No Crystal Stair (14 page)

He thought of bailing out. Too low. The plane responded slightly to his maneuvering, gaining a little altitude. He propelled it forward, searching desperately for a piece of level ground on which to land. There seemed to be nothing but trees. After about two minutes he spotted an open field. He circled twice, reducing his speed. Cut off his engine and bellied in. The plane thumped and lurched crazily over the rough ground, finally coming to rest in a field of brush that seemed to stretch for miles, glowing golden under the noonday sun.

It was so quiet. He couldn't believe the silence. Not after the roar of the planes, the guns.

The stillness. Absolutely no one around.

For a moment he just sat, trying to absorb the peace and quiet. Forgetting to be frightened.

Randy. He wanted to cry, but couldn't. He felt weighted down by a sense of loss, suffocated by a grief he couldn't release.

Randy. How could he tell Ann Elizabeth?

Yet he knew his own loss was a great as hers. Randy was his buddy, his confidant. It was Randy who'd joked and cajoled and bullied him through this damn war. Rob closed his eyes, seeing Randy, hearing him. “Now, look here, Robbie, old boy, for a guy who worked as hard as you to get in this-here war, you ought to enjoy it more!”

“How the hell can you enjoy a war?”

“How the hell else would you get to fly your own little private plane? All over Italy and Germany, too.”

“Shit”

“Now, if you stick with it and act like a good boy—” Randy, leaning toward him, that mocking grin on his face”—you just might get to see Paree. If you stop drawing pictures of them Messerchmitts and start shooting at‘em, instead! Now, I know about them little wheels and those sleek graceful bodies, but it's kinda dangerous to be fooling around studying the design.” When Rob tried to speak, Randy had bent over him, as if imparting a grave secret. “You see, ol' boy, the object is to shoot them before they shoot you. Not to let them get too close!”

Nobody knew him like Randy did—and what he'd said was true. Even in the thick of the fighting, Rob would find himself marveling at the little Messercshimtt, so sleek and swift as lighting. Hell! He didn't forget he was in a fight. He could down them fast as anybody. But there was always a tug at his conscience when any plane went plunging to the ground. So graceful, so beautiful.

He couldn't help it. He wanted to build airplanes, not destroy them. He wanted to work with pilots, not kill them.

Randy understood this. Randy was gone.

He sat for a long time, missing Randy.

Something, a mouse perhaps, scurried through the brush. Brought him to his senses.

The war was not over. He was in enemy territory. A field somewhere in the middle of Germany. And he'd better get the hell out.

Mechanically his training instructions came back to him. Remove the survival kit. Destroy the plane.

He ran his hand lovingly across the panel. Destroy this plane that had carried him so many miles, brought him safely through so many missions?

It was no use. He couldn't do it. Besides, starting a fire would alert the enemy to his whereabouts. He compromised by destroying the gun sight. Then he got out and started walking toward what he hoped was Switzerland.

D
an had left. Accepted by Dr. Drew to begin his residency at Freedman's, Dan had lost no time getting his affairs in order. Philip Driscoll, a new black doctor in town who'd studied with him at Howard, was to take over his practice. No speculations about Driscoll. He already had a wife and two kids.

“I don't understand it,” Julia Belle fretted. “Why must Dan go to Washington now? Just as he's gotten his practice so well established. He's already such a good doctor.”

“He's determined to be a better one,” said Dr. Carter.

Julia Belle shook her head. “I don't think his patients will trust Driscoll.”

“Maybe they'll run to me.”

“Oh, Will, that's nonsense. You have more people leaning on you than ever and it's too much? They think they own you, calling you at all hours of the night for anything from a slight case of indigestion to a family problem. I wish you'd slow down and let some of these youngsters take over. If they can measure up to Dan, that is. I'll never forget how he took care of Bobby.” She shook her head again. “He's going to be sorely missed.”

Not only by his patients, Ann Elizabeth thought. Dan's departure had left a void in her life. She felt a little guilty about this, as if enjoying Dan's company was a betrayal of Rob. But that was ridiculous. Nothing, no one, could replace Rob. It was just that she liked talking with Dan, sharing his problems.
She missed him, but she was glad he'd be gaining desperately needed expertise.

There were few, if any, black specialists in Atlanta. Sometimes a white doctor could be called in for surgery or consultations. But many, like Dr. Benson, refused to work at the Negro hospital with its inadequate facilities. Although, unlike Dr. Benson, most wouldn't—or didn't—dare transfer patients to their own hospitals.

Ann Elizabeth had come to realize that there should be a decent hospital for Negroes. And maybe it was putting the cart before the horse, but she was glad Dan had gone for further training. “I mean to pass the AMA Board of Surgery,” he told her. She had no doubt he would.

Sometimes she wondered what it would be like if she'd married Dan. She would be in Washington with him now, probably taking a job at the hospital or the college, working to “put hubby through.”

