Beyond the Call (19 page)

Robert looked across the field toward the farm; it was more than half a mile away, on the far side of a copse, but the noise that must have been made here would have been unmissable … Robert and Sergeant Matles exchanged a look, then set off back to the homestead.

For a moment they thought the farmer might have fled; there was no answer to their knock on the house door, and he was nowhere to be found in the outbuildings. Then he appeared, struggling along with two buckets of water.

‘May we come in?' Robert asked, more formally this time. The old man seemed to sense what they were here for, and motioned for them to come in and sit down.

Once they were settled in the cold kitchen, he began to tell the story that he had withheld the previous night.

About a week ago, he had heard the noise of an airplane passing very low overhead. He hadn't heard it land. Sometime later, he saw Soviet jeeps passing on his road, headed for the site where he learned later the plane had come down. He knew to remain invisible when the military was near (German or Russian, they were all the same), but he watched from his window as the vehicles passed by, traveling another three-quarters of a mile down the road to the field on the other side of the copse. Not twenty minutes after they had passed, he heard two gunshots.

An hour later, the jeeps came back and stopped at the farmer's house. The officer in charge banged loudly on the door. The farmer opened it and peered out fearfully. The Russian officer wished to know if the farmer had seen or heard anything unusual recently, such as enemy activity. The farmer said no, which was true. They ransacked his house nevertheless, and of course found nothing. They eyed him sternly once more, and then ordered him not to leave his house until further notice. If he did, he would be shot. The officer got back in his jeep and the little convoy sped off up the road.

The terrified farmer obeyed; all that day and the next he stayed
indoors, hardly daring to peep out the window. He had no idea what was happening, and was glad of it. In recent years he had learned the hard way that it was better to see nothing, to know nothing, and to fear the worst. One's life might depend on it.

Early the next morning, another convoy of military vehicles passed by, heading toward the field on the other side of the copse. Whether they were the same ones or not, the farmer couldn't tell, but there were two large flatbed trucks with them this time. By the middle of the afternoon, the noises from the field had stopped and there was a sound of motors working hard. Eventually, as the light was growing dim, the old Pole, peeking through a gap in the drapes, was astounded to see one of the large trucks passing by, with the fuselage of an airplane on its flatbed. A moment later, the second truck passed by with two long forms on it – the wings.

What kind of plane it was, he had no idea. What did he know of airplanes? Nothing. The whole thing was a mystery – hopefully a mystery that was over now, and could be forgotten.

Unfortunately for the farmer, it was not over. A squad of Russian soldiers showed up at his door a few minutes after the trucks had passed by, demanding that he put them up for the night. They were also hungry. They quickly ate whatever meager food he had available, although they did give him some of their rations too; he hoped this was a sign they meant him no harm. After all, he had kept his promise and hadn't left his house. He spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night huddled under a blanket in front of the kitchen fire, the two Russian officers having taken his bedroom and all his spare bedding.

In the morning, the Russians arose and breakfasted; the officers ordered the farmer to get them water for their ablutions. He went to his well near the house and pumped enough to serve their needs, thinking to himself that they could wash all they wanted and never be clean. Before leaving, the senior officer interrogated him about what he knew or thought he knew. He confessed complete ignorance. The officer looked at him sternly; he was not convinced. Two soldiers seized him by the arms and rushed him out into the yard. On the
officer's orders, some of the other soldiers went into the barn and brought out the farmer's solitary cow. They asked him again to tell the truth or they would kill his livestock. He again told the truth, that he knew nothing. In front of his eyes they put two bullets into the cow's head. They wrung the necks of the chickens and left the dead animals where they dropped. They were not done.

They placed a grenade next to the water pump, pulled the pin, and took cover. The explosion broke the pump and bent the pipe beyond repair. The Russian officer told the farmer that he must not mention anything at all about the events of the last two days; if he did he would suffer the same fate as his animals. Finally, their work done, the soldiers got into their vehicles and sped off up the road.

Ever since, the farmer had lived in fear of the Russians returning to obliterate what was left of his livelihood. They might as well take his life too.

Robert listened to the story in silence as Sergeant Matles translated it. He was saddened, but not surprised. Robert had seen and heard so many heart-rending things recently. The man seemed numb, unable to show emotion. It was clear that he was broken, and that all he had left was a proud refusal to lie down and die.

Robert came back to the one remaining question: did the farmer learn anything about the pilot? Without speaking, the old man stood up and motioned for the Americans to follow him. They walked down the dirt road in the direction of the crash site, until they reached the pine copse that stood between the fields. The elderly Pole led them into the woods. About 40 feet from the road they came to a small clearing, where a pile of pine branches concealed a freshly dug patch of earth. Removing the branches revealed a low mound about six feet by three. The farmer had discovered it two days ago.

Was this the last resting place of the pilot? If so, was he killed in the crash or murdered? For the time being, the question would have to remain unanswered. The soil was frozen, and they had nothing to dig with. The Russians had ‘borrowed' the farmer's tools and never returned them.

They had nothing: no plane, no pilot, no body, no hard evidence that anything at all had happened here. All they had was the word of this old Polish farmer, some marks in the snow, and a patch of dug earth. If the pilot survived the crash-landing, he might have left the scene before the Soviet troops arrived; the ‘gunshots' could have been anything.

