pull it tight enough that his finger could still slip under the cloth. Tie it too tight and the German POW could lose his leg if he did live.

Charles sat back on his heels, not knowing what else to do.

Günter reached up and grasped Charles's sleeve. “I need to confess, in case…in case I die.”

“What are you talking about? I'm no priest.”

Günter ignored him. “I lied about being drafted. I wish to say why. Because”—he tugged on Charles's sleeve—“you remind me of me.”

“What the hell!” Charles tried to pull his arm away. “I'm nothing like you.”

Günter stubbornly held on. “I live in Lübeck, on the Baltic Sea. It was full of timber-framed houses, like Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“You've been to England?” Charles asked with surprise.

“Oh yes. My father loved Shakespeare. He took us.”

Günter flinched and shifted, clearly in pain. He looked past Charles, up to the sky. “It was a beautiful night like this that your RAF came to destroy Lübeck. Our bay shone bright with moonlight. It lit up the city for your bombardiers to see. The city had a small U-boat building yard. But mostly we were peaceful. We had little air defense.”

He shook his head. “The RAF raid set all the old wooden houses aflame.
Meine mutter
…” He choked on the words and his face puckered. “My mother died as she tried to pull my young sisters from the inferno. I tried to help but…” He drifted off, tears glistening on his face.

After a moment, he continued, his voice trembling, “Lübeck was the first German city your RAF bombed in large numbers with incendiaries. Our radio told us Churchill bragged and said it showed Hitler the RAF could penetrate German territory.”

Listening, Charles felt a strange mix of guilt, pride, and vindication. What did this German expect after the Luftwaffe had set half of London on fire?

Günter nodded, seeming to read Charles's expression. “I joined the Luftwaffe to avenge my family. I wanted to kill many British. Like you do Germans. I was too young to be a pilot. Sixteen years. They put me on flak guns. When I hit my first Allied bomber, it exploded. My unit took me drinking to celebrate. I was sick afterward. But not from beer.”

Günter's blue eyes closed, his grip started to loosen. But then he roused himself and asked, “Have you read
The Merchant
of Venice
?”

Charles nodded. But why the devil was the Nazi bringing up Shakespeare?

“The city's Christians shame the Jewish merchant, remember?” Günter paused, waiting for Charles to nod that he did. “I have been thinking about what the merchant tells them. I played him for my school production. It seems so long ago now. Happier times.” Günter paused, closing his eyes to remember: “The merchant says, ‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?' Then he promises, ‘The villainy you teach me, I will execute.…But I will better the instruction.'” Günter tugged on Charles's sleeve once more. “We taught you villainy. Now you teach us. Your D-day is the beginning of the true lesson.”

The boys were silent for a moment. Charles remembered Murrow's description of the RAF raid on Berlin as
an orches
trated hell—a terrible symphony of light and flame.

Günter let go of Charles, falling back onto the ground. He smiled weakly. “I heard you talk in the fields. Go home, yes. Defend it. Kill if you must to serve your country. But revenge is a poison. Like this snake. Fight to end hatred. Fight to bring peace. Yes?”

Charles frowned. Then he slowly nodded.

Günter turned to look at Wesley. “I wish I met your Indian.” His voice was fading. “Take my book. It tells of two enemies—a white man and an Apache—coming to respect each other, becoming friends. Perhaps like us, yes?” Günter's head drooped to one side.

Wesley gasped. “Is he dead?”

Charles put his head against Günter's chest and listened. “No, his heart is still beating.” He sat up. Günter's mention of Apaches had reminded Charles of something. “Wes, were you there the day Mr. Johns's dog was bitten by a snake?”

“No!”

“I'm trying to remember what he did. For starters, I'm going to have to cut open the snake punctures and suck out the poison.”

“Oh, Charles!” Wesley's eyes got big. “Can't that make you sick too?”

Grimly, he nodded. “I need to be jolly well careful.” He paused, holding up his little knife as he thought. “Mr. Johns did something else, too. He used the roots of some weed; it had little yellow flowers. Any idea what that was?”

“I do! Mr. Johns said it was the one good thing we British did for them. We brought Saint-John's-wort in our ships because it could treat wounds. It's gone native here. It grows all over.”

“Do you know what it looks like?”

“Oh yes! He showed me. Oh, this is so exciting, Charles! We'll be like medicine men!”

“Wes, for God's sake, be serious. This isn't make-believe. Can you find some, quick?”

Wesley sobered. “It should grow along the creek.”

“Go look. But be careful. Watch for more snakes. I'm going to bring up some mud so we can mix a kind of poultice with the two. Hurry!”

The brothers snapped into the same life-or-death focus they'd learned during air raids in England. Charles dug up fistfuls of dense, wet mud. Wesley scurried and found a batch of flowering, three-foot-tall Saint-John's-wort. The ground was so wet he easily yanked up several by their roots. He raced back to Charles.

“Brilliant!” said Charles. He cut the roots into wedges like apple slices and handed one to Wesley. “Chew this up. Make it the consistency of a pudding. All right? Once I've drawn out the poison, you spit that glop out and pack it on the wound. Then we cover that with mud. Got it?”

Wesley wrinkled his nose and nearly threw up at the root's earthy taste. But he chewed, his mouth filling with a syrupy paste he was careful not to swallow.

“Here goes,” Charles muttered as he put the knife's blade against Günter's skin, just below the puncture holes. Not too deep, he cautioned himself. Just enough to release the venom. Like prying out a big splinter
. For pity's sake, stop blithering and
do it!

Charles clasped his two hands together to stop their shaking. He punctured the skin and cut a shallow inch-long line. Günter moaned as the wound erupted, pus and blood streaming down his calf.

Now to draw out the poison. Charles took a deep breath. It's now or never, Bishop, he thought. For the first time in a long while, the Lord's Prayer filled Charles's mind and heart: “Forgive us our trespasses as we…”—he paused and emphasized the words to himself
—“as we forgive those who trespass against us
.
”