And why, for goodness' sake, was she daydreaming about what if? She had plenty of other things to do. Taking care of Bobby, keeping him safe and happy for his father, who would certainly be home soon. There was still the work at the hospital, bridge with Millie and some of the other girls, and yes, the meeting at the college tonight. She'd been asked to participate with the University Players, and tonight they would discuss plays and casts for the forthcoming summer series.

It was going to be fun. Ann Elizabeth thought later, to be acting again. Sitting in the drugstore now, for an after-meeting snack, she felt like the schoolgirl she'd been two years before. Or she would have, if it weren't for Bobby, at home with her mother, and Rob's last letter, tucked in her purse. “This mess is almost over. Home soon.”

Home soon.
Ann Elizabeth hugged his reassurance to herself. She felt happy. And hungry!

Eloise Jenkins stared enviously at her. “Hamburger, french fries, and a double chocolate malt! Jeez, Ann Elizabeth!”

“Eloise, you were the one who suggested we stop for a snack.”

“My snack is half a peach and a mound of cottage cheese. I'll probably gain ten pounds jut smelling you french fries while you stay—”

“As slender and straight as a willow reed that blows gracefully in the wind,” supplied Ed Sanford.

“Oh shut up, I'm suffering enough,” Eloise snapped. “And give me your wallet. We treated you last time,” she said, seizing it from the protesting Ed.

“Who steals my purse, steals trash,”' he quoted. “‘Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to—'”

“Trash is right!” Eloise sighed as she peered into the wallet. “One thin dollar. Ann Elizabeth, have you got any money? This cheapskate ...”

Ed raised a hand, assuming an injured air. “‘But he who filches my good name, takes that which not enriches him, but makes me poor indeed!'”

Eloise contended that he was poor in name, as well as purse, and if he didn't do less quoting and more promoting—like finding himself a job—he'd stay poor.

Ann Elizabeth laughed as she fished in her purse. It was like old times. The bantering. The penny-pinching. She was glad to be part of it.

She was glad, too, that she now fit so easily into her before-the-baby dresses. Rob would be pleased.
Home soon.

An hour later, when she turned Randy's little car into the driveway, she noticed that all the lights were on downstairs. Bridge? She looked, but there were no other cars around. Well, Dad must have just come in from a late-night call.

The side door to the kitchen wasn't locked. She closed it gently behind her and fastened the latch. Then stopped short, her nostrils quivering. A sweet smell, vaguely familiar.

Aromatic spirits of ammonia. Dad always gave that to Mother when she was upset.

Upset? Bobby! Ann Elizabeth rushed across the kitchen to the breakfast room.

Julia Belle was sitting very straight, her hands folded at the table in front of her. Dr. Carter bent over her.

“Dad, Mother, what's wrong? Is Bobby—”

“Bobby's fine. Asleep upstairs.” Julia Belle spoke through pale lips and lifted dazed eyes to Ann Elizabeth. To her husband. Then glanced at two yellow envelopes lying on the table.

Ann Elizabeth's gaze followed hers, fastened on the envelopes.

No! Oh my God. No. Please. Don't let it be. She felt a crazy impulse to turn and run.

“Take it easy.” Her father's arms were around her. She found herself clinging to him, so that her knees wouldn't give way.

“Now, kitten, it's not as bad as it could be,” her father said. “They haven't been ... We're not sure...”

“They?'

“Rob and Randy. They're missing in action.”

“Both of them?”

He nodded. “Two telegrams. One to you, one to your mother and me.”

She picked up the telegram addressed to her. “Regret to inform you ... Captain Robert Gerald Metcalf ...”

She put it down. She knew that hearts don't break. They hurt and hurt, and the hurting doesn't stop. She knew now how it felt—to want to die and yet keep on living.

“Here, kitten, drink this.”

Aromatic spirits of ammonia. The first time she'd ever tasted it. Her father's hand, holding the glass, was shaking. She stared up at him. His eyes seemed tired and the gray at his temples was more pronounced. He was getting old. She'd never noticed before.

Dear God, why was she thinking inconsequential things when Rob ... And Randy! Again she felt the impulse to run.

“Kitten, your mother ...”

She looked down at Julia Belle, so quiet and pale. Moving quickly, she put her arms around her. “You've always told me never to think the worst. It just says missing. They could be ... they're not ... could be all right.” Ann Elizabeth finished lamely, shutting out the picture of a burning plane, charred ashes, desolate impenetrable wilderness. She thought Julia Belle's eyes brightened a little and she tried to sound more cheerful. “The flyers have these survival kits, Rob told me. They could hide out for weeks in the German countryside. Can't you just see Randy ...” Her voice broke, but she plodded on, conjuring up a picture of the two of them escaping through a forest while Randy joked about poor transportation routes.

It was a long time before they turned off the lights and went up to bed. In her room Ann Elizabeth gazed at Bobby, safe in his crib, one hand under his chin, the other clutching the leg of a fuzzy teddy bear. So much like Rob, with his long lashes and rich brown skin, so soft. She knew she shouldn't disturb him, but she couldn't help it. She picked him up and sat in the little chair by the window. Holding him close and rocking.