For that matter, even if the pilot was dead, he might not have been shot by the salvagers. There had been cases of stricken American aircrew being mistakenly killed by Soviet troops. Faulty identification and Soviet paranoia were a lethal mix. It was later noted in the official history of Eastern Command that damaged US planes and their crews ‘were forced to run the whole gamut, including Russian fighter attacks, flak hits, attacks after bailing out, attacks after landing, being shot at or being threatened with shooting … mauling and beating' at the hands of Soviet troops who were suspicious of Nazi tricks.
⁴
Everybody was a potential spy, and life was dirt-cheap.

All Robert could do was radio a report on the incident to Poltava. Right now he had a salvage operation to complete, and his own set of problems with Soviet interference.

C
APTAIN
T
RIMBLE AND
Sergeant Matles returned to Staszów to find the B-17 almost ready to go.

To bring down the weight, every unnecessary piece of steel had been removed. Every seat other than the pilot's and co-pilot's had been taken out, along with the armor plating in each crew station, the bomb racks, and the navigator's table. The heavy steel machine-gun mountings had been taken out (the guns themselves were long gone), and the ball turret under the Fort's belly was unbolted and lowered to the ground. Everything that could be dispensed with had come out, strewing the snow with discarded components.

On the afternoon of the seventh day, the B-17 was as ready as she would ever be. The fuel had been funneled in – 400 gallons sloshing pathetically in the aircraft's vast 2,780-gallon tanks. Enough for around
two hours' flight in good conditions; it wouldn't get them to Poltava, but there should be enough to make Lwów. On the positive side, the lack of fuel would keep the take-off weight down. So would the minimal crew, which would be limited to Robert as pilot, Lieutenant Jessee as navigator, Sergeant Picarelli as flight engineer, and Sergeant Matles as passenger. The salvage crew would be flying out in the repaired C-47, once more placing their lives in the hands of God and Lieutenant Roklikov.
⁵

Around four o'clock on the last afternoon, with the light fading and dark clouds building, before heading back to their quarters Robert and his team made a final inspection, checking and double-checking every nut and bolt. The repairs to the engines were adequate, but far from perfect. That bent prop shaft would be a real problem.

Their attention was drawn by the sound of vehicles from the road that passed by the bottom of the field. A couple of jeeps pulled up, and a group of Soviet officers got out. They were led by a colonel Robert had never seen before, and accompanied by Maiya. It was clear the colonel wanted to speak to him, so Robert walked down the hill.

Evidently a man of little patience and even littler manners, the colonel was already starting up the hill toward him and began talking when Robert was still a hundred feet from him. Poor Maiya had to jog along behind him, shouting her translations.

‘Captain, how is the repair work progressing?'

Robert considered his reply carefully. It might not be a good idea to let them know that the plane was ready to fly, but on the other hand, they might get hostile if they thought the Americans were prolonging their stay in Poland. He opted for the truth: the bomber would be ready to attempt take-off the next day. He also prevaricated: ‘But I'm not completely sure yet.'

‘You are doing good work, Captain. Are you flying it to Rzeszów first?' the colonel asked.

‘No, sir,' Robert said. ‘The plan is to head straight for Lwów.'
As you well know
, he thought.

‘Indeed.' The colonel nodded, then dropped his little bombshell:
‘You will of course need to have one of our pilots fly the airplane, as is the rule. You and your men can return with the transport. This will be best for you.'

Robert could hardly believe the gall of it. The colonel's interpretation of ‘the rule' was not an officially sanctioned one for salvaged combat aircraft. ‘Thank you for the offer,' Robert said diplomatically, ‘but I have strict orders to take this aircraft to Lwów myself, then on to Poltava.'

The Russian looked put out. He wasn't accustomed to having his orders contradicted by a mere captain. ‘I will have to check on this,' he said. There was a muttered consultation in Russian between the colonel, his officers, and Maiya. Robert had the distinctly uneasy feeling that he was the subject of their discussion.

Maiya approached him and smiled. ‘You look tired,' she said. ‘But happy I guess, since your work is all done.' She was all smiles, and something was different about her. Robert noticed the smell of perfume. Were Red Army women allowed to wear perfume, or just interpreters? She didn't look half-bad to a homesick soldier. ‘The colonel has some good news!' she said. The colonel was smiling too. ‘We have a wonderful offer. As you are to fly away tomorrow, we wish you to be our honored guest for dinner in town. We will arrange for you to spend the night in a hotel. A very good hotel.' Maiya added (and Robert had the strong impression that the words came from her rather than the colonel): ‘I will personally assure that you are comfortable, Captain. What do you say? We must be getting on, it will be dark soon.'

Robert was mesmerized by the invitation – the thought of good food, a nice hotel, a soft bed … and the promise of female attention. For a young, lonely soldier – even a faithfully married one – it was more than flesh and blood could resist. He hesitated.

As he looked into Maiya's lustrous eyes, a voice echoed in his head.
Don't go with them
, it said. He couldn't place it for a moment, then he remembered it as the voice of one of the OSS agents, that first day at Poltava.
They'll try to get you to go with them. Don't do it. You
will be traveling along, and you'll pass some woodland. Suddenly they stop the car. ‘Everybody out! There are Germans there, in the trees!' There will be confusion; you'll jump out and take cover. Meanwhile, two of their guys circle around behind you … You'll be found with a bullet in your back, from the ‘German ambush'. The Soviet authorities will buy it – they're paranoid about German paratroopers and spies everywhere. And believe it or not, there are pro-German partisan groups in Poland. The Americans might not believe it, but there won't be a damned thing they can do …

Robert tore his eyes away from Maiya. He looked at the colonel, and the little knot of junior officers and enlisted men behind him. Their faces were impassive. Would they murder him to get their hands on a B-17?