The soft light of dawn was stealing through the window and the tears had dried on her cheeks by the time she placed the baby back in his crib and went downstairs. She plugged in the coffeepot and put in a call to Rob's mother. Then she called Sadie.

 

 

Because he'd selected flat ground on which to land, there was no place to hide when they came looking for him. He saw the truck coming and thought of that old spiritual—“Run to the rock to hide my face. The rock cried out no hiding place, no hiding place down here.” As a boy, the song had always made
him a little nervous, especially with his mother looking directly at him from her place in the church choir.

That was nothing compared to the panic churning in him now. Sure as hell no place to hide here. He surrendered to the German folk soldiers—two ruddy-faced teenagers, their long coats flapping about their legs. They seemed more curious than belligerent, but he could only shake his head at their guttural questions.

They took him back to the plane, examined it carefully, exclaimed excitedly over the damaged gun site. The town they finally drove him to was so small, he thought it probably wasn't even on the map. They found a farm girl who translated in broken high-school English.

The only identification on his flying jacket was his name and a pair of wings. “Kanedische?” she asked.

This he did understand. She was asking if he was Canadian, probably puzzled by his dark skin. He nodded, yet he wondered why he felt safer to be identified as a Canadian.

Canadian or American, he was now in the hands of the enemy. No will, no power of his own.

Two days incarceration in the local jail. A three-day ride in a boxcar crowded with weary German soldiers. Almost as weary as hungry, as helpless as he. Together, in a boxcar that swayed and rumbled in a never-ending trail of events.

It was when he was escorted by his two guards from the boxcar into the busy Frankfurt depot that hostility erupted. He could see the hatred in the tired anxious faces as he was deliberately jostled by the crowd. A woman spat at him and he almost toppled over as he was kicked in the backside by a heavy boot. He knew why when they emerged from the station and he saw the battle-scarred city.

Canadian or American, he was one of the airmen who dropped the bombs that were destroying their city.

Outside the station they waited, evidently for a streetcar that was to carry them wherever they were going. A crowd began to
gather and people shouted at him. The language was unintelligible, but the meaning was clear. He grunted as a woman's knapsack struck him in the chest. Another woman kicked him and a man slapped his face. The crowd was growing more irate and his guards maintained a detached silence. Rob fended off his attackers as best he could, his fear mounting. God! Had he escaped heavy artillery fire only to be lynched by a German street mob? Thankfully he was saved from that end by the timely arrival of the streetcar.

Their destination proved to be the interrogation center at Oberursel. At last a sense of order. Officialdom. Healthy well-led Germans in sleek officers' uniforms, striding about and clicking their highly polished boots. Regular soldiers and secretaries scurrying after them, pads and pencils poised.

Here, at least, he was correctly identified.
“Nicht kanedische!”
the German officer scoffed, then proceeded to say in perfect English, “American nigger!”

Rob's interrogators were friendly, laughing at how he'd been able to conceal articles from his survival kit about his person, telling him more than he told them.

He told them nothing, as he'd been instructed.
If you're taken prisoner, keep your mouth shut. Intelligence–gathering is the Nazis' forte. So they'll have some facts. They'll feed them to you along with what they only guess. Your reaction, just a gasp or lift of your brow, might confirm or deny their guess. Your role is to keep mum and look dumb
.

Rob did just that refusing to answer when questioned about his station or missions.

“Captain, you don't have to tell me,” the officer finally conceded with a smug grin. “Let me tell you. You are with the American Ninety-ninth Squadron, currently located in Ramitelli, Italy.” He then pulled out a book, labeled “99
^th
Squadron Fighter Group,” and read from it, quoting names, call signs, formations.

Rob, amazed at the amount of correct information, assumed an expression of indifference and tried to keep a straight face.

“Captain Robert Metcalf, Ah!”the officer continued.“You have been nominated for the distinguished Flying Service Award.” He paused, a satisfied smile on his face. “Didn't know that, did you?”

Damn! Had he given himself away? But he'd had no idea ...

“For what you did to our airfield at Porz Wahn. And, oh yes—did you know that Captain Randolph Carter, of your squadron has been promoted to Major?”

That really hit him. Randy. Why did it hurt so much that Randy would never know? Randy wouldn't have cared about a promotion. The war, like life, was just a game to him.

But Randy was dead. Back came that lonely depressed feeling. Missing Randy ...

He stared at the German Officer, who didn't know Randy was dead. Nobody but he knew. At home they didn't know. Ann Elizabeth, his parents. They would have to be told.

“Will my name go out on a prisoner-of-war list?” he asked.

He was assured that it would and that he could send a letter.

A letter he didn't want to send.

 

 

Rob was transferred to the prisoner-of-war camp at Nuremberg, where he encountered two other black pilots, Andy Charles and Elroy Spencer.

“Where do we sleep?” he asked, looking at the almost empty barracks.

“The floor, nigger. Where else?”

Rob said he didn't know what he wanted most, a hot bath or a juicy steak.

“Don't worry,” was Elroy's cheerful reply. “You ain't gonna have to decide about either one